4

EMMA

A loud laugh bubbles from my throat as I take in the stranger staring at me with an unreadable look on his face. “Wow. It turns out you weren’t lying,” I mutter, wondering if I said it for his benefit or for mine.

He cocks his head to the side, his sharp jawline now illuminated by the moon. “Lying about what?”

“You are stupidly handsome,” I answer, wishing it wasn’t the truth.

His lips twitch. It isn’t a full smile, but even though I barely know this man, I could guess that a full smile is hard to earn from him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

My hands find my hips as I take another step back, the grass soft beneath my feet. “It’s a terrible thing. The more handsome a man is, the more of an asshole he is, too. It’s a proven fact.”

One of his dark eyebrows rises as he watches me closely. God, does he have to be so attractive? His blue eyes are almost piercing, feeling like they’re staring me down right to my soul as he thinks something over.

I use the silence to my advantage, my eyes roaming over him so I can drink him in. His dark hair is buzzed short on the sides and slightly longer at the top, but not by a lot. The haircut suits him, bringing attention to all the sharp lines of his chiseled features.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just assume that I’m an asshole,” he notes, turning around and reaching down to grab each of my discarded heels.

I smile. “Don’t take it too personally. Like I said, it’s a proven fact. Men who know they’re unimaginably handsome are walking red flags.”

He ignores me, instead choosing to hold both my heels in one hand and branding the other one out between us.

My eyes narrow as I watch him carefully. I look from his outstretched hand to the one holding my shoes.

“I’ll take those. Thank you.” I reach to grab them, but he lifts them into the air and out of my reach. Without my heels on, he’s got quite a bit of height on me. I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

“Handsome and trying to steal my shoes?” I fire, jumping to try and snatch the shoes anyway.

“I don’t want your shoes, Emma.”

My spine stiffens at the way he says my name. It has never sounded so good as it does coming from his lips. “Then hand them over,” I demand, needing to get out of this man’s presence before I do something stupid like ask him if we should just break the tension by sleeping together.

He holds out his hand again. “Let me help steady you,” he offers, holding out the shoes.

I watch him for a moment, wondering if it’s a trap. Deciding he might actually want to help and not be a total asshole, I place my hand in his. It takes everything in me to stay composed and keep my face straight as I shift my weight to one leg to slip the heel on. His skin against mine is electrifying. My entire body heats with just the smallest touch of our skin.

His grip is firm, even as I shift again to slide on the other shoe. After both are on and I’m steady on my feet, he keeps his fingers wrapped strongly around mine for a moment too long.

He stares at me, and the longer it stays silent between us, the thicker the tension gets. It finally gets so thick that I have to speak up in an attempt to break it.

“You know my name. It’s only fair I know yours.” My voice comes out weird, far deeper and breathier than I’d like.

“Preston,” he answers immediately, as if he was just waiting for me to ask.

“Preston,” I repeat. His name’s sexy. He’s sexy. He’s so attractive I’m wondering if part of my self-discovery this summer should be discovering him a bit more.

“Come get a drink with me inside, Emma?” he asks.

God.

I have a generic name. It isn’t anything special or groundbreaking—but coming from his lips, it sounds like the greatest name someone could ever be given.

“What’s the catch?” I ask, waiting to follow him inside. I like how confident he is, how he turns around and begins walking to the door like he already knows I’ll follow him.

Preston looks over his shoulder. “No catch. One drink. If I’m too boring for you—or too much of an asshole—you’re free to explore the party you snuck into alone.”

“One drink?” I repeat, wondering why it feels mildly disappointing imagining myself exploring the party without him.

“One drink. No strings attached. It’s an open bar, and I heard the hosts of the party spared no expense when it comes to this celebration.”

I pick up my pace, awkwardly running until I catch up to him. “You should’ve led with ‘an open bar.’”

“There’s no way in hell you’re getting me to take a shot that’s called a Blow Job,” Preston argues, a deep line appearing across his forehead. We’ve been talking for over an hour, and after a few drinks, one thing I’ve learned about him is that you have to really work to get a reaction out of this man.

I lean over the bar, trying to flag down the bartender to absolutely order two Blow Job shots. When I still can’t catch the attention of the bartender, I look back at my grumpy company. “The shot is delicious, I promise.”

“Not happening,” he responds, his voice void of any humor.

I bite my bottom lip, even though I know I’m probably ruining the red lipstick I’d worked so hard on applying. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who doesn’t enjoy blow jobs.”

Preston rubs his hand over his face, desperately trying to hide the slight blush on his chiseled cheeks. “Do you just say whatever comes to your mind, no matter what?”

