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“He's absolutely looking,” I squeak. “What do I even do?”
“You walk over there and use your words,” Serena says, already plucking my cup from my hand. “Now. Before I catch fire from secondhand lust and they have to report a spontaneous human combustion to Wright Media.”
“You're all insane,” I mutter.
Audrey shrugs. “It's a festival. Talking to strangers is legally allowed. I checked the municipal code.”
With a deep breath, I smooth my hands over my hips and take a step forward before I can overthink it.
Each step toward him feels like balancing on a wire strung over a shark tank. He watches me come, that same steady, unnerving attention in his eyes. When I finally stopin front of him, I swear the air shifts, like the oxygen molecules are rearranging themselves around us.
Up close, he's even more devastating. Those steel-blue eyes lock on mine first, steady and unblinking. Like he’s double-checking I’m real before the rest of me even registers. It throws me off balance, a strange gravity pulling me toward him, making it harder to think straight. My usual arsenal of confident one-liners evaporates like raindrops on hot pavement.
I can’t speak. I’m just standing in front of him. Staring.
His eyes dip. Slow, deliberate. He takes in the curve of my hips, my belly, the shape of my dress, the flush rising in my chest, the shoes on my feet. But he’s not leering. Not rude or crude. He seems almost analytical. Like he's gathering data for some private calculation, and I’ve become the only thing worth studying.
My breath catches. My brain? Offline. Fully crashed.
And then, because my mouth never got the memo... it opens.
“You have a very symmetrical face,” I blurt.
Oh no. No, no, no. Why did I say that? Who leads with symmetry? What’s next—complimenting his hair follicles? Maybe I could comment on his teeth, suggesting he has amazing flossing skills like I’m some sort of deranged dentist? Jesus. Someone muzzle me.
There’s a pause. Just long enough for me to seriously consider faking a coughing fit and running.
Then he laughs—an actual, full-body laugh that makes his eyes crinkle and reveals a devastating dimple in his left cheek that should come with a warning label.
“Thank you?” he says, voice deep and rich, like velvet-dipped bourbon poured over gravel.
“I just meant… it's a compliment. In, like, evolutionary biology terms. Symmetry equals attractiveness.” I nearly reach out to touch his jaw but catch myself. “Oh god, never mind.”
Still smiling, he shifts his weight, stepping in just a little. The crowd surges around us, and suddenly he’sclose. Six inches of space, maybe. I can smell cedar and something warm underneath, like sunbaked leather. My brain short-circuits again. “So… was this your idea, or are your friends holding something over your head unless you say hi?”
I let out this weird half-giggle, half-scoff. “What? I don’t even have friends. I just walk up to attractive strangers for fun.”
“I’m good at reading people,” he says, a little amused. “You might notclaimto have friends, but the two women behind you are giving off very ‘mission control’ energy.”
I glance back. Serena and Audrey are failing spectacularly at pretending not to stare. Serena gives me a thumbs up so enthusiastic she nearly takes out a passing reveler. I wince.
“OK, fine. Maybe I have one or two,” I mutter. “But subtlety isn’t really in their skill set, but they mean well.”
“No kidding.” He steps a little closer, and my skin prickles with awareness. His voice drops just enough to make my breath catch. “Do you usually take their advice?”
“Only when it involves symmetrical men and fermented fruit.”
That earns me another smile. A real one this time, transforming his face from merely handsome to absolutely breathtaking.
“What are we drinking?” he asks.
My heart stutters, like it's forgotten the basics of maintaining a steady rhythm. Maybe I should be concerned about that, but I'm too busy trying not to stare at his mouth.
“Sangria. The good kind. Spanish. Possibly lethal. Definitely responsible for my sudden ability to form sentences around you.”
“I'm more of a scotch man, but I've been known to indulge in the occasional sangria if the company’s right.”
The way he says it sends heat sliding down my spine, pooling low in my belly. My mouth goes desert dry.