Page 22 of Champagne Fizz

The fact that I even own a dress that shows off my arms proves I’m a masochist.

I should’ve brought a sweater tonight, or a blazer, or a straightjacket. Of course, this tiki bar is humid as fuzz, and wearing a sweater would be the equivalent of screaming I’m that crazy person who thinks winter is coming, but it probably would be better than having to explain to Simon why I’m sweating like an animal in heat.

I tell myself this dress is the perfect attire for the Gin n’ Lava. It’s comfortable and breezy. It’s cute: cute as in I’m-that-obnoxious-girl-with-a-pun-in-her-business-name, not sexy-cute as in I-want-you-to-pluck-these-tiny-straps-off-my-shoulder-and—

I cross my legs and consider standing Simon up. I know better. Ireallyknow better. Especially considering how capital-H Hot Simon is.

Orgasms are easy. But connection? Not so much.

I think my brain has turned to scrambled eggs from how often I’ve denied my body real human touch.Realconnection. I can’t blame my brain (or my body) for wanting that. But it’s easier, and less embarrassing, to avoid it, despite every molecule in my body saying the opposite.

“I see we’ve chosen the rainbow,” a male voice says, and I turn to see Simon brushing a finger against the strap of my dress. The second his hand touches my skin, goosebumps erupt across my limbs like butterflies swarming.

Fuuuuzz!

That’s one finger!

Simon’s hand drops away as casually as it wafted over me, and he takes his seat, nodding to my dress. The dress that beckonedplease touch my skin, oh gorgeous one,and he couldn’t help himself. Only, now I’m buzzing like someone left my electric toothbrush turned on between my legs.

Get a grip, Kendall! He’s a normal human male. Yes, your condition makes your horny, but it doesn’t mean you have to act like a skin-hungry lunatic.

I smile softly, trying to seem unfazed, noticing that Simon looks casual and perfect, wearing the same button-up shirt and slacks from earlier, which makes me realize I really shouldn’t have changed.

Changing my clothes makes me look obvious. Or desperate. Or both.

Only, Simon’s eyes trace down my body like I’m a rare book his inner-librarian is eager to get his hands on, and my stomach flip-flops. Half of me regrets wearing this dress, but the other half is hula dancing like tonight’s the last night on Earth.

“This dress has only three hues,” I correct, turning to face him on the stool. “If you want a rainbow, then you need several more colors to get the full spectrum.”

“Of course,” he agrees, that amused smile greeting me. “I stand corrected.”

“Sit corrected.” I nod to the stool. It’s a stupid joke, but the hitch in his grin makes me feel less like a dork.

“I sit corrected,” Simon echoes, before pointing to the menu above the bar. It’s filled with colorful chalkboard drawings of tiki drinks, each with a crazy name like The Aloha Asshole or The Zombie Slut.

“Interesting names,” I mutter, remembering that he thought this place fit my vibe. “Clearly you don’t know me if this is what you think constitutesmykind of place.”

“The neon décor …” Simon points to the luau lanterns and pockets of color. “You can minced oath the drink names if you want, but I can’t guarantee Mason will know what a Zombie Sweetheart is if you order one.”

“Minced oath, huh?” I raise an eyebrow at him, impressed. “You listened.”

“I always listen,” Simon says, turning up the charm, which would annoy me if it wasn’t so damn adorable. “Have you met Mason yet?”

Simon points across the bar to the man serving drinks. He has short spiky hair and a wiry look, but it’s the bright yellow Hawaiian shirt that catches my attention.

I cringe. “Are you suggesting I know the bartender because he’s wearing yellow?” I frown. “Seeing that your entire impression of me is built around one yellow suit—that I refuse to regret wearing.”

“One suit and one dress,” Simon corrects, his eyes flicking across my body and stopping at my mouth. My neck starts to burn with the inappropriate questions firing through my mind.Why’s he looking at my mouth like that? What does he want to do with my mouth?“Yes,” Simon continues, “you both like bright colors, but I think the comparison stops there. Especially when you see what’sonthat Hawaiian shirt Mason’s wearing. It might make the drink names make a little more sense.”

I narrow my eyes at Mason and try to make out Simon’s meaning, but from here it just looks like he’s wearing a normal Hawaiian shirt covered in tropical flowers.

“Flowers? Fruit?” I glance back at Simon in question.

He shrugs noncommittally. “Just wait.”

“And I should care about the bartender because … ?”

Simon laughs like I’m in over my head. “That’s Ned’s best friend,” he explains. “Your groom—”

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