“And you would know this how?” I ask as he shifts his weight and places his drink on the cocktail table beside him.

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “Are your hunches always right?” I ask.

  “We’ll see.” His smile lights up his face even more. “Ask me that again in about ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?” I bark out a laugh. “That’s how long you think it’s going to take for you to convince me to tell you exactly what I want?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say that with absolute confidence.”

  He lifts his eyebrows and nods. “And?”

  “And nothing.” I shrug. “But I’m pretty sure I’m going to prove you wrong.”

  The pout he gives me is more than adorable and has me wanting to cave. But before I do, he says, “I know how you can make it up to me.”

  “Make what up to you?” I laugh.

  “You not telling me what you want. You not being mesmerized by my confidence.” He ticks the items off on his fingers. “The fact that you’re not giving me your undivided attention.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Nope.”

  God, his grin is a mixture of adorable and sexy, and how is that combination even possible?

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because you keep looking over my shoulder at your friends wondering if you should let me keep talking to you or if you should give them the sign to come and rescue you.”

  “The sign?”

  “You know, the sign.” He nods. “A twirl of your hair. Your fingers crossed at your side. The predetermined thing you agreed on with your friends that tells them you need rescuing.”

  “Ah. Yes. That sign.” I glance over his shoulder to where both Isabella and Gia have noticed us and are staring intently. Great. Just what I need.

  Then again . . . maybe I can make them think I’ve hit it off with whoever this guy is—it’s not like it’s a hardship when he looks like he does—and get them to lay off the forcing me to date their “friends” component of their plan.

  “There’s no sign. None whatsoever,” I say.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do they keep staring at us?” he asks, flashing them a grin and a salute of a wave before turning back to me and waiting for an answer.

  “They’re just busy trying to plan my move here, my love life . . . you name it.” I roll my eyes.

  “You’re moving here?” he asks.

  “I am,” I say with a nod.

  “Lucky girl. This is a pretty awesome place to move to.”

  “Says the native.”

  “No. Says the person who moved here myself.”

  “Same difference. Accent is all the same.”

  “But it’s not. You’ll soon find that out.”

  “I’m sure I will.” I tilt my head. “Why here though?”

  “I’m manifesting something.”

  “Right now it seems you’re manifesting how to get a woman back to your flat.”

  “Is it working?”

  The look I give him in response—shoulders sagging, eyes looking up from beneath my brows, lips pursed in chagrin—tells him all he needs to know. No.

  He twists his lips and fights his grin. It only serves to make him even cuter as those storm-cloud gray eyes of his light with humor. “And your love life? You said they’re over there planning it?” I nod. “Do you want them to be?”

  I sigh. “God, no. Who knows where I’ll end up, being forced to do some ludicrous, whimsical something with a guy named Guy or Rocky or something like that.”

  “So much to unpack in that statement.” He laughs. “Ludicrous whimsical? Is that even a thing?”

  “It is,” I say with a definitive nod to back up my words.

  “I’m assuming that’s in reference to something one would do on a date—an activity, a place—two straws, one milkshake kind of thing and not something else.”

  “Correct. A date. Not something else.” I roll my eyes. Leave it to a guy to infer something sexual.

  “You’re the one who said it. Not me.” He holds his hands up and chuckles. “Besides, what do you have against ludicrous, whimsical dates?”

  “Nothing. They have a purpose—just not for me.”

  “Then what exactly is it that you like to do on dates?”

  I lift a lone brow and shrug and then immediately realize how that response will most definitely be interpreted. His grin widens. Yep. Nailed that one on the head.

  “Is that so?” he murmurs.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

  “Shh.” He leans in so that I’m hit with the crisp, clean scent of his cologne. He smells incredible, but it’s his warm breath against my ear that has chills racing over my skin. The visceral reaction surprises me. “Don’t say that too loud. You’re in a room full of desperate men. For all you know, there might already be a line forming at your back.”

  “Is there one?” I tease as he takes a step back but remains closer than he was originally. He’s tall with broad shoulders and muscles that bunch ever so slightly beneath the fabric of his shirt with each movement.

  He makes a show of looking behind me before meeting my eyes. “Not yet. But I assure you it’s coming.”

  “Ah, yes. The ever-constant line of men just waiting for me wherever I go.”

  “There should be one.”

  I tap my glass of wine against the neck of his lager. “Thanks for the compliment, but no thanks. Not interested.”

  “No thanks regarding the line queueing for you or no thanks as in me?”

  “How about just a general no thanks?” I smile and lift my eyebrows.

  He snorts. “No wonder your friends are planning out your love life.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “It means you have a man standing before you blatantly flirting with you, and you don’t even realize it.” His eyes hold mine and heat suddenly rushes to my cheeks.

  I’m not good at this. Who is?

  But I used to be. Isn’t that what bugs me more?

  “Maybe I assumed you were just a nice guy who needed a break from his friends just like I’m a nice girl who needed the same.”

  He hisses. “Wow. Is my game that weak?”

  I laugh. God, it feels good to laugh. “No. Your game is perfect. You’re funny. You’re good-looking. You’re—”

  “Would you look at that. You’re finally flirting back.”

  “No. I’m not. I’m—”

  He barks out a laugh, his dimples deepening. “I think I should be offended by that.”

  “You shouldn’t. I’m just . . .” I shake my head and groan at my inability to speak.

