Page 2 of The One I Need
Her fiery red hair is sleek and smooth, running down past her shoulders. The gold dress she’s wearing is fitted and catching every one of her mouthwatering curves. And a woman who drinks Jack and Coke? Now that’s my type.
And because I’m so drunk, I’m seeing two of her.
Double the pleasure, double the fun.
“Do you want to dance?”
She turns to look at me, and even in my drunkenness I can tell she doesn’t know if I was talking to her.
“Excuse me?”
I nod over to the dance floor. “I asked if you’d like to dance?”
“Do you always ask strangers to dance?”
“Only the beautiful ones.”
She rolls her eyes. “Now that’s a line if I’ve ever heard one.”
I shake my head. “Not a line.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, sorry,” she says as she takes her drink from the bartender. “I don’t dance.”
“What do you mean you don’t dance? Who doesn’t dance?”
“Me,” she says before taking a sip. “Sorry to ruin your night.”
She turns back to the bar, but I don’t let that stop me. I’m persistent, if nothing else. It’s part of my charm. At least I like to think so.
“I’m Oliver.”
I extend my hand to her, because that’s what drunk me feels like is the right thing to do at the moment. For a second I think she’s just going to walk away. She looks down at my hand and then back up to me. I’m about to pull it back and crack a joke to make it a little less awkward when her hand meets mine. I don’t know if it’s the booze or what, but I swear I think I was just electrocuted.
“Nice to meet you Oliver. I’m Izzy. How about another drink?”
Chapter2
Izzy
What the hellam I doing?
Why am I asking this guy if he wants a drink? Why am I still holding onto his hand? None of this makes sense.
Then again, I didn’t expect a tall, blond, god-like man with a voice that makes me tremble to be standing in front of me.
I had one rule for myself when I agreed to come to this wedding tonight—get in and get out as fast as possible. It’s nothing against the bride or groom. I love Whitley and Jake. They’ve been nothing but nice to me in the three or so years that I’ve known them. It’s just on general principle; I’m against weddings in all forms.
I had a plan. Show up. Say hello. Get just tipsy enough to tolerate the festivities but not drunk enough where I wouldn’t be able to drive myself back to my apartment in downtown Nashville. Leave during the first ballad of the night when no one would notice me exiting. Get some greasy fast food and a chocolate shake on the way home so I have snacks for when I watch some early seasons of Forensic Files.
It was going to be the perfect exit. That was until I realized that because of the venue being an old barn in the middle of a field, golf carts are taking guests back and forth to their cars, which are parked at the neighboring hotel. And the carts don’t start for another half hour.
I was mad about that. Now? Well, now it doesn’t seem so bad. Because if this guy keeps smiling at me with that adorable smirk, I’m not leaving for a very long time.
“Love to,” he says, letting go of my hand to signal the bartender. “And a round of shots.”
