I’m in shock. Or maybe it’s a random combination of things I don’t remember ever feeling that I never want to feel again.
“Now.” She turns me toward the bar. “Go check out that delicious piece of ass behind the bar, and I dare you to tell me you don’t feel it between your legs when he says hello.”
I blush a little, even though I should be used to Kay-Kay ’s lack of filter.
I step up to the worn wooden bar and stop before sitting down.
“Hello?” Thick Irish accent. Dark brown eyes stare past me, or into me, or at me in a way that, yes… I feel pretty deeply. Deep enough that I cross my legs when I hop on the stool .
A curl of his brown hair hangs over his forehead, and I wonder what it would feel like to run my hands through a guy’s hair who actually had more than a business man’s tidy haircut. This is so not like me.
Tattoos line his arms to his hands, and now I’m staring at his lip ring. There’s a part of me that’s fascinated by it. What would it feel like to kiss?
“Can I get you something?” His eyes are still very intently on me, so much that I scoot back slightly.
Oh, shoot. He’s been waiting for me. It’s just that his delicious accent, and rockstar hotness is muddling my brain. “Can I get a sprite with some grenadine?”
His brows go up along with a corner of his mouth. Intensity gone.
They really need to start hiring geeks here because I can’t think straight with someone this hot looking over the counter at me.
“Sprite with cherry flavor?”
“Yes.” I’m an idiot, and really not in the mood for the run-around I so often get because I like a little kids’ drink. Not everybody drink , drinks. I used to tell everyone that Sarah Jessica Parker doesn’t drink, but no one knows who she is anymore, so it doesn’t seem to matter.
“That’s a Shirley Temple.” It’s so obvious that he’s holding in his laugh, and half of me wants to sink into the floor, the other half gets sorta pissed.
“Yes.” I rest my arms on the bar, no longer intimidated by his looks. For now. “But it would be great if we didn’t call it that.”
“Sure thing…” He tilts his head at me sideways, and lets his words trail off.
Oh. Right. He wants my name. “Jody.”
“Jody.” My name actually sounds very cool coming from him. His eyes hit me in the gut again. Definitely going to need to talk to th e owner, Bill, about hiring zit-filled, Dungeons-and-Dragons- playing dudes who belong in their mother’s basements. I come here too often.
The Irishman bartender isn’t going to work for me.
Chapter Fourteen
I lie in bed and stare at the c eiling of my cabin.
Highlights of our first night.
Pulling Sam out from underneath the guy who last year single-handedly ruined the summer of three other camp counselors by passing on herpes, and singing at the top of our lungs, because there’s no other way to drive throu gh the woods without being freak ed out.
None of us will ever admit that, but we do it every time. Unspoken. Friends with unspoken rules are the best kind of friends.
I close my eyes and think about Jeff in the corner. Then the girl. Tan, like I’ll never be. Blonde. Nice thin arms, instead of my strong ones. I’m a runner, swimmer and biker. I’ve competed in triathalons since I can remember, and usually run before camp starts for the day , before the camper walk . Kay-Kay and Sam would give me no end of crap if they knew.
And the bartender. Liam , I learned. So generic to fall for the hot guy behind the bar. He has that urban feel—s kinny jeans, black rock T-shirt, and he’s here . So strange. And those relationships never turn out well—the summer ones. Forget the fact that I could never go there. Which makes me think of Jeff, which makes me think of school. Ack.
I wonder if there’s any way to push off finishing college because I’m nowhere near ready to enter the real world. Not when I have zero idea what to do with my business degree when I don’t
“Now.” She turns me toward the bar. “Go check out that delicious piece of ass behind the bar, and I dare you to tell me you don’t feel it between your legs when he says hello.”
I blush a little, even though I should be used to Kay-Kay ’s lack of filter.
I step up to the worn wooden bar and stop before sitting down.
“Hello?” Thick Irish accent. Dark brown eyes stare past me, or into me, or at me in a way that, yes… I feel pretty deeply. Deep enough that I cross my legs when I hop on the stool .
A curl of his brown hair hangs over his forehead, and I wonder what it would feel like to run my hands through a guy’s hair who actually had more than a business man’s tidy haircut. This is so not like me.
Tattoos line his arms to his hands, and now I’m staring at his lip ring. There’s a part of me that’s fascinated by it. What would it feel like to kiss?
“Can I get you something?” His eyes are still very intently on me, so much that I scoot back slightly.
Oh, shoot. He’s been waiting for me. It’s just that his delicious accent, and rockstar hotness is muddling my brain. “Can I get a sprite with some grenadine?”
His brows go up along with a corner of his mouth. Intensity gone.
They really need to start hiring geeks here because I can’t think straight with someone this hot looking over the counter at me.
“Sprite with cherry flavor?”
“Yes.” I’m an idiot, and really not in the mood for the run-around I so often get because I like a little kids’ drink. Not everybody drink , drinks. I used to tell everyone that Sarah Jessica Parker doesn’t drink, but no one knows who she is anymore, so it doesn’t seem to matter.
“That’s a Shirley Temple.” It’s so obvious that he’s holding in his laugh, and half of me wants to sink into the floor, the other half gets sorta pissed.
“Yes.” I rest my arms on the bar, no longer intimidated by his looks. For now. “But it would be great if we didn’t call it that.”
“Sure thing…” He tilts his head at me sideways, and lets his words trail off.
Oh. Right. He wants my name. “Jody.”
“Jody.” My name actually sounds very cool coming from him. His eyes hit me in the gut again. Definitely going to need to talk to th e owner, Bill, about hiring zit-filled, Dungeons-and-Dragons- playing dudes who belong in their mother’s basements. I come here too often.
The Irishman bartender isn’t going to work for me.
Chapter Fourteen
I lie in bed and stare at the c eiling of my cabin.
Highlights of our first night.
Pulling Sam out from underneath the guy who last year single-handedly ruined the summer of three other camp counselors by passing on herpes, and singing at the top of our lungs, because there’s no other way to drive throu gh the woods without being freak ed out.
None of us will ever admit that, but we do it every time. Unspoken. Friends with unspoken rules are the best kind of friends.
I close my eyes and think about Jeff in the corner. Then the girl. Tan, like I’ll never be. Blonde. Nice thin arms, instead of my strong ones. I’m a runner, swimmer and biker. I’ve competed in triathalons since I can remember, and usually run before camp starts for the day , before the camper walk . Kay-Kay and Sam would give me no end of crap if they knew.
And the bartender. Liam , I learned. So generic to fall for the hot guy behind the bar. He has that urban feel—s kinny jeans, black rock T-shirt, and he’s here . So strange. And those relationships never turn out well—the summer ones. Forget the fact that I could never go there. Which makes me think of Jeff, which makes me think of school. Ack.
I wonder if there’s any way to push off finishing college because I’m nowhere near ready to enter the real world. Not when I have zero idea what to do with my business degree when I don’t
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