Page 3 of One Big Little Secret

“Hang on, I don’t know about that. I don’t know if I want to mess around like—”

Too late.

Kayla squeals as the tall tequila shots land in front of us with the usual salt and lime.

I knock mine back, trying not to grimace as a fireball goes down my throat.

“Remember Christmas?” she asks, reminding me of the last time we hung out. Although that’s a pretty strong exaggeration for ‘existing at the same party.’

Just like now, Kayla was completely smashed.

I was barely any better, and at the end of the evening, we wound up sitting together and ranking the guys in the room while I tried not to barf. Until I joked too much and Kayla threw up her drinks all over my shoes while she was laughing.

“C’mon. What’s the score tonight? Just look at that stallion stable. Every dude here is hotandrich.” She glances at the bartender again, biting her bottom lip.

Sigh.

“The guy by the door, he’s pretty cute,” I say. “I give him a seven.”

“Security guy? Lemmy, he must be likeforty.Do better.” Kayla doesn’t even spare him a glance. “What about him? Over there by the roulette table?”

She whistles obnoxiously.

The guy she nods at stands alone, this tall, dark silhouette who becomes the center of attention purely by existing.

Okay, yes.

He’s hot, in a forbidden kind of way—the kind of sexy you see in moody ads for expensive colognes and watches. Those ads are always photoshopped, I think.

Only, unless he’s a figment of my imagination, there are no edits happening here, not in the flesh. Just Hercules in a white button-down shirt, curled open a little at the neck, looking good enough to eat.

“Him? Jeez, Kay, he’s a solid twelve out of ten.”

She giggles and elbows me in the side. “You gotta go for it now. Don’t make me drag you over.”

My heart almost stops.

“Um, right. How many drinks have you had?” I ask her. “Remember that time in high school when you told me to ask the quarterback to prom?”

“And he made ahuge-assmistake by turning you down,” she says, waving a server down for another drink.

“He didn’t just ‘turn me down.’ He humiliated me in front of half our class. Then he asked you out for putting me up to such a dumb prank.”

“Yeah, well…” She looks me up and down, wrinkling her nose. “You’re prettier now, right? That dress, you’re rocking it tonight.”

I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.

You never can tell with Kayla.

Like any young Missouri woman from an affluent family, she’s skilled in the art of insulting you with a sunny smile on her face.

But this doesn’tsoundlike an insult.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “But I don’t think I’m enough for that guy.”

Smiling, she jabs her fingers in her ears. “Nope, not hearing it! Stop putting yourself down. You could get whoever you wanted if you just smiled more, Lemmy. And if you dressed aggressively, like now.”

“You dressed me,” I remind her.

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