Page 51 of Hot Shot

The atmosphere is lively and enjoyable, Beck and Hayden are beaming, and I set my plate on the bar and pick up my burger. “Things are going well.”

Carrie nods, standing beside me. “Yes. We did good.”

I glance at her and can’t stop my gaze from going to the cleavage revealed in the low scooped neckline of her dress. I stop chewing my burger, completely distracted by the smooth curves.

“Stop staring at my boobs.”

My gaze shoots up to her face.

She lifts her eyebrows.

“I want you,” I say baldly.

Her eyes darken and her lips part. “Well. That’s honest.”

“Fuck.” I close my eyes, still clutching my burger in both hands. “You have to know that. You have to know I’ve always wanted you.”

She blinks. Sinks her teeth briefly into her bottom lip. The lip I want to suck on, lick, and bite. “No,” she whispers. “I thought you were making fun of me.”

“What?” I stare at her. “Why would I do that?”

She drops her gaze to the hamburger she holds and sets it down on her plate. She picks up a paper napkin to wipe her fingers. “Because people always have.”

I scowl. “What? You can’t be serious.”

She does a little eye roll and lifts one shoulder, reaching for her beer. “Okay, not so much anymore. But when I was younger . . . yeah. All the time. Ask Hayden. That’s why we’re BFFs. We were the two weirdos at Soledad High School.”

Weirdo? Christ. But she’s serious. People made fun of a beautiful, smart, warm woman like her? She’s a fucking goddess—gorgeous, untouchable, out of my league.

I can see the old hurt in her eyes, though, and recognize it. I’ve felt that way myself. Not that people made fun of me. They just never cared about me. Or they ditched me.

I look over at Beck, a little ashamed of the fact that I’ve felt abandoned by him lately. My friend is in love with a great woman; he’s happy, probably the happiest he’d ever been in his privileged life. And I’m happy for him. Beck deserves it.

I turn back to Carrie. “I was never making fun of you. I flirted with you because I was hot for you.”

“We hated each other.”

“Okay, maybe your rejection stung a little. But I never hated you.”

She regards me for a long moment, a troubled furrow between her eyebrows. Finally she says, “I kind of don’t really hate you either.”

“You tolerate me.”

She scrunches her face up at my reminder of her words. “Gah.”

“Wait.” I lower my voice. “Do you maybe . . . like me?”

She smiles. “Maybe.”

A hot, soft feeling explodes in my chest.

Our eyes still locked on each other, awareness of the crowd in the bar fades away, the music and chatter grow faint, and I want to reach out and touch her. Except I’m still holding the goddamn hamburger. I look down at it blankly.

“Eat,” Carrie murmurs.

“This isn’t what I want to eat.”

Her cheeks go scarlet.

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