Page 4 of Hook Up

Greer

Twelve Years Later…

“Want to dance?” Austin, my date for the evening, leans toward me, damn near bowling me over with his alcohol-infused breath. I hate when Austin drinks. When he drinks, he gets grabby.

Not a good look.

“I’m good.” I manage a smile, even as I plot various ways to kill him without the police catching on.

The last sentiment is a joke, although I suppose it is one perk of being a nurse practitioner. Not anadvertisedperk, mind you.

Under normal circumstances, Austin is personable and handsome. We met at work, and for the first month, it was fun, despite him being a complete flop between the sheets.

I figured I could teach him, show him the proverbial sexual ropes, so I kept dating him. But he kept sucking, and not in a good way. So, after a few months of less than stellar sex, we split up, opting to remain friends.

That’s the upside of breaking things off the right way. You don’t hate each other. If only my father had taken that lesson to heart, he might still be a part of my life. But he didn’t, and he isn’t. Water under the bridge at this point.

It’s maddening how most people don’t communicate, assuming the other understands what they’re thinking or feeling. I’ve spent the last decade studying the human condition and I guarantee one thing. Humans are clueless, particularly where emotions are concerned.

Throw theLword around and people lose every ounce of their common sense.

That’s why I never throw theLword around.

“Didn’t I tell you it would be a good party?” Austin sags against the wall, staring into his empty cup. I wonder if he thinks it might refill itself.

“It is a good party.” It’s not a lie. The guest list is a who’s who of young and elite Manhattanites—all beautiful, tailored and totally soused.

Too bad I don’t enjoy parties. I prefer small, intimate gatherings where I don’t have to pretend I can understand what anyone is saying over the din of noise.

I get enough excitement at work. In my downtime, I crave solace. Not that there’s any to be found here. Might as well get a drink. “I’ll be back.”

Austin waves his cup at me, but I fade into the crowd without acknowledging his request. The last thing the man needs is more alcohol. Shimmying up to the bar, I squeeze in, offering an apologetic smile to the man next to me. “A whiskey sour, please,” I request from the bartender, noting how the stranger to my right is staring at me.

Not a down-low, inconspicuous stare, either. He’s openly brazen about it.

What is his deal? It’s not like I stepped on his foot or spilled a drink down his shirt. Although, if he keeps leering at me, I might be tempted to do both. Simultaneously.

After another few seconds of his intense gaze, I realize I’m going to have to deal with this ass.

Nothing like starting the new year off with a drunken buffoon.

I pivot in his direction, my hand planted on my hip. “See something you like? Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” I turn back to the bar, wishing like hell the bartender would hurry.

“Glad to see the sauciness is still there, Gigi.”

Whirling around, I lock gazes with the stranger, realizing he isn’t a stranger at all.

I haven’t seen him since he was ten. Not in person, anyway, although it’s impossible to miss the photos of him circling social media. He’s quickly becoming the next big thing in the world of racing, and as my gaze drifts across his wide shoulders, chiseled jaw, and piercing blue eyes, I realize he’s a big deal inmanyways.

“Ryder Gray.”

A smile breaks across his face and the dimple that was adorable when he was a kid is pure sex on a stick now. Leaning in, he presses his lips to my cheek, pausing to whisper in my ear. “It’s been a long time.”

Ignoring the sparks lighting up all over my body, I accept the drink from the bartender, taking a greedy sip. Time to regain my balance. “The last time I saw you—”

“I was a kid.” He glides his fingers over his jaw, his eyes roving the length of my body. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

That’s putting it mildly.

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