Page 52 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

“So? I don’t. You could have at least directed him toward Paige or me before you assaulted his beautiful face. Did you see those dimples?”

“Oh, I saw them,” Paige says with a sigh. “And the eyes.”

“And the jaw,” Georgia says dreamily.

“And the tan skin. His chest looked rock hard.” Paige stares off into the sea of dancing bodies, as if she’s dying to get another look at him.

“And his ass. Did you see his ass, Paige?” Georgia says with a slight shriek.

I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” I say with a laugh.

“You clearly weren’t,” Georgia agrees.

“I was just trying to be a good girlfriend.”

“You accomplished that. But you weren’t a good wingwoman. Not. At. All,” Georgia complains with a roll of her eyes.

“You know what they say, London.Curiosity killed the cat.” Paige shrugs.

“No, it didn’t,” I deadpan.

“You put us between a rock and a hard place?” Paige questions, her eyebrow quirking up.

“No.” I shake my head, straight-faced.

“How about, you could’ve killed two birds with one stone?” Georgia chimes in.

“Yes,” I point toward Georgia while addressing Paige, “that’s the one. That saying makes actual sense.”

“I suppose,” Paige says with a shrug of her shoulders.

“So, we’re agreed. If that happens again, then you will very politely shut him down while effectively directing him our way?” Georgia asks.

“Yes, okay. I get it,” I say with an air of annoyance. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“Well, McHottie could have been buying us drinks as we speak,” Paige says under her breath in a resigned tone.

“Oh my God, let it go already! Plus, we can buy our own damn drinks.” I say before turning to beeline it to the bar.

I wish Loïc were here.

Loïc’s presence would solve all my problems. I wouldn’t have to smack guys, get in arguments with Paige and Georgia, or feel sad because I have no one to kiss at midnight.

After getting our cosmos, we stand in front of the bar and sip them.

“See that guy over there in the tight black T-shirt?” Georgia motions toward a group of guys standing to the right of the main dance floor.

“Which one?” I see that four out of the group of six are wearing black shirts.

“The one closest to us with the black hair,” she answers.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s the one I’m going to be kissing in”—she pulls her cell phone out of her wristlet and looks to the screen—“one hour and forty-four minutes.”

“Good choice,” Paige agrees.

“Who are you going after?” I ask Paige.

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