“Belvedere and lime juice over ice,” she adds, swiping a towel over the bar in front of me again. And then she turns, leaving me with my new drink to go take the order of a couple who just sat down.
It’s impossible for me to not watch her while she works. London approaches the couple with a smile—that wide-open one that makes my heart kick at my breastbone—and as she tosses two coasters down, I can see she’s already made them laugh. It’s oddly hot to watch her pour from bottles without even really looking at what she’s doing. Once or twice she glances my way and catches me staring at her, and instinct tells me to pretend I’m reading something behind her, or watching the game on the television just to the right of her shoulder, but I just can’t move that fast, be that blasé. I’m fucking fascinated with the way she looks tonight, hair up in a messy bun, red-framed fake glasses matching her red lipstick, black off-the-shoulder shirt, and cutoff short-shorts doing dangerous things to my libido.
Finally, it’s like I’m a puppy dog she can’t stand to leave outside anymore and she slumps her shoulders playfully, walking back over to me with a teasing, exasperated look on her face.
“Do you need a buddy or what?”
Instead of answering this, I ask her, “How did you know?”
“How did I know you need a buddy? You look totally patheti—”
“No,” I interrupt quietly. “I mean, how did you know that the last one would be my drink?”
She shrugs, straightening. “It’s my job to figure those things out.”
This feels like an evasion—the truth feels more important than this—but I let it slide, taking another sip. “I’m a little tipsy now, though.”
Laughing, she leans in and gives me my favorite smile, the one that feels like it’s been tailored just for me. “Careful, now. Don’t let your true colors show.”
I feel my brow pull together. No matter how gentle she puts it, no matter how much her smile tells me she’s not trying to be mean, I hate her image of me. Hate its accuracy. “You mean my manwhore flag?”
She looks a little guilty when she straightens again, and turns away. Shit. My words came out sharper than I meant them to, and now I seem like a manwhore and an asshole. “Shit. Don’t go,” I say, rubbing my face.
London turns back to me, putting away a few glasses beneath the bar. “I can’t go far. I work here, goose.”
“I just want to be your friend,” I say.
She straightens, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Wow, you are drunk. How did you survive college being such a lightweight?”
I catch her hand when she reaches to tidy a stack of cocktail napkins. “I’m serious. I like being around you.”
God, I’m realizing how much I suck at this. She was right, there’s no in-between for me, nothing in that no-man’s-land between sincere and slick.
She tries halfheartedly to pull away and then goes lax in my grip. “Luke—”
“Please.” I rub my thumb over the back of her hand. “Let me show you that I’m not the guy you think I am.”
“The problem is there’s no chance of that,” she says softly. “I like you, too. But not for me. You’re exactly the guy I think you are.”
I watch my finger move over her skin. Even after surfing in the harsh salt water every day, her hands are so much softer than mine. “I don’t want to be,” I say, surprising myself a little.
She gnaws her lip, looking away. “What we did was just for fun.” Finally, she frees her hand, and lowers her voice. “It wasn’t ever going to be something more than that. I’m surprised we did it twice.”
“Three times, Logan. Three separate times,” I add and she fights a smile. I duck, chasing her attention. “But I’m not even talking about that.” And, oddly, I’m not. “Just hang out with me.”
Finally, she looks back and meets my eyes. “Not dates? No sex?”
I feel my smile all the way to my chest. “Whatever you want.”
“No sex,” she repeats, and I don’t miss the way she wipes her hand on her shorts. “It won’t ever be romantic with us.”
My heart warps a little at the finality of her tone, but fuck. It really isn’t about that, not with her. “No, I mean . . . totally,” I stutter. “No worries. I just want to be your friend.”
She studies me, eyes flickering back and forth between mine, as if one of them would lie while the other told the truth. “Just hanging out?”
“Yes.”
Her nose wrinkles a little, like she might growl at me. “And you promise to be entertaining, not some sad-sack puppy like this?”
Laughing, I tell her, “I promise.”
She grabs a bar towel, wipes down the lip of the sink in front of her. “Fine,” she says, watching her hands. “Saturday afternoon.” With her head down, she lifts her eyes to me, and fuck, it’s the most amazing look I’ve ever seen on a woman. And here she just wants to be friends. “I pick what we do.”
I blanch when I look up at the devious grin she’s wearing.
Oh, fuck. We’re going surfing.
Chapter ELEVEN
London