Page 13 of Hot Girl Summer

“That explains a lot.”

“About?”

“You.”

Danny’s brows knit together. He pauses, giving me scope to continue.

“Pushy, over-confident corporate big shot. Used to getting what he wants, and won’t stop until he has it. Borderline obsessed with money and power, most probably a narcissist.”

He asked for it. I’m surprised when a wide grin spreads across his face, along with two adorable dimples. He folds his arms. “Now who’s making assumptions based on stereotypes?”

Touchez.

“It’s not an insult. I can barely manage my own money, let alone other peoples.” It’s true, I spend half my life in an overdraft.

“It’s challenging at times, but the majority of my clientele are widowed women whose husbands were responsible for the cash flow.” He leans back and smiles.

“How...retro.”

“That’s how it was back then. All they need is some guidance, and a sympathetic ear. I treasure my coffee dates with Doris.”

I smile at the image of him sipping frothy cappuccinos with cute old ladies.

“So, that guy earlier, him of the shattered glassware, is he your boyfriend?”

How predictable. I shoot him an unbelieving glance. “Definitely not. I mean, we used to go out. We’re friends.”

“Oh, I thought he’d be your type. I saw you two dancing last night; you seemed pretty close.”

I don’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out. Especially since every memory I have of the night before is filled with hostility.

“I prefer men over boys,” I say, casually.

His eyes fall to my lips for a moment too long, and I wonder if I missed something.

“How about you?”

My words sit there for a moment before he answers.

“Do I prefer men?”

“I mean, are you married?”

There is no subtle way to ask about the missing ring without being forward. He pauses, and his sombre expression from the night before returns for a millisecond.

“I was.”

“But last night you were wearing—” I backtrack, based on the assumption that he doesn’t want to elaborate, and I leave it at that. I don’t want to pry. Once I ring up his bill and fill a paper bag with his purchase, I hand him the receipt.

“I thought you said your name was Summer?” he says, examining the tiny square of paper. I know exactly what he’s looking at on the receipt:

You were served by: SOPHIA

One hundred percent busted.

“I did.”

“It says Sophia right here.”

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