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Why the hell isn’t he answering? I ask myself, and right then my phone starts to vibrate, almost falling into the water, which makes me laugh. I have no idea why, but I find it amusing.
Hardin’s name appears on the screen, and I swipe my wet finger across the screen. “Harold?” I say into the phone.
Harold? Oh Lord, I drank way too much.
Hardin’s voice sounds funny and breathless when it comes through. “Tessa? Is everything okay? Did you call me?”
God, his voice is heavenly.
“I don’t know—does your caller ID say that I did? Because if so, there’s probably a good chance it was me.” I laugh as I say this.
His tone changes. “Have you been drinking?”
“Maybe,” I squeak and toss the makeshift wipe into the trash.
Two drunken girls enter the area and one of them trips over her own feet, making everyone laugh. They stumble into the largest stall, and I focus my attention back on my phone call.
“Where are you?” Hardin asks harshly.
“Oh, calm down, would you?” He always tells me to calm down, so now it’s my turn.
He sighs. “Tessa . . .” I can tell he’s angry, but my head’s too fuzzy to care. “How much did you drink?” he asks.
“I dunno . . . like five. Or six. I think,” I answer and lean against the wall. The cold tile feels amazing on my hot skin through the thin material of my dress.
“Five or six what?”
“Sexes on the Beaches . . . we never had sex on the beach . . . That could have been fun,” I say with a smirk. I wish I could see his stupid face right now. Not stupid . . . beautiful. But stupid sounds better right now.
“Oh God, you’re trashed,” he says. Somehow I know that he’s running his fingers through his hair. “Where are you?” he asks again.
I know it’s immature, but I reply, “Somewhere you’re not.”
“Obviously. Now tell me. Are you at a nightclub?” he barks.
“Oooh . . . someone is a grumpy gills.” I laugh.
Clearly he can hear the music in the background, so when he threatens, “I can easily find out where you are,” I sort of believe him. Not that I care.
The words are out before I can stop them: “Why didn’t you call me today?”
“What?” he asks, clearly thrown off by my question.
“You didn’t try to call me today.” I sound pathetic.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“I don’t, but still.”
“Well, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says calmly.
“Don’t get off the phone yet.”
“I’m not . . . I was just saying that I’ll call you tomorrow, even if you don’t pick up,” he explains and my heart leaps.
I try to sound neutral. “Okay.” What am I doing?
“So now can you tell me where you are?”
“Nope.”
“Is Trevor there?” His tone is serious.
“Yeah, but Kim is, too . . . and Christian.” I’m defending, though I don’t know why.
“So this was the plan, then? To take you to the conference and get you wasted and take you to a fucking club?” He raises his voice. “You need to go back to your hotel. You aren’t used to drinking and now you’re out and Trevor—”
I hang up before he can finish. Who does he think he is? He’s lucky that I even called him, drunk or not. What a buzzkill.
I need another drink.
My phone vibrates repeatedly, but I press ignore each time. Take that, Hardin.
I find my way back to our VIP section and ask the cocktail waitress for another drink.
“Are you okay?” Kimberly asks. “You look pissed.”
“Yeah, I’m fine!” I lie and down my drink as soon as the waitress brings it. Hardin is such a jerk, he’s the reason that we aren’t together, and he has the nerve to try to yell at me when I call him? He could be here with me right now if he hadn’t done what he did. Instead, Trevor is. Trevor, who is very sweet and very handsome.
“What?” Trevor smiles at me when he catches me staring.
I laugh and look away. “Nothing.”
After I finish another drink and we talk about how great tomorrow will be, I stand back up. “I’m going to dance again!” I call to them.
Trevor looks like he wants to say something, maybe even offer to come with me, but his cheeks flame and he stays quiet. Kimberly looks like she’s had enough and waves me off, but I don’t mind going out there on my own. I find my way to the middle of the dance floor and start to move. I probably look ridiculous, but it feels good to enjoy the music and let everything else go, like my drunken phone call to Hardin.
After about half a song, I sense a tall figure behind me, near me. I turn to find a pretty cute guy in dark jeans and a white shirt. His brown hair is shaved into a buzz cut, and his smile is handsome enough. He’s no Hardin, but then, no one is.
Stop thinking about Hardin, I remind myself as the man puts his hands on my hips and says close in my ear, “Can I join you?”
“Um . . . sure,” I reply. But really it’s the alcohol that’s speaking for me.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says, then turns me around, closing the gap between us. He pushes up against my back, and I close my eyes, trying to imagine that I’m someone else. A woman who dances with strangers in a club.
The beat to the second song is slower, more sensual, which makes my hips move slower. We turn to face each other, and he brings my hand to his mouth and touches his lips to my skin. His eyes meet mine and the next thing I know he has his tongue in my mouth. My heart screams for me to push him away, almost gagging at the unfamiliar taste of him. But my brain, my brain says something entirely different: Kiss him to forget about Hardin. Kiss him.