Page 87 of Drop Shot
If I had to categorize it, I would call it elevated business casual. It’s a cross between sexy and sophisticated. You’re not going to find women here in bright colors or with scandalous necklines. The style is more reminiscent of just leaving work and unbuttoning a bit.
The black skirt I wear is short, but not indecently so, paired with a half-buttoned white shirt with a silky black top beneath. My hair is twisted up and away from my face, pinned into place but without looking too done.
Ebba’s wearing a fitted black dress that comes almost to her knees with a pair of black heels that make the exposed part of her calves look killer.
“We should get a drink,” she announces suddenly, hands latching around my wrist.
I let her drag me to the bar and let her handle ordering, since like her brother, she can speak French.
She secures our cocktails and passes me one. I take a sip and even though I don’t really like alcohol it’s the perfect blend of sweet and sharp.
Swaying her hands to the beat of the song, Ebba leads us over to an empty standing bar top table.
“Thanks for coming out with me. I know you don’t really like this kind of thing.”
“Are you feeling better about everything?” I ask, sipping at my drink. I better slow down, though. Since I’m not used to drinking it doesn’t take much to have me feeling out of sorts.
“With Keaton?” She purses her lips at my nod. “I’m still mad at him. We’ll see how I feel when he gets here.”
I secretly hope she dumps his ass. He’s not good enough for her. That much is obvious to anyone.
We watch the crowd, nursing our drinks, when a group of guys separates from the crowd and heads toward us. Ebba perks up at the attention, but I want to hide away.
Two of them approach us. The one on the left looks at me with a confident air.
“Are you American?” he asks me.
I nod. “What gave me away?”
He rubs his jaw, a silver ring glinting on his index finger. “Americans are very … noticeable.”
It feels like that’s a bad thing, but he’s looking at me with interest so who knows.
The other guy speaks with Ebba, surprised when she responds in French.
The friend who’s standing with me arches a brow with interest. “Do you also speak French?”
I shake my head. “No, sorry.”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but Ebba bumps my elbow to get my attention. “I’m going to dance. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I wave away her concern. “Go have fun.”
“I’m Gabriel,” the man chatting with me says as his friend disappears into the crowd with mine. “You are?”
“Whimsy.”
“Whimsy,” he repeats with a laugh. “Is that a joke or…?”
“No, it’s my name.” I reach to fiddle with my hair, but remember that it’s pinned up and let my hand drop back down.
“Interesting name. Whimsy, would you like to dance?”
I swear it happens in slow motion—the way the air changes around me, grows thicker, and Iknowhe’s behind me before I see or hear him. A heavy arm settles around my shoulders, fingers dangerously close to grazing the top of my right breast.
“Sorry, this one’s taken.”
Gabriel raises his hands and doesn’t say anything else, just heads off to find another dance partner I assume.
