That ass better not looks as good as it did the other night.
“Sorry,” Brin says, looking at Wren and away from me. “Ash said a barbeque, and, well, I didn’t realize it was a dress-to-kill barbeque.”
Everyone snickers as Wren moves closer, shrugging. “You look good to me. We can take a walk later, and you can tell me all about your future plans to torment Rye.”
I glare at the traitor who only sniggers at my expense. Brin forces a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes. Now I feel like an ass because I realize she feels really uncomfortable.
In all actuality, shorts and a tank top do make sense for a barbeque.
“Care to help me find a drink?” Ingrid asks, tugging at my arm.
“They’re at the bar,” I say, motioning toward Tag’s big ass setup he has on his pool patio.
I should hang out at my beach home more often, but I love my suburb house during the off season. Even though it never really gets cold here, the wind at night this time of year is pretty chilly. All of these girls will be regretting their clothing soon.
Ingrid frowns as Wren offers Brin his arm. What is he? Eighty?
“Need a drink?” he asks her.
“A beer would be nice.”
She grins up at him, fooling him with that sweet smile that masks the devil’s wicked grin underneath. She could fool the CIA, but she can’t fool me.
“You know her?” Ingrid asks as she returns with a glass of some fruity concoction.
“Yeah,” I mutter vaguely, not enjoying the way Wren is resting his arm around her waist. He doesn’t know her well enough for that. He might pull back a nub if he accidentally crosses some arbitrary line the way I did.
I’m not sure he can handle her.
“You going to stare at the girl wearing shorts all night?” Ingrid asks, sounding a little annoyed.
I suppose I’d be offended if she was staring at a guy while on a date with me, but she’s taking this out of context.
“Would you rather I gave you all my attention?” I ask, giving her my most charming smile, which she quickly dissolves under.
Predictable.
Her grin splits her face as she takes a sexy-strutted step toward me and puts her hands on my chest, running her fingers down to the tops of my abs.
“Yes. I would,” she says, trying to sound as provocative as one can.
“Rye,” Tag calls, looking over his shoulder as he mans the bar in the absence of his bartender.
“Yeah,” I say, walking away from my ready-to-please date.
“Grab the salt, and come do shots with us. It’s in the kitchen. Top right cabinet.”
What am I? The fetch-it bitch?
“Sure,” I mumble, feeling a little distracted when a small, reserved giggle comes out of Brin.
That’s not her laugh. Her laugh is either maniacal or carefree. That’s the most forced laugh I’ve ever heard.
Why the fuck do I care?
Wren’s a good guy. She’ll be fine. It’s not my damn place to worry about whether or not she’s fine.
I make my way inside the house and roll my eyes. Tag’s directions suck. There are at least ten top right cabinets. Dick. It’s not like I’ve never been in his kitchen before, but I’ve never had any reason to dig through his damn cabinets.