"When's your next book coming out?" she gushes.
"I actually haven't started—"
"I can't believe you're really standing here. In front of me. I've got all your books. Can you sign them? I can have them back here in less than thirty minutes."
"Well, I actually—"
"Oh! And my friend Ember would want hers signed, too, if—"
"Look," I interrupt, barely keeping the irritation out of my voice. "I just wanted to come clear something up about my friend... Maverick."
Her mouth drops. "Maverick is seriously your friend?" Her tone is incredulous, and that just bothers me that much more.
"Of course he is. He has a rough exterior, but if you're lucky enough to see the real Mav, well, then it's something to behold."
I tell the story that always leaves the girls falling in Maverick's lap. Prom night. Leaving out the personal details, I explain what an incredible person it takes to give up your prom when your friend needs you. There's nothing Maverick can do that can't be redeemed by that story.
Tears bubble up in her eyes, her lip trembles, and she holds her hand over her mouth as she gasps at the end. Got her. Maverick owes me one for this. He owes me several.
"Is that true?" she asks in a hoarse whisper.
"Of course it is. Maverick sat on my floor all night—eating pizza, watching movies, and being there for me when I needed him."
She uses the damp drink napkin to dab the tears from her eyes as she looks up to Maverick, staring at him without that cold judgment she had earlier, and dissolving right in front of me. I almost feel like dusting my hands off. I'm just too damn giving.
"I... I'll talk to you later," she utters in a near whisper, her fan eyes gone as a dreamy haze settles over her. She doesn't even wait on me to respond before she walks in a trance-like state toward the devil in the booth. I just watch, putting my back to the bar and leaning against it, satisfied with my performance.
"You shouldn't be telling that story to help Maverick get laid," a velvety, familiar, and damn near heartbreaking voice says from behind me.
I swallow against the instant knot in my throat, doing all I can to stay vertical, but it's hard. Very hard. With a boundless amount of dread, I warily turn to face the man who has starred in all my fantasies since I was thirteen.
I was really hoping he would be at least a little bit less attractive—an ugly version would be perfect. I've avoided seeing pictures of him for years, and now I regret that. I would have been a little more prepared for the breathtaking man that certainly doesn't look like an eighteen-year-old boy anymore.
I thought he was gorgeous then. Now... Crap. His shoulders have broadened, his eyes are just as mystically green, and his shorter, sexier hair is messily tossed around his head to complete a bedroom-messy style I can't resist. This is bad. So very bad.
And those lips... hypnotically full and curved into a cheeky grin.
Stupid, sexy, arrogant... Okay, Rain. Take a deep breath and show him that you've grown up, too. Time to be a big girl.
"I didn't tell her the story to get him laid. I told the story because I meant it. He's a great guy. If you can get past the outer-coating."
My voice is so smooth that even I'm shocked. I mentally pat myself on the back for the feat.
Most people say hello after not seeing each other in six years. That would have been a simpler intro. I wish my life was simple.
His wry smile comes to rest over his perfectly chiseled face as he leans over the bar to slide a martini in front of me. Is Dane helping the bartender? Does he work here? Surely not.
The last I heard, he owns several resorts along the shore. He also owns the country club that everyone with even a little money goes to. He can't be mixing drinks. So why is he behind the bar? VIP rights, perhaps?
"Is that so?" he asks, seeming collectively calm and completely in control of this intense standoff.
This is weird. I haven't seen or spoken to him since we were teenagers. I can't possibly sit here and pretend as though having a conversation about anything is normal. I certainly don't feel like talking about Maverick.
"It's my story to tell, Dane," I mumble, ignoring how good and awful his name feels on my tongue.
His jaw clenches as though I've said something wrong. I can't imagine what, though.
"Dane!" a girl squeals, making me jump a little. I turn just in time to see bright red, large curls bouncing before arms are thrown around him. That's the escape I need.