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I scan the room again, nursing my drink. I don’t have any desire to be drunk right now—not while I’m still drunk on that kiss. While Anastasia goes on about something, I stop listening, only really catching snippets like “swear he was flirting” and “find out for me?” that make me start to question whether I should have come to this party. Normally I love it, but normally I party a little harder. Maybe I should try to convince Jessie to meet me at a different party . . .
I glance at my phone. I’ve been here ten minutes, and I already want to leave.
I sigh, finally looking up from my drink, and there he is. Talking with a small group of people, clutching a red Solo cup as if his life depends on it. Ian looks about as comfortable as any introvert does at a party. My arms ache with the desire to hug him, and I tell myself it’s because I just want rescuing from this conversation with Anastasia.
Our kiss flashes through my mind. His hips against mine, the hunger in his hands, the way my heart raced in my chest. A shiver runs down my spine.
I don’t know if he feels my eyes on him, but he looks around, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel a little bit like throwing up. Something in my stomach flies up to my throat, and I swallow to try to get around the lump that’s formed.
He holds up a hand to wave at me, and I let him see me smirk before giving my attention back to Anastasia, who’s still talking.
“Anyway, I hope you’re not mad,” she says.
“No, of course not,” I say, as cool as a cucumber cooking in a skillet.
“Ladies,” Ian says, approaching me and Anastasia.
“Oh my god, hey, Ian!” Anastasia throws her arms around him in a hug.
His face reads something like “What the fuck?”
“So great to see you here,” she says.
“Yeah, I’ve never been. Thought I’d check it out since it’s my senior year.”
“Oh, this party is the best. One year, I?—”
“ANASTASIA,” a girl yells from the living room.
Anastasia whips her head in the girl’s direction. Her face transforms into pure joy, and she excuses herself and runs off.
“Saved by a screaming woman,” I say. “What’s your drink of choice?” I gesture to his cup.
“A Negroni,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, surprised on multiple levels.
“No. I was making a reference.”
“I know the reference, but I’m a little surprised you do too, Mr. No Social Media.”
“I don’t totally live under a rock,” he says. “I don’t really have a favorite drink. How about you make me something that won’t send me into convulsions?” He stares into his drink.
I take his cup from him and sniff. “Rum and coke?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Someone else made it for me.”
“That’s a good way to get roofied.”
“Oh no. Do you think Jordan Belford drugged me?” His voice drips with sarcastic fear.
Jordan Belford is a musical theater major. A junior, if I remember correctly.
“Yes, definitely,” I say, returning the attitude.
I pour a fresh drink for Ian and hold up the drink I’m still nursing. “To building chemistry,” I say, and tap my red Solo cup against his.
His smirk cues a familiar tugging sensation in my lower belly.
