I grab a couple shrimp off a tower, gather some crackers in a napkin, and leave the restaurant area.
The wind is warm and the air smells like salt. I’m about to step down the stone steps toward the lounge chairs on the sundeck. The cliffside restaurant straddles a sunbathing area where people can swim in the coves.
Just as I take that step, movement catches my eye in the parking lot to my right. All I can see is the back of a tall guy, sleeves rolled up his arms to reveal sculpted, muscular biceps, and his dark hair blows with a seaside gust.
Like every guest, he’s in all-white. The dress code.
That belt is mine.
Lent him that for the ceremony.
I waver for a second.
Fuck it.
I tip the flute back to my lips, and cold champagne slides down my throat, emptying the glass. Slowly, I close the distance between me and the most gorgeous guy at this reception.
Jack Highland is often behind a camera; yet, he looks like he could model for a cologne ad.
It doesn’t help that he’s bent over the back of a hatchback. Car trunk lifted up while he fiddles with his camera. Ass in perfect view. His athletic build screams jock bro. But I wish I knew him better to discern what kind he actually is.
I tend to steer clear of chest-thumping frat bros. But I like a good sports-loving jock. Let’s go to a Phillies game. Share a pack of peanuts and complain about the Mets.
My shoes pad along the parking lot as I approach him. His skin is a mixture of light brown and red-gold hues and looks more sun-kissed in the setting light. He’s Filipino-American and biracial: Dad is white, Mom is Filipina.
As I near, he turns his head, and his long lashes lift.
“Hey,” he says with a smile and a genial nod of his chin. His eyes hold mine for a beat longer. A beat that makes me question every fucking thing. It doesn’t help that he does that thing that most people do when they’re checking me out.
The up-down, imperceptible motion. A one-two movement with his eyes. Up-down. Two seconds flat. Barely noticeable.
Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
But those two seconds tangle the axons in my brain. Twisting. Pulling. Tying them into a confused knot. So far as I know, he’s straight, but sexuality is a fluid thing. He could be questioning, right?
I just don’t know for sure.
The parking lot is quiet. No one else here.
I return the nod. “You hiding out, Highland?” I ask him casually, despite the fact that nerves ratchet up. I don’t need my Yale degree in Kinesiology to tell me why my heart starts racing or my palms get clammy.
I have a crush on him.
A stupid. Silly. Dumbass crush.
I’m the one who nearly choked on my food when Maximoff used that word. Back at his sister’s first Rainbow Brigade outing, he asked me about Jack, “You have a crush on him?”
I laughed.
Crush.
I thought crushes were for twelve-year-olds. But I’ve never been this nervous around someone I like. Is there something different about Jack from all the other women and men I’ve dated? Or is it just because I know this could be unrequited?
He’s probably not even attracted to men.
But the way he’s looking at me…
I toss a cracker in my mouth and stand my ground. Not running away from a crush, that’s for sure.
Jack twists off a lens to the Canon camera. “Just need to switch these out,” he says and then a smile inches across his lips. “Why would you think I’m hiding out?”
“It’s a wedding,” I say into a shrug. “Sometimes being single at these events royally sucks. I wouldn’t blame you, if you needed a minute or two alone.”
His eyes hold mine again. He’s got this way of staring at you like he knows you. Understands you. And I’m not a fucking idiot. A part of that is just his charm, embedded into his DNA. It’s what makes him so good at his job. As an executive producer of We Are Calloway, he’s able to pull out real emotion from the famous ones.
Still looking at me, he wraps the strap of his Canon around his neck and shuts the trunk with a hand. “It’s not so bad,” he tells me. His smile grows. “You’re keeping me company, right?”
He’s flirting.
He’s definitely flirting.
Someone should just pop out behind the bushes with a huge ass sign that says yes.
“Is that what I’m doing?” I say, playing