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Zeroed in on the huddle slobbering over one of my best friends.
Perfect, polished, poised.
Everything I was not.
“And maybe poke some holes in the condom box and pray for the best,” the second one snickered.
My spine straightened involuntarily.
I smiled blandly at the bar, wondering what dry ice would do to eyeballs if I poured my Dracula cocktail down her face.
“Gah, no kidding. Did you see what his ex-wife got in the divorce settlement?”
“Insane!” the redhead exclaimed.
“I’d have his babies if it meant I got to live like that.”
“Well, you better hurry,” Mermaid Barbie said, tilting her drink toward the corner where Ollie held court for the evening.
“He’s been watching her all night.”
I followed their gaze—and there he was. Shock of black hair. Polite smile aimed at a bleach-blonde bombshell leaning provocatively over his table.
I recognized her vaguely—maybe a sports reporter? Pretty, polished, professionally blonde. I was almost positive I’d seen her cover one of Paxton’s games.
My stomach churned as he chuckled, her shiny hair cascading over her shoulder.
“Can you imagine playing truth or dare withthat?” the redhead asked pointedly.
“Dare, dare, dare!” one of them squealed.
I lost track of their conversation. All I could see was the maybe-reporter's manicured hand on Ollie’s costumed arm.
Truth or dare,huh?
Maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe it was the California warmth.
Maybe it was the territorial monster roaring to life inside me.
Whatever the reason, I tossed back my drink—which tasted like the bartender mixedallthe alcohols and dumped in a jar of maraschino cherries—coughed in protest of the vile concoction, and slid off my stool in a fit of very, very bad decision-making.
With determination, I weaved between chattering partygoers, slid between Ollie and Blondie McBimbo with a muttered, “Pardon me,” threw my arms around his neck, and crushed my lips to his like I’d come to stake my claim.
Ollie’s body went rigid for a beat before I pulled back. The moment our eyes locked, his lips twisted into a smile, and he brought his mouth to mine as his hands found my waist.
There was a high probability that sound from my periphery was a disgusted scoff of outrage from Blondie McBimbo, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care.
Because Oliver Hart was kissing me. His hands tightened, pulling me flush against him, deepening the kiss. His sweet cinnamon scent wrapped around me, heat bloomed against my skin. Gentle but demanding, warm and pliant, he took my kiss and made it better.
When we finally peeled apart, a little breathless, he tucked a strand of my wig behind my ear with maddening affection.
Arching a disbelieving brow, he drawled, “Well, hello, Trouble.”
“Hello,” I chirped dumbly, grinning so hard the world tilted sideways.
“What was that for?”