Page 1 of Hot Girl Summer

Chapter One

“What’syourpoison?”

“Fuckboy tears.” I am this close to losing my shit. For the past ten minutes, Mr Won’t-take-no-for-an-answer has seriously been invading my personal space, and my patience is wearing thin.

“Sorry, I’m fresh out of those.”

In his umpteenth attempt at making small talk, I finally snap. When is Prince Charming going to come and save the day? That’s right, never.

That sort of thing only happens in books and movies. Never does it happen to the jaded party girl who has given up on anything more than casual dating, and if this guy isn’t careful, he’s going to feel the wrath of my fiery Italian side.

He meets my death glare, the one I save for the particularly obnoxious men, and I sincerely hope that I won’t be teaching guys like him in the fall when I press play on my career as a yoga teacher. Taking the leap from cosmetology to teaching is already a huge, scary step, and I don’t need any additional man-shaped drama upheaving my life.

I scan the room for a means to escape, cursing the no table service policy while I try to make eye contact with one of the bar’s mixologists, and make sure that once I order my drink, I’ll watch my glass extra carefully.

There’s no doubt in my mind that this wannabe Casanova is after one thing, and he sure as hell isn’t getting it. All I want to do is celebrate my friend’s birthday without any hassle from a horny man child, but that’s obviously too much to ask.

Squaring my body, I lean across the bar to further avoid Randy Lusterson’s advances, silently hoping he takes the oh-so-obvious hint and leaves me alone.

My large dose of the silent treatment must be working, because without another word or terrible joke, Thirsty Terrence soon gets bored and leaves.

Another one bites the dust.

“Hey, Sophia, stop scaring my customers,” Luke says, leaning across the bar.

“Then tell them to stop terrorising me,” I reply.

I can always rely on Lilura’s bartender and resident womaniser to put me in my place. Luke is easily the hottest guy in the vicinity. At six-foot-something, he trumps my petite five-foot-two frame, and his broad shoulders, deep brown eyes and chiselled features are enough to make any hot-blooded female succumb to his charms. Well. Anyone, but me. With our similar strict Catholic upbringings and Italian roots, we’re one and the same, and I sure as hell don’t want to be hooking up with someone like that.

My phone chimes with a text from my Flavour of the Week.

Alex: You up?

I check the time. It’s almost the following day. I text back.

I’m out.

Luke lines up five shot glasses on a tray and fills them with Tuaca. After knocking one back, I tap my card on the machine in time to the beat of Miley’s Midnight Sky.

“Anyway, last I checked,” I say, “this isn’t your bar.”

“One day,” he says, pouring orange liquid into four hi-ball glasses. He tops them with prosecco and slides the tray across the bar.

Alex: Come over.

I roll my eyes and slide my phone into my bag.

“Who’s that?”

“Alex.”

Luke sobers.

“Are you leaving?”

“No, I’m sure he has ten other girls he can call.”

I know I’m right, and Luke’s silence tells me all I need to know, as does the ache in my chest. I can pretend that Alex’s indiscretions don’t bother me, but deep down they do. It’s not even like we’re together—we’re friends with benefits, and I like it that way—but nobody wants to be used. I just need to accept that it’s the way things are.

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