Page 43 of The One Night Dash
I glance away, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in my chest. He can’t mean it the way it sounded. The way he’s still looking at me.
I force a light, dismissive laugh. “The dress has you confused, Sterling. Before midnight, I’ll be in fuzzy jammies, makeup gone, hair piled on top of my head. Reality check.”
“Maybe I like reality better,” he says, too low for anyone else to hear.
I laugh. “Dash, come on; I’m not your type.”
His mouth opens, ready to volley back, but I lift a hand and cut him off.
“And before you get that smug look, you’re not mine, either.”
That earns me the exact thing I was trying to avoid.
His grin deepens, amusement dancing in his eyes. “All right then, whatisyour type?”
I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t let me skate past it. He leans in, waiting.
“Okay,” I say slowly, ticking off my list with my fingers. “Someone who loves to read and discuss books. Someone who thinks a perfect Saturday night can be spent at home with a book and a pot of tea instead of bottle service in the city. And”—I pause, smirking now—“someone who isn’t used to a personal cheering section every time they walk into a room.”
His brows lift, that grin still curling like he’s won something. “So … boring.”
“Simple isn’t boring,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
We’re still grinning at each other when the waitstaff gestures toward the back, where our table waits in exile with the cousins no one wanted up front.
“Closer to the bar back here, anyway.” He winks.
“I want a seat with an obstructed view, so I’m not so easily summoned.” I shrug.
“Perfect. I plan to obstruct your view all night.” He wags his brows as he pulls out an empty chair where my back is to the bridal party.
I slide into the seat, smoothing the silk over my lap, trying to decide if it’s the glass of wine I drained that begs me to ask or the fact that there is zero harm in asking.
“Question?” I ask as he sits down beside me.
“I got answers.” He chuckles.
“What made you change your mind?”
He looks me over with the kind of fond appreciation that makes a girl blush. But it’s Dash, and it’s me, so …
“You,” he states simply.
I point to myself and bat my eyes. “Me?”
He grins, and yes, it’s blinding.
He opens his mouth to respond, and that’s when someone says, “I knew that was them!”
We both turn and look at our tablemates.
“You’ve got to be shitting me?” Dash laughs. “How the hell are you guys?”
Adam, Carlton, Vik, and Edwin. Louie’s college crew.
“Good. Living the dream,” Adam answers and looks at me. “You look pretty.”
“She’s always been a stunner.” Dash waves to a waiter.
