Page 100 of Lotus

He flashes me a knowing smirk. “Let me guess. Your heart is sitting two stools to the left on his third Strawberry Daiquiri, looking like he’s working up the courage to ask you to Prom.”

I blush through a slow blink. “You are freakishly observant.”

“Told you I’m good at reading the room.” Brant crosses his arms, a grin lifting as he deliberates his next move. It doesn’t take long for him to add, “Get out of here, Syd. The heart is waiting.”

“What?” I’m puzzled by his order, my brows pulling together. “I’m scheduled until eleven.”

“You’re scheduled until now. I rank you.”

Not that I’m complaining, but, “What grounds?”

“Seniority. Also, I make a way better Long Island than you.”

Mock horror. “Heinous lies.”

“Go,” he grins, giving my shoulder a friendly punch. “It’s dead tonight, anyway. Rebecca and I are more than capable.”

Reaching out to squeeze his forearm, I mouth ‘thank you’ as I back away, eyes shining bright with glimmering gratitude. Spinning around, my heart climbing its way into my throat and setting up shop, I discover Oliver slurping the last few sips of his Daiquiri through the straw.

He’s so cute.

“Hey, handsome. I have good news,” I say, leaning forward on folded arms, not missing the way his gaze hovers on the peaks of my breasts before trailing upward.

Slowly. Very slowly.

“You think I’m handsome?” he beams.

His goofy grin and sluggish stare carry me to one conclusion: he’s buzzed.

So goddamn cute.

“I do,” I tell him, unable to scrub the flirtatious inflection from my tone. “Very handsome. You’re also sweet, generous, smart, loyal, and brave, amongst a thousand other things.”

“I’m quite good atBoggle.”

A laugh clears my lips, mixed with an unfeminine snort, and my arms take the brunt of my forehead. When I raise my head, Oliver is dimpled and doe-eyed. I look around for his Cupid’s arrow, but I can’t seem to find it—it’s probably already lodged inside my heart. “You’re also good at sucking down alcohol-infused strawberry slush.”

“It’s delicious, and I enjoyed the fruit salad garnish quite a bit,” he tells me, slouching forward ever so slightly, our noses almost touching across the counter. “You have an impressive knack for food art, Sydney Neville.”

“Shit. I found my calling.”

“I would certainly support that creative endeavor.”

Four inches. Four inches is all it would take to feel his lips on mine.

I shake the thought away. “So, my good news is that I’m off the clock. Brant sent me home early.”

“You can depart?”

“I can depart.” Standing up straight, I grab my purse from beneath the bar and sling it over my shoulder. I’m around the counter in no time, waving my goodbyes to Brant and Rebecca and reaching for Oliver’s hand. “Ready?”

A mischievous sparkle inhabits his eyes. “One thing, first,” he drawls, taking my outstretched palm in his and pulling me in the opposite direction. “A dance.”

“Oliver, no, that’s the rum talking.” A comical squeal erupts from my lips as he ignores my protests and drags me onto the floor, which is bathed in strobe lights and writhing bodies. “You’ve seen me dance, right? It’s not okay.”

“And you’ve certainly seen my two left feet. We can look foolish together,” he says, his smile never leaving, only growing.

Gabe sidles up beside us, glazed in sweat, Tabitha pressed against him with heated cheeks, both of them wrapped up in each other and drunk on pure happiness. “Fuck yeah, Oliver,” he calls over, cupping his hands around his mouth and giving us a whoop. He pumps his fist into the air, then follows it up with a whistle, garnering the attention of fellow patrons.

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