Page 7 of Hot Girl Summer

“How wouldyousuggest I dress?” I say, claiming his attention again. “And isn’t it a little sexist, expecting me to justify the clothes I wear?” He fixes his gaze on my thighs as I size him up, taking a long pull on my drink. If I typed men’s indie fashion into Pinterest, I’m confident that his Henley and jeans combo would make an appearance. “Anyway, it’s not my fault you’re too old to appreciate style.”

“Again with the old?” he asks.

I cock my head to the side and smile sweetly. Eyes narrowed, his gaze fixes on mine for a little longer than I deem comfortable, and it steals my breath away. This guy has a way about him, like he knows exactly how to make me feel self-conscious. I don’t like it. A beat later, as if he can read my mind, he breaks contact. I exhale sharply.

“Have a seat,” he says, cocking his head towards an empty seating area.

“Why would I want to sit with you? All you’ve done is insult me.”

“Because I’m ridiculously handsome and charming.”

Inside, I’m on the floor laughing. He forgot to mention grade A douchebag.

“You mean, you actuallywantto talk to an egotistical airhead who measures their worth in Instagram likes. Thatiswhat you said, right?”

“Actually, what I said was—

I raise my eyebrows, daring him to continue. He clears his throat.

“Never mind. Are you always this—”

“Assertive?” I ask.

“Salty,” he replies.

My eyes narrow. “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But I know that I’m enjoying the hell out of arguing with you.” He sobers. “And I’d like to chat with you some more, if you’re interested.”

Before I have the chance to answer back, he takes a seat on a vacant Chesterfield sofa by the glass balcony. Why does he keep doing that? Like he can’t keep still long enough to wait for an answer. He’s either extremely impatient, weirdly nervous, or it’s just how he’s wired. Maybe it’s all of the above. Still, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit mild curiosity.

I try to make sense of the unusual turn of events, of the way I’m acting. Submission was never my jam, and usually I would never allow myself to play right into someone’s hands like this. But here I am, seriously considering his offer.

I am sick to death of cocky fuckboys, but there’s no harm in seeing how this one might embarrass himself. At the most, he’s nice to look at, and at the very least, it might be a good story to tell my friends.

“See that guy down there?” he asks, after I join him. His eyes never leave the downstairs bar.

I follow the direction of his gaze to a lone man nursing a glass of amber liquid, while a bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice front of him, along with two empty glasses. I can’t help but wonder why this is supposed to be interesting.

“What about him?”

I sink into the Chesterfield sofa beside Mr Impertinent. The well-worn leather dips in the centre as it takes my weight, bringing our bodies closer. He's warm, and I don’t hate it.

“Every time I come here, there he is. Always with the whisky, always with the champagne. Hoping he’ll get lucky, and get to take somebody home.”

I pretend not to notice my bare thigh brush against his denim jeans as a pretty blonde woman walks up to the bar downstairs, and takes up residence beside the lone ranger.

Rising anxiety grips my stomach as I watch the exchange between the two strangers, and I find myself eyeing the woman’s drink. It’s nerve-wracking to watch, but I force myself to keep an eye on that glass. It never hurts to be vigilant, and I view any man as a potential threat.

We watch together, not saying a word as the scenario plays out. After trying and failing to engage the woman in conversation, the man downstairs cuts his losses and nurses the amber liquid once again. Instantly, I relax, relieved on the woman’s behalf, but I still keep a wary eye on him.

“It’s pretty pathetic if you ask me,” I muse.

“Coming from someone who’s clearly never been rejected.”

I meet his honey-green gaze. God, those eyes are gorgeous.

“I think,” he says, taking a sip from his drink, “that it’s incredibly brave.”

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