Page 5 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“Agua, por favor,” I shout back. “A bottle, please.”
He slides it across the bar with the speed of someone who’s already done this two hundred times tonight.
That’s when I notice the man standing next to me. He’s got his back against the bar, one elbow resting on it, drink in hand. His shirt is a plain white button-down, sleeves rolled so his tattooed forearms are on display, and he’s pale in a way that suggests he hasn’t seen the sun at all since Labor Day. He’s not watching me or waiting for a drink—he’s watching everything else, the lanterns, the dance floor, my friends howling with laughter.
Up close, he looks younger than me. Softer around the edges, but there’s a sharpness in the way his mouth curves that makes me pause for half a second before I look away. I don’t do double takes. Not anymore. And definitely not tonight.
“You don’t look like you’re here for the wedding either,” he says suddenly.
I frown, turning my body to face him. “Pardon?”
He turns his head, crooked smile in place. “Are you also here alone?”
I twist the cap off my water. “Oh—I didn’t realize this was a private party,” I say. And everything makes sense. Of course this is a private event, but the abundance of bars and restaurants and opportunities for a drink in this resort meant that for the past week, we’ve been walking in to every venue without even thinking about it.
“It’s got wedding welcome party written all over it, in my opinion.”
I take a long sip of water, buying myself a second. “We’re not here for the party. Just crashing, apparently.”
His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Good strategy. I’m actually here for the wedding.”
That makes me look at him properly. “Really?”
“Really. Groom’s an old work colleague. I don’t know many people, though.” He shrugs, then grins again. “Which explains why I’m talking to a stranger about wedding crashers.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just hum in acknowledgement.
One of my friends shrieks from the dance floor. “Sol! Bring me another piña colada!”
I pretend not to hear her, but the guy next to me tilts his head, amused.
“Ben, by the way,” he says, lifting his glass in a small salute. “Figure it’s only fair you know my name since I already know yours.”
My grip on the water bottle tightens. “Well, you overheard that. I didn’t really give it to you.”
“Hard not to,” he says, that crooked smile spreading across his face again. “Not many names are currently being shouted across the dance floor. It means sun, doesn’t it?”
I sigh. “Everyone knows that.”
“Not everyone. Some of us skipped Spanish class.”
I arch a brow. “You’re very white,” I blurt, and I think that finally the alcohol is hitting my system. I’m definitely not trying to flirt but something about how relaxed he looks is disarming.
“I work long hours in an office,” he says without missing a beat. “Lots of traveling, fluorescent lighting, very little vitamin D. This is me at my tannest.”
I shake my head. “You should buy sunscreen in bulk.”
“Oh, I do,” he says, mock serious. “My dermatologist is my most stable relationship.”
That makes me laugh before I can stop myself. Just once, short and sharp. His grin widens like he scored a point. For the briefest moment my skin prickles, that rush of heat I haven’t felt in a long time. Not interested, I remind myself quickly. Absolutely not. It’s just been… a while. And maybe that’s theproblem here. Maybe I’m confusing basic attraction—because he’s an attractive man—with something that looks like curiosity.
Before I can retort, there’s a piercing whistle from the dance floor. “Sol!” Juana yells, waving both arms like a maniac. “Stop flirting and come dance with us!”
I nearly choke on my water. “I’m not?—”
She cups her hands around her mouth. “She’s blushing!”
“I am not!” I most definitely am, and I’ve never been gladder for a dim setting and party lights.
