Page 17 of Bleacher Report
A really bad idea jumps to mind, and I don’t think.
I just move.
Bethany’s scent still clings to my jacket, and I need it gone. Need her out of my line of sight, out of my brain. And I need someone to outbid her. And lucky for me, Peyton despises me enough that she's the perfect person to not twist this into something more than a simple deal—no strings.
She’s at the bar, standing behind two men in suits. She’s half-turned away, studying the crowd, completely unaware that she just might be my only shot at salvaging tonight.
The line moves. She steps forward, delicate fingers wrapping around the edge of the marble bar.
“Peyton,” I say, my voice low. Controlled. A warning and a plea.
She doesn’t even turn her head.
The bartender nods at her. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”
“Surprise me. Just no whiskey… It’s triggering,” she says, her voice smooth and cool.
I wince.
She said that loud enough for me to hear, yet she has no idea what kind of surprise I’m about to drop in her lap.
“Peyton,” I try again. “I know you don’t like me right now. We got off on the wrong foot, but I need to talk to you.”
Nothing. Not even a blink in my direction.
Screw it.
I reach into my jacket, pull out my wallet, and slap two crisp hundreds on the bar—despite the fact that this is an open bar and nobody’s paying for a damn thing.
“Keep her drinks coming,” I tell the bartender.
He freezes, eyes bouncing between Peyton and me like he’s trying to assess if I’m a stalker or just tragically stupid. Right now…I might be considered both.
Peyton finally turns her head toward him and lifts one brow. “Well, if he’s just going to burn through money for no reason, you might as well take it.”
The bartender takes the tip with a nod and then heads off to mix whatever chaos she just ordered.
She shifts just enough to glance at me out of the corner of her eye. Her mouth is a perfect, unimpressed line.
“What do you want, Reed?”
There’s no warmth in her voice. None of the body language I’m used to from the opposite sex. No leaning in to touch my arm, no breathy laugh, no playing with her hair like she’s waiting for me to make the next move.
She’s becoming colder toward me the longer I stand here, her stiff posture making it evident that she’s only interested in this conversation ending as soon as possible.
And yet somehow, there’s this soft, unexpected scent—vanilla and honeysuckle—that doesn’t match her closed-off stance. It’sinviting in a way she isn’t. And that messes with me more than it should.
The most important thing?
She hasn’t walked away.
And right now, that’s all I’ve got.
I lean in closer, quickly glancing around us to make sure no one is close enough to eavesdrop on our conversation. “I need you to bid on me tonight.”
Peyton blinks slowly, like I’ve just asked her to help me bury a body. “I’m sorry, I think I must have blacked out just now, because I could have sworn you just asked me to bid on a date with you.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
