Page 22 of Villainous Summer

From the moment I saw her at the bar in that little blue sundress, I wondered what she would feel like pressed against me.

Sliding an arm around her waist, I dragged her to my side. She fit perfectly under my arm.

Wrapping her fingers around my nape, she turned her face to mine.

She was warmth and sunshine soaking through my shirt and blooming in my chest. It was easy to pretend she belonged there.

Her pupils dilating, she stared up at me, poking her tongue out to wet her lips.

If I were a less composed man, I would want to kiss her. But that would be very, very foolish.

“How’s this?” I asked, my voice scratchy.

“G—” She cleared her throat. “Good. Let me just—” Glancing away, she focused on the camera, fumbling to get the angle with her short arms.

I took the phone. “Let me take it.”

Just as she said, my head blocked out the sun, creating a halo around us.

I started the timer for three seconds to take a burst, and she flashed a wide smile.

It was happiness and innocence and so damn sweet.

I figured I might as well go all in on this. If we wanted to look realistic, I’d do more, right?

Without thinking, I bent down and kissed the top of her head.

Her scent invaded me. It was a smell I would want splayed over my pillows.

She turned to me, and those blue eyes darkened. As I clutched her waist, she leaned in closer. In my hair, her nails dragged against my scalp, and my chest tightened.

Her smile widened, and I matched it.

“That’s probably enough pictures,” she murmured.

I had forgotten I was even holding the phone.

“Right, of course.” Internally groaning, I stepped back, my arm retreating from her waist.

She scrolled through the new pictures, frowning. “These should work.”

Her fingers flitted over her phone as she posted the pictures to her Instagram.

“What’s your at?” she asked, glancing at me.

My cheeks burned at the question. I was rarely on social media and hadn’t changed my username for almost a decade.

Scratching the side of my nose, I pursed my lips. “It’s—um . . . hotrod underscore van.”

“Hot rod Van?” She smirked. “Okay, Hot Rod. You’ve been tagged.”

“I like cars, okay?”

She put up her hands, the silver can in her left hand sloshing. “I didn’t say a word. I like a man who can work with his hands. Though it’s a well-known fact that car guys are just the horse girls of men.”

Damn if that wasn’t the rudest yet funniest thing a woman had ever said to me. Her innocent eyes barely betrayed how cutting the comment was.

Taking a swig of the hard seltzer, I stepped away from her.

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