Page 3 of Hot Girl Summer

“It’s okay, I would’ve forgotten on purpose, too. I got you girl,” April says, with a wink.

April and I have an unspoken language when it comes to mean girls. April’s copper hair and fair skin made her an easy target at school for bullies like Chrissy—who makes Regina George look like Mother Teresa. Sure, she’s pretty, but she’s also pretty awful. She took the easy ride her looks gave her, and instead of helping others up, she shot them down and gave them a hard time. Cruel jibes and gaslighting for comedic purpose being her weapons of choice.

To say I still can’t figure her out would be an understatement, but I was glad to see the back of her when we left school ten years ago, until my ex-boyfriend, Ryan, brought her back into our friendship group a year ago.

“Fine, let me see it,” I say.

“I knew it. You’re such a perv,” April says, showing me the screen.

“Nothing like a cock shot to de-stress,” I say. My eyes widen as I zoom in to admire the faceless, naked man in the photo. “Wow, good job. Have you met him yet?”

April shakes her head.

“No. We only matched yesterday.”

“And he’s already showing you the goods? Well aside from the obvious, he’s very well groomed...and confident,” I say.

“I was going to state the obvious, but we’ll go with that,” April says.

I raise a shot glass and the others follow.

“Happy birthday, little bean. Welcome to the twenty-six club.”

“Cheers,” we all chime, and knock the shots back.

“And congratulations, Miss DeLuca,” Stefan adds.

I raise my glass again to revel in my friend’s praise.

“Excuse me,” April calls, catching the attention of a passer-by. “Do you mind taking our picture?”

“Sure,” the man says.

He’s good-looking in a generic sort of way, not classically handsome like Luke, and he doesn’t give off that boy-next-door vibe like my wannabe bedfellow Alex does. He’s shorter than my usual type, but still taller than me, and even though he’s less muscular than the bodybuilder fitness model types I usually lust over, he clearly knows how to rock a slate grey Henley and dark skinny jeans.

Day-old stubble peppers a sharp jaw, an exact shade match to his grown-out short back and sides haircut, and a small smile drives shallow dimples in his cheeks, but doesn’t reach his hazel green eyes.

“Shit, my battery is drained,” April says, unlocking her phone.

I smirk, knowing my friend’s not-so-secret bathroom nudes are responsible for the lack of juice.

“Here, take mine.”

When I hand over the device with an obligatory smile, I catch the scent of clean, sophisticated citrus and woods, with a hint of white florals. It’s sexy, subtle, and masculine, and unlike anything I’ve ever smelt before. His hands are as warm as mine are cold, but he doesn’t flinch as I cool his touch, nor does he maintain eye contact, or a smile that reaches his eyes, or any of the other obvious signs of attraction. If anything, he seems bored, like his emotional gearstick is stuck in neutral.

As conceited as it sounds, I’m not used to people being anything less than attracted to me, and I can’t understand why I find it so offensive that he hasn’t automatically made bedroom eyes at me, especially as he’s far from being the hottest person in the room. But these musings of mine only serve to make Mr Barely Interested seem a whole lot more interesting.

After an extremely short photoshoot, he hands the phone back, and we all chime a ‘thank you’ as he walks away. We lean in to review the single imperfect shot on the screen, in which I can barely make out my own smile. The photo’s blurry, and completely unusable. What’s the point in taking night out photos if they aren’t good enough for the ‘gram?

“Excuse me,” April calls, but he’s already too far.

In a moment of haste, I slide past my friend and catch up with Moody Photographer, and a group of men surrounds him. After demanding his attention with a tap on the shoulder, he turns around, meeting my gaze with a passive expression.

“Hey, I’m so sorry to bother you again, but—” I show him the photo. “—would you mind taking another one?”

He inches closer, and studies the screen.

“Looks fine to me,” he says, turning to give me a view of his back once again.

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