Page 8 of Hot Girl Summer

“He could be happy on his own,” I say.

“Or, he could share that happiness with someone else.”

He draws his gaze towards my mouth, and my pulse quickens. I suck in my bottom lip, and his eyes fall to the floor.

“Loneliness is dangerous,” he says, quietly.

His expression becomes increasingly sombre, and if I don’t switch the mood soon, I’m pretty sure we’ll both be crying at the bottom of a bottle within the hour—and not in a good way.

“I think there’s something kind of beautiful in a little danger, don’t you think?”

He answers my rhetorical question with a smile that fails to reach his eyes. I want to fix it.

“So who are you here with, Mr Bougie?”

I cross my legs towards him, hoping a little human contact would lift his spirits. It’s a reach, but it never fails.

“Just my band mates. And it’s Danny—if you don’t mind. Are you going to tell me your name?”

I contemplate telling him my real name, but I haven’t worked him out yet. Although he doesn’t give off major creeper vibes, I can’t risk it, so I go for the safer option.

“I’m Summer.”

It’s my alter ego, my alias—the name I use to deter potential creepers and weirdos so that they can’t find me on social media.

“Nice to officially meet you, Summer.”

I instantly feel bad for lying, but on the other hand, it’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again.

“So, you’re in a band? That’s cool. Like swing? Or jazz? Or—”

He laughs, taking a sip of his drink. “No, nothing like that. I guess you could put us in the “indie rock” genre,” he says, making quotation marks with his hands. “Like Kings of Leon, I guess. But with a lot less talent.”

I smile approvingly. His indie boy aesthetic makes perfect sense now. “What do you play?”

“I’m just the guitarist.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. Everybody knows the guitarist is the real frontman." I wink, then regret it instantly. If he was interested at all before, he sure as hell isn’t after that move. I clear my throat, blame it on natural behaviour, and move on. "Is your band on Spotify?” I ask, retrieving my phone.

“Yeah.”

I hand Danny the device, with the logic that it’s better to have him follow them on my behalf, instead of being shouted at over the already deafening music. As he navigates the device, I try not to notice the size of the palm wrapped around it.

I fail miserably.

Large hands and long fingers are on my list of kryptonite, and I’ve come to the realisation that this one is dangerous, and not the beautiful kind. Musicians are notorious for being womanizers and at the top of the fuckboy food chain, and I let myself play right into those perfect hands.

Even though he’s older, I would bet the money I don’t have that his musician status is the reason for his unmatched confidence. That, and the fact that he has probably done his fair share of sleeping around. I push the thought away, and focus on his face, studying the white strands that pepper his dark brown hair. Every fine line around his eyes softens his features, telling a story that only makes him more attractive.

“Here,” he says, passing the phone back.

I desperately hope that he didn’t catch me staring.

“The Wandering Dragons,” I say, pressing the follow button.

“That’s us,” he says. “Are you on Twitter?”

“I mean, I have it. But I don’t really use it. I’m not even sure I remember my password.”

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