How to Fail at Flirting(8)

“It’s a selfish request. I’ve been stuck helping with wedding things since I arrived this morning, and my friend’s future wife is acting a lot like her.” He gestured toward the blonde. “I could use a break and to spend time with a grown-up.”

“How do you know I’m not actually one of them?”

“Good point. I guess I don’t.” The knee of Jake’s jeans again grazed my bare leg below the hem of my dress. The nudge felt sinful, and another wave of heat spread through my body. He dipped his head close to mine. “How many erotic tiaras do you own?”

I counted off my fingers. “Technically, four, but I lent one out for the royal wedding and haven’t gotten it back yet.”

“I might be willing to take my chances.” He raised his glass. “What do you say?”

C’mon, girl. Volume up.

I clinked my glass to his bottle. “I have just one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Can we promise to stay away from real-life details like work and last names?” I sounded like an unhinged person, but I couldn’t abandon years of protecting myself, and I knew a stranger having your personal information could go bad quickly.

His full lips stretched into an amused smile. It was hard to tell the exact color of his eyes in this light. They were pale, maybe blue or green, but completely mesmerizing. “Sure . . . just Jake and Michelle. Like Sonny and Cher.”

His next question caught me off guard. “What is your favorite snack?”

“Like, to eat?” I took another sip and realized I was beyond tipsy.

His eyes narrowed. “What would ‘snack’ be slang for?” He held up his palm before continuing. “Wait, don’t answer. Nothing appropriate comes to mind.”

The drinks left me a little out of my head, and I thought back to the list. Flirt. “Sometimes appropriate is overrated.” I averted my gaze, but a quick glance back at him showed a surprised expression on his face.

“Good to know,” he said into his bottle with a smile before tipping it to his lips.

“I like ice cream,” I said quickly, to hide my embarrassment.

“I like ice cream, too.” Jake signaled toward the bartender to close out his tab. “We could stay here or track down some ice cream?” He pulled his phone out and tapped a search for a nearby location. “There’s a shop not far from here.”

I weighed out the safety of going with a stranger, but the area was well lit and packed with people. I have pepper spray if I need it. I’d been considering joining Felicia for her kickboxing class. I always felt vulnerable when I was out alone, and I didn’t like that feeling.

Jake tucked his wallet into his back pocket, and I imagined being wrapped in his arms, feeling protected by his embrace. The thought was equal parts wonderful and scary.

“Let’s go.” The hem of my dress shifted across my thighs as I slid off the stool, and his eyes darted over my bare legs. I didn’t know why his gaze felt so intense, but it did.

One of the woo-hoo girls approached him and motioned to the bride-to-be, who was now across the room with lollipops taped to her shirt. “It’s my best friend’s bachelorette vacation—five days to go wild!” The woman squealed and flashed a toothy grin. She dressed like many of my students, skintight jeans and a cotton candy pink top that dipped so low, it revealed everything except her nipples. “Suck for a buck?” she asked in a sugary voice.

Jake frowned as she grabbed at his arm, pushing her breasts against him. I guessed she was easily fifteen years his junior, and he avoided staring down her low-cut shirt.

She motioned to her friend again. “Please? She’s shy, that’s why she’s not asking herself, but you’re so cute!”

He inched closer to me, creating distance between himself and the woo-hoo girl, and I took pity on him and stepped forward, edging her back. “Honey,” I said, lacing my fingers through his. They were surprisingly warm and curled with mine immediately, sending an unexpected rush through me. “We need to get going. You’ve got that appointment in the morning.”

The young woman seemed to notice me for the first time but didn’t release her grip.

Damn, that was bold.

“With the proctologist,” I added, hoping to prompt her to walk away.

She was like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar command.

“About your chronic hemorrhoids.”

The woman giggled. “Um, never mind!”

Jake stared at me, his expression hovering between shock and amusement. Finally, he laughed, leading me toward the exit as the pink envoy scurried back to her coven of bachelorettes. “You couldn’t have said it was an appointment to have my Ferrari detailed or something?” He was still holding my hand as we walked through the door, and the giggles dissipated as we shifted into the warm night air.

“I’m not sure she knew what ‘proctologist’ meant.”

Storefronts and restaurants lined the streets, and white twinkle lights were strung along wrought iron gates surrounding a patio.

“But, hemorrhoids?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of a beautiful woman talking about the state of my . . . backside.”

Beautiful?

“Do you want me to run back in and set the record straight?” I turned to the bar, our hands falling apart.