Page 40 of Hot Girl Summer

He replies with a winking face emoji, and I roll my eyes. I can feel Danny’s gaze on me as I place my phone face down on the pebbles, then I turn to face him. In my peripheral, a light flares over the sea, followed by a loud and drawn-out, subsiding roll.

“It’s just Stefan checking up on me.”

“He seems like a good guy.”

“He is. I’m lucky to have him.”

“He’s lucky to have you, too.” He mirrors my smile. “So, what’s in this box?” he asks, picking up the smaller one.

He opens it and looks inside.

“Pasticcini. Breakfast pastries.”

“They look amazing.”

“They are. I got you a mixture.”

“Are you having some?” he asks, offering the box. I shake my head. I would stuff my face with those bad boys if I had the chance, but I need to show a little willpower.

“Don’t tempt me. It’s my way of showing my gratitude...for the tickets.”

When I lean across his lap to reel off the names in my less-than-perfect Italian accent, I try not to notice our proximity.

“Cannoncini, cannoli, bignè, sfogliatelle, babà,and fruit tart.”

“Is there no Italian word for fruit tart?” he smirks.

“Probably, but I don’t know it.”

My hand grazes the top of his thigh, and I swear I can feel him lean into my gravity. A quick sequence of fantasies flashes through my mind. There’s something about the ocean, the sound of the waves, the smell of the air and the salty sea spray. It’s so incredibly freeing. Now is the golden opportunity for him to make a move. But he doesn’t.

Suddenly, a drop of water bounces off a cone of puff pastry, and he snaps the box shut.

“Shit. I think it’s about to hammer it down. Shall we head back?”

“Sure,” I say, but my mind tells me different. I would happily stay in a downpour with him.

Boxes balanced, we head towards his car, picking up speed as soft, thick droplets start to fall. He places the boxes in the backseat, and once we’re safe inside and in the comfort of the leather interior, he turns on the engine and I give him my home address. Closing my eyes, I shiver as my damp skin welcomes the first blast of warm air.

“So much for changing your shirt,” I say. “That’s what you get for calling me entitled.”

“Karma is indeed a bitch. I’m sorry I said that. I wasn’t having a great night.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve redeemed yourself.” I flash him a smile. “So, when’s your next gig?”

I hope I don’t make it too obvious that I have every intention of seeing him again. But then again, there’s no harm in going after what I want.

“Monday.”

“That soon?”

“Technically our rehearsal day. You should come along to the studio if you’re not busy.”

Busy? Moi?

“What time?”

“Five-thirty.”

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