Before I can answer, the bartender walks by, and I finally get the chance to order. “Two Blow Job shots,” I request, holding up two fingers and winking at Preston, who still has the ghost of a smile on his lips.

The bartender looks between Preston and me as if he isn’t sure if I’m serious or not. Preston finally lets out a long sigh before giving one curt nod of his head.

I frown, wishing the bartender would’ve listened without Preston having to give the green light, but I don’t let it bother me for long.

As we wait for the bartender to bring us our shots, I take a step closer to Preston. He’s got one elbow on the bar, his fingers wrapped around a beer glass. For some reason, I find it hot that he’s drinking a beer. Everyone else in this bar is walking around with expensive crystal glasses of bourbon or scotch.

He looks out of place drinking a beer, but I love it. And it’s the only thing about him that looks out of place. The way he holds himself, his ridiculous chiseled features, and the way he can command the room with little effort tells me that he belongs in this world. He has money—and I’d bet the small dollar amount I have to my name he grew up surrounded by money.

“So, are you going to tell me what you have against blow jobs?” I tease, taking a step toward him. I’m well aware my tone has gotten flirtier with each drink and the more time I spend with him. I can’t help it. I’m incredibly attracted to this man. Maybe I also enjoy getting a reaction out of him.

His jaw clenches, muscles along his cheeks feathering with the movement. “Nothing against blow jobs when it involves my cock. I’m just not a man who enjoys taking shots—especially ones with a name like Blow Job. I’m too old for that.”

He doesn’t move. Even when I take another step closer to him, completely invading his personal space. In fact, he stares right at me, as if daring me to get even closer.

I don’t. He’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, which means he’s exactly what I don’t need this summer. It doesn’t stop me from at least enjoying the flirting tonight. My head may feel a little fuzzier than normal, but I’m still fully in control of my actions. I won’t let anything more happen between us aside from the innocent flirting.

“Is bringing up my cock the way to get you to stop talking?” Preston pushes, giving me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

God. He’s the good kind of asshole, the kind that has me squeezing my thighs together. Or maybe it’s the mention of his…cock and the way the word sounds coming from his lips.

“You’ll have to work harder than that to get me to shut up,” I counter, feeling my cheeks heat. I’m not someone who ever blushes—but oh my god, he’s doing a good job at making me do just that.

Preston leans back a little, his eyes roaming down my body. He takes a large drink of his beer, and I try not to stare at the muscles in his throat as he swallows slowly. Finally, he looks back at me with one raised dark eyebrow. “Don’t tempt me, rebel.”

Before I can comment on the nickname, a girl with dark hair is squeezing right between Preston and me.

“Preston,” she says, her voice high-pitched. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

He looks over her head right at me, his shoulders tight as he answers her. “You knew I would be.”

She laughs, looking back at me as if I’m an outsider to their inside joke. Hell, maybe I am. “Preston is just so funny, isn’t he?” she marvels. “He’s always been this funny.”

I don’t miss how she emphasizes the word always. She’s doing everything she can to make it clear the two of them have known each other for a long time.

The woman reaches out and runs her hand down his chest, making one of my eyebrows shoot up.

To Preston’s credit, he immediately pushes her hand off him, but she doesn’t seem to understand he isn’t interested. I stand there, not wanting to get involved in whatever this is.

“Funny,” I muse, taking the shots from the bartender. “The last thing I ever expected to call Preston was funny. His personality seems a little dry.”

The woman looks at me as if I just committed a crime. Surely, she can’t really think Preston is all that funny. I’ve known him for not even two hours, and nothing about him screams comedian. I guess you could confuse his dryness with humor, but I don’t think anything that comes out of his mouth is intentionally funny.

“Would you like a Blow Job?” I ask her, holding up the shot that was supposed to be Preston’s.

“That’s my Blow Job,” Preston counters, taking it from my hand. The whipped cream at the top jiggles with his rushed movement.

“Thought you weren’t into blow jobs,” I counter, trying to hide my grin. This is far too entertaining. I don’t know whose eyes get wider—hers or his.

“What’s your name again?” the girl asks, narrowing her eyes like she hates me without even knowing a thing about me.

“You never asked in the first place,” I answer with a sweet smile. “But it’s Emma.”

“You’re Preston’s…” She lets the words hang in the air for a moment.

Before I can answer, Preston distracts me by holding the shot to his lips and taking it in one easy gulp. He slaps the empty shot glass on the counter and looks at me with a genuine smile. “She’s my girlfriend.”