Page 52 of All Signs Point to Malibu

This is a bad idea. Neither of us should be playing this weird game of attraction. We’ve never gotten along. We don’t even like one another most days.

I do like her ass though. The image of her sexy curves in cut-off denim shorts—tight ass and shapely hips—will be etched in my brain for a while.

And I know that second lean over the bar was for my benefit. I caught her catching me in the mirror the first time, so what exactly is she playing at?

The Hailey from a few weeks ago would have slapped me or delivered a lengthy lecture for checking her out...this Hailey was inviting the attention.

Then, standing near our vehicles, the look on her face was pure desire. We’d both been reluctant to part ways, and a smart man would have made up an excuse for this afternoon.

I’m readily a fool.

Hailey’s blond hair blows in all directions and she raises her sunglasses up over the strands to hold them back. It looks silky soft and I’d like to feel it against my skin. See it splayed out against a pillowcase.

She hits the brakes last minute at a set of lights and I hurry to do the same.

Shit. That was close.

My cell phone chimes in the console and, glancing down, I see a text from “Kelly” on the screen. I pick it up and a quick read reveals she’s interested in meeting up, which with Kelly always translates into a booty call anytime of day. She’s a teacher. Supersmart, superfun, supersexy and we have a good time together. No strings attached fun.

This invite is my out.

My body is definitely in the mood. My mind tells me it’s a good idea.

I glance up and my gaze meets Hailey’s in her rearview mirror. The same hint of desire from the parking lot reflects in her eyes.

My mouth goes dry and my hands sweat against the steering wheel.

Blow her off and go hang with Kelly? That would be the logical, safest thing to do before things get more complicated...

I reply to the text quickly:

Sorry Kelly, tied up right now.

Obviously logical and safest aren’t doing shit to convince me to avoid the mess that is Hailey Harris.

A jug of fresh-squeezed lemonade collects condensation as the heat of the day reaches its peak. Warren suggested we sit outside and I agreed, but now sweat pools on regions of my body I hadn’t known sweat could pool.

I still can’t believe he agreed to this. I expected him to bail once we got in our vehicles.

“So, playlist.” Best to get to it and avoid making a fool of myself by suggesting other options for this afternoon. I reach for my cell phone and scroll through my music. “I’m thinking classical remakes of love songs.” I hit Play on a slowed-down version of Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space.”

Warren pretends to drift off, snore, and fall off his chair.

I stop the music and shoot him a look. “Okay, well, what do you propose?” Of course it’s just a formality. He’s not getting to decide on the music.

He moves closer and takes my cell phone. His arm brushes against mine and I expect him to move away, but he doesn’t.

My gaze lingers on his forearm as I keep my arm next to his on the table. We’re both sweaty and contact makes our skin slick, but neither of us seems bothered.

At least not in a bad way.

What is he doing? What’s with checking me out and this intentional breaking of the touch barrier?

And now that his cologne is mixed with a mild hint of sweat, holding my breath is probably the only way I’m going to make it through this afternoon without insisting he leave his T-shirt behind when he goes.

On my phone, he opens a music site and a second later, a loud hard rock song plays. He closes his eyes, bites his bottom lip and starts to air drum to the beat.

All actions that should totally kill any attraction to him and yet...

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