Page 102 of The Publicity Stunt

My entire lip curls with disgust. “Shots?” I remark. “Ohh, I know what this place is now,” I say mockingly. “A doorway to my twenties!”

Parker is not amused. With an eyebrow arched, he holds my gaze, looking at me with such a strong sense of distinction, it’s almost possessive. As if there’s a part of me reserved just for him, one only he can see. Maybe there is. “Tequila or vodka?”

Heat trickles down my neck. I turn around to face the bar, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. “Tequila,” I mumble, looking at him from the corner of my eye.

He snickers and takes a small step back, running his hand through his disheveled hair.

“You’re really not going to tell me why we’re dressed like this?” I ask.

“Dressed like what?” Parker takes a bigger step back and turns around in his spot, making a show of himself. The bottom flare of his bright red pants expands with the twirl. “I think we look nice.”

“We?”

He narrows his eyes in thought and moves next to me, his hip resting against the bar. “I’m sorry. I look nice. You look like a shooting star on steroids.”

I faux-gasp and smack his arm. “You picked my outfit!”

“Because I wanted to look better.” He tries flagging down the bartender again. “God, it seems impossible to get a drink here.”

“May I?”

He glances sideways, brows creased up in a frown. “May you what?”

I unclasp my claw clip and let my hair fall loose across my shoulders. Then I bend down and tug at the hem of my dress, quickly standing up straight to push my boobs out a bit. Just a little bit.

“What are you doing, April?” he asks.

“Getting us some drinks,” I say to him. The red neon lights reflect off the giant disco ball dangling from the ceiling and pour directly into the silver sequins of my dress. I lean my weight on the bar, perching my chin on my right hand.

“How is that going to—”

“Give it a minute.” I mess up my hair slightly. Enough to make it look like I’ve been drinking for the past two hours and am maybe three or four shots away from being the “life of the party.”

I practically hear Parker roll his eyes back into his skull. “April, you can’t be serious. This kind of stuff only works in movies.”

“Can I get you anything, miss?” Thrift Store Elvis Presley stops right in front of me, card machine in hand.

Slowly and even more dramatically, I turn my head to face Parker, who seems to be looking everywhere but at me, his tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek.

I take out my credit card from my purse and hand it to the bartender. “Four tequila shots and a glass of water, please. Thank you.”

“Water?” Parker asks.

“Mm-hm. For the burn?”

I look at him, he looks at me, and we instantly burst out laughing. “I’ll be sure to let down my hair next time I go to a bar without you.”

“It’s the boobs, Parker. That’s what really seals the deal.”

“Hair transplant and plastic surgery. Got it.”

I turn back around and rest my elbows on the sticky surface of the bar. He slides in closer to me, his back against the bar.

“Okay, spill it,” I say. “What are we doing here? What’s the deal?”

“Have some patience, will you?”

I eye him suspiciously. “Why are you being so secretive?”