Page 38 of The Invitation
Weird.
“Great,” she says. “I’ll be back with your drinks.”
“Thanks, Vanessa.”
She smiles at my use of her name, a personal touch that always goes a long way with people, and heads toward the bar.
My stomach churns with anticipation as I flip my attention to the front of the building. On cue, as if she were poised outside the door waiting for me to look, Georgia steps into the bar. Her eyes find mine almost immediately.
Every man in the establishment’s eyes finds her.
My God.
She moves through the room as if she’s walking on air. Her hips, wrapped in light denim jeans with strategic holes in the knees, sway sexily with each step. Her shoulders are bare thanks to a corset-style top that highlights the tops of her round tits. The ridge of her shoulder is soft and smooth. If I didn’t know she was a nightmare, I’d make it my mission to get her number.
Get your head together, Brewer.
I clear my throat as she approaches, breathing in her trademark vanilla scent moments before she slides into the booth across from me. Her tits jiggle as she gets situated. Now that I know what they look like without a shirt, it’s hard not to stare.
“Perfect timing,” Vanessa says, placing two drinks on the table.
Georgia looks at me, confused.
“Do you two need anything else?” Vanessa asks.
“No, I’m good,” I say. “Would you like anything else, Georgia?”
She shakes her head, a loose tendril from the pile of hair on top of her head dusting her shoulder.
“Great. I’ll check on you two later,” Vanessa says before scooting away.
Georgia sets her purse on the bench beside her. “I see you ordered for me.”
“I figured a martini was safe.”
“What makes you say that?”
I pull my whiskey toward me. “Well, you had several of them the other night when we were here, so I figured it was safe to say you liked them.”And I finished yours that night just to piss you off.
“Oh.” She brushes the errant tendril out of her face. “That’s fair, I guess.”
“Did you think I just threw a dart at the menu and got lucky?”
“If anyone could do that, it would be you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
She takes a drink, watching me over the rim of her glass. Her lashes are long and thick, and her skin sparkles under the light hanging above us.
All she’s missing are the wings.
“So ground rules,” she says, placing her drink on a napkin. “Let’s get this over with.”
I shift in my seat. “Tate pointed out that we might find ourselves in precarious situations that would make sense for people actually dating but would be more than awkward for us.”
“Yeah, that thought has crossed my mind, too.”
She holds my gaze long enough to make me question which thought she’s referring to, exactly. But I don’t ask. It doesn’t matter.
