Page 62 of Jett

“Was it the stringy, pink one? Or the army regulation one?”

My mouth opens but words fail me. I wish I hadn't had so many cocktails because I feel floaty and light-headed, like this is a dream and not real. “Why do you care?”

“I need to know.”

“Need?” The cocktails have given me a little courage. His need to know feels dangerously flirtatious.

He takes a swig from his whiskey tumbler.

“How much have you had to drink?” I ask.

“Not enough.” He drains his glass, his gaze heavy on mine. “Why not stay out all night?”

“Because I wasn’t having that great of a time,” I admit, my voice quieter now. I don’t know why I’m being so honest.

He tilts his head, watching me carefully. “You weren’t?”

“No.” I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, though the tension between us feels like it’s growing by the second.

He looks me up and down again, his eyes lingering on my shoulder, then sliding lower. “You look beautiful.” His voice is almost a murmur, and I don’t think I heard him right. Heat flushes through me and I nibble on my lower lip, unsure how to respond.

“Thanks.”

“I like your hair up.” It’s strange how his tone is so casual, and his gaze is so intense.

I reach up, touching my hair self-consciously. I didn’t do the tidy updo I usually wear at work, but something looser, more tousled and with wisps falling along the sides. “It’s so hot here. I didn’t want it sticking to my neck.”

“Let it down.”

I blink. “What?”

“Your hair. Let it down.” He's never spoken to me like this before. There’s a wildness about him. He’s not as smooth and as polished as he usually is. The slick Armani veneer has gone. In his loungewear, with the fabric hugging his body like a second skin, he seems bigger, built, and I can’t stop myself from checking him out.

Without thinking, I reach up and do as he says, pulling the clip from my hair and letting it fall loose around my shoulders. His gaze rakes over me, making my heart race as I feel the heat of his gaze.

Am I dreaming?

It’s like he’s looking at me differently—as if he sees every part of me. He's saying all the right things. He's talking to me as if we are at the same level. As if he wants me. My heart races, the atmosphere between us electric.

Every nerve in my body is alive.

I wish I hadn't had so many cocktails. I don't know if this is really happening or if I'm imagining it.

“You didn’t answer my question about the bikini.”

“I didn’t go into the pool. I didn’t want to. I just wore this.” I wave a hand at my dress.

“Was that for him?” He tilts his chin towards me. There’s a roughness in his voice which jolts me.

“What?” I’m confused, trying to keep up.

“The dress,” he clarifies. “Did you wear it for him?”

“Why so many questions?” And when he gives me a pointed look, “No,” I say quickly, shaking my head.

“Good,” he mutters, before taking another sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving mine. “You shouldn’t waste your time on boys like him.”

My insides turn into a fireball. I run through the words again, second guessing what I heard. “You think I should find someone ancient instead?” I joke. A couple of times, when he’s riled my temper, I’ve made pointed remarks about his age. But he doesn’t appear to have heard. He gets up and walks over to me, and now I smell the whiskey on him.

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