Page 39 of No, You Hang Up

“Please don’t think I’m a creep or a stalker,” he begins, his smile turning apologetic. “I’m not, I swear. I bumped into you over there with your friends and, uh, I’ve been hoping to get the chance to talk to you.”

“Should I apologize?” I ask. Settling my chin on my hand, I gaze up at him with my vision only slightly blurred at the edges from the liquor. “Since I know we were being a little crazy, and it was probably me that ran into you.”

God, I’m such a lightweight it’s unreal. But at least I know my own limits, I suppose, and I know not to push past it. I could get one more shot, or a mixed drink, if I’m really feeling frisky. If I have any more than that, someone will have to cart me up off the floor and out of here in a wheelbarrow.

“Never.” His smile widens, eyes bright with however much alcohol he’s had already. “I’m Eric.” The bartender brings him a beer that I work hard not to curl my nose up at. I’m not a beer drinker. Not one bit, and I hate the smell of it on a guy’s breath.

Not that I intend to be kissing him anytime soon.

At least, that’s what I think until I look up and meet Mads’ eyes across the room. She’s grinning, and shoots me a thumbs up along with a signal of approval from Em as they see me talking to Eric. Okay, fine, then Iprobablywon’t be kissing him, unless this gets better in the next few minutes.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but that’s cheesy,” he adds, and my eyes flick back to his as I smile at his words.

“Not to mention, this is Sprite,” I admit with a shake of the glass in my hand. “And I’m Kaira. Just Kai, though.”

“Like Sprite and vodka,Kaira?”

“No, like, just Sprite. We had a few shots when we got here, and I’m a lightweight.” I’m also a little more talkative when I’m tipsy, but I figure rambling about my lack of drinking skills isn’t that big of a deal.

“I think this is where I make small talk. I ask you how your night is going and then lead up to asking if you have a boyfriend or anything.” He’s getting a bit more confident with every word, but I can’t decide how I feel about it. Nothing in me is particularlydrawnto him, but he’s not the worst guy I’ve ever talked to at a bar. “But, uh, could we skip that and get to where I tell you that you’re really pretty and I like your shirt?” He glances down and my gaze follows him to where the knotted material has ridden up to be just under my breasts instead of covering more of my stomach.

Suddenly, I feel a little self-conscious. “I, umm. Thanks.” Trying not to be obvious, I adjust my shirt so it’s back down some. I don’t know why I care. It’s not like he’s insulting me, but I also know he doesn’t actually like my shirt.

He just likes how little it covers.

Sure enough, there’s a touch of disappointment on his face when I do it, though he quickly replaces it with another too-bright smile. He’s not bad, I remind myself. He’s just the typical guy I should expect to find here.

And already, that’s a bit of a turnoff for me.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I ignore it. It would be rude, I figure, to look at a text while Eric is telling me all about the beer he’s drinking, even though I didn’t ask and I frankly could not care less about micro breweries or IPAs.

I’m really not a beer connoisseur.

When my phone vibrates again, however, I realize it might be Mads or Em needing something. Most likely they’re just checking in. Most likely, they don’t really want anything except to remark on Eric or to make sure I’m okay. But if I don’t answer, they might come over here themselves…which wouldn’t be all bad, now that I think about it.

But I find myself smiling apologetically, not that Eric stops his little TED Talk on hops, and I fish my phone out of my pocket to flip it over, pressing the side button to illuminate the screen.

It’s a text message all right, but it’s not from Mads or Em.

It’s from Huxley.

Fix your face, pretty girl. Or he’s going to realize you aren’t interested.

eighteen

Iread the message once.

Then again.

Eric’s words about beer and his explanation about the taste of it completely turn into white noise as I stare down at my phone. It’s only when I realize something important that I finally snap back up to look at the man in front of me.

Huxley can see me.

Huxley is in this bar.

“I…” God, I have no idea what this man has been saying, and I feel a little bit bad about it. But how can I feel too bad when there’s something more interesting happening that he has no notion about? Trying to look casual, I glance around, smiling once at Eric before my gaze goes over his shoulder.

At least, until my phone vibrates in my hand.

---