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Finally, finally, she spoke. “Happy birthday to me, I guess.”
Her voice hit my eardrums, and I froze, my chest icing over immediately.
No.
There was no fucking way.
Moving slower than I ever thought possible, I turned my face toward hers, eyes taking in the sex-bomb hair and the gloss of heavy makeup, the likes of which I’dneverseen on my best friend’s little sister.
“Poppy,” I said evenly even though that wild, fierce energy now screamed at me to run the fuck away. Jaw tight, I let my gaze track over her face. “When did you get here?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. We came in through the back,” she answered. “I knew Cameron was here somewhere, but he didn’t say you were coming too.”
And she smiled up at me, bright and happy and so fucking earnest that I wanted to scream. I knew why she was here, so I didn’t even have to ask. It was her twenty-first birthday, something I’d heard about all week at work.
From my best friend Cameron.
Who was herbrother.
I wanted to punch myself in the fucking nuts for ever walking up to this bar. Gritting my teeth, I stared down at her, keeping my facial expression even.
She picked up the mint green shot and knocked it back, licking at her bottom lip when she set the shot glass back down on the bar with a decisive clack. I kept my eyes firmly on hers and nowhere near her mouth or that tiny flash of her tongue.
“Yum. Thank you,” she said.
I grunted, backing away from where she stood. “Your brother’s back there,” I said, tilting my head in the direction of our table.
Poppy picked up the other drink and took a sip from the straw, her big, dark eyes locked on my face in a way that had my heart thudding uncomfortably.
Leave.
Leave now, something screamed in my head. Probably my conscience, currently working overtime trying to get me the fuck out of that mess.
The last person in the entire fucking world I should buy drinks for was Poppy Wilder.
Because she was too young. Too pretty. And too … in love with me.
Had been for years. Every time I walked in the room, from the day she turned fifteen, that girl looked at me like I hung the fucking moon.
I swallowed. Hard. Then gripped the reins of my sanity and let out a deep exhale.
“Happy birthday, Poppy,” I told her, giving one last glimpse at the front of her fucking dress that got us into this mess.
Where were her jeans? Her T-shirt and tennis shoes? The ponytail?
The Poppy I knew didn’t wear skintight dresses and have sex-messy hair and look like a motherfucking model.
The image of her legs and ass would be burned into my brain for a solid month, and God, there was no escaping the truth of that.
As I walked back to the table, I could feel it. The need to run. The need to clear my head of anything unwanted.
And a lot of unwanted thoughts were running wild at the moment. About perfect tits and long legs. Pink lips and soft tongues. The crack of a whip in my mind had me corralling those baser instincts.
All the things I actively avoided? The forevers and the I love yous and the open-heart search for something lasting. Those were all the things Poppy wanted. Which is why it didn’t matter what was under that dress or how good she looked or how she turned my stomach into knots with a single look.
Cameron was typing on his phone when I got back, and he gave me a nod. “My sisters are in the back,” he said.
“Yeah, I know,” I answered grimly. “Thanks for telling me that’s why we came here, by the way.”