  “You’re just, what?”

  It’s okay to flirt back, Cami. Isabella’s crazy nods over his shoulder say as much.

  “It’s a long story.” I empty the rest of my glass, a refill needed now more than ever.

  “Stories always are, aren’t they?”

  “Mmm.”

  It’s like I gave myself permission to flirt, and now I can’t form words.

  “I’ll tell you what. You’re in need of rescuing from your friends and you were right, I’m in a bit of a situation where I need to be saved myself.”

  “You’re in need of saving? I highly doubt it.”

  “Not so much saved but more helped out.”

  “Helped out?”

  “Yep. I’m in a bit of a sticky situation.”

  “Then unstick yourself.”

  “The lady has jokes.”

  “Always.” I nod. “So what exactly is it that you need help with?”

  “Well, truth be told, it’s my fault. I let my ego get the best of me.” He nods, head angled to the side and eyes laser focused on me.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. We were all shooting the shit, having some beers, one thing led to another, and I might have bragged that I could get any woman in this pub.”

  “Any woman?”

  He rocks his head from side to side. “That’s what I said.”

  I make a show of looking around the vast warehouse-type pub with its dark lighting and vibrant décor. “There are a lot of people to choose from. Should I be offended that out of all these women, you looked at me and figured I’d be the sucker who’d fall for a line like that and help?”

  “Ouch. I feel the sting of that rebuke.”

  “You should.”

  “But.” He holds his finger up for me to wait, his smile widening. “What you didn’t let me get to is that when I made that statement, my mates one-upped it. They bet me that there was no way in hell I could get the prettiest woman in here to give me the time of day so . . . here I am.” He mock bows as his compliment settles in. “Trying to win that bet.”

  “Ah, look at that, you just found your game. Nice try.” I know a line when I’m being fed one.

  He laughs but glances over his shoulder to his mates and just like Gia and Isabella are, the four of his friends are all glancing our way.

  Maybe it’s not a line.

  Maybe it’s true.

  And how does that make you feel, Camilla?

  “Time of day? That definition seems to be painted with a very broad stroke,” I say. “What exactly does that mean?”

  He grins. “That remains to be seen, now doesn’t it? The bigger the better I’m assuming.”

  “Always.” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the quick widening of his eyes and flaring of his nostrils.

  “And her flirting gets better with each passing minute,” he murmurs as his eyes look me up and down. “I think that begs me to stand here all night and see how things turn out.”

  Our gazes hold as sexual tension charges between us.

  I can’t help my smile. He’s charming in all the right ways. He’s definitely good-looking. A woman would be stupid to walk away from this conversation.

  But isn’t that what I would have done in the past? Let myself become uncomfortable and walk away?

  Not this time.

  Not when I’m trying to prove to Gia and Isabella that I am being more self-assured. That I’m putting myself out there. That I don’t want to be set up.

  “This bet of yours,” I finally say. “What do you get if you win?”

  “My pride kept intact. A few extras thrown in on their part.”

  “Extras?”

  “My bar tab picked up for a month. Bragging rights. Hopefully a phone number I can call at a later time for a date,” he says.

  “Ah, so that’s the time of day portion. A phone number as the proof that I’ve given it to you.”

  “It could be proof, yes. There might be a scale involved.”

  “A scale? Like talking to me is the first rung. My phone number the second rung. Something else the next rung up?”

  “Yeah. I think beyond that I’d get extra credit.”

  “Extra credit, huh?” He nods. “And if you lose the bet?” I ask.

  “There may have been some kind of dare involved.”

  “Such as?”

  “A precariously and embarrassingly placed tattoo.”

  “How precarious and how embarrassing?”

  He snorts. “We’ll just say I would prefer to maintain my dignity.”

  “I can’t help you then.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep. I need the details,” I tease.

  He huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “Tinkerbell on my bicep.”

  “Wow. I see.” I fight a laugh and fail. “And you took that bet, why?”

  “Because I hate to lose.” He shrugs. “I don’t lose.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.” I snicker.

  The server steps up and replaces my empty glass with a fresh one. “On the house for the wait,” she says.

  “That’s not necessary,” I say.

  “I insist, love. You’ve been more than patient.”

  “Thank you.”

  “May I get another when you get a chance?” Bar Boy asks. And as he busies himself placing his order, I look at my phone buzzing in my hand. Of course, Isabella is texting me: You better act on whatever you have going there or else we’re going to come over and tell him just how long it’s been since you’ve had decent sex and proposition him for you ourselves.

  I whip my gaze up and meet her and Gia’s challenging lift of their eyebrows and arms crossed over their chests. Dare us is written all over their faces, and I don’t have to question whether they would do it or not.

  They have in the past, and we don’t need a repeat of that. Visions of standing on a bar top, a megaphone, and a row of shots flicker through my mind before I tuck them away.

  But it’s enough of a reminder to know that she’s good on her threat.

  “Are you getting texts too?” he asks as he looks up from his phone in his hand and its screen that keeps lighting up.

  I chuckle. “Yep.” I hold my phone out long enough for him to see the text screen but not for him to be able to read it. “They’re threatening to come over here and proposition you themselves on my behalf.”

  He laughs. “Mine are telling me that I’m all talk and no action. That there’s no way in hell I’m going to get your phone number. That my time’s up and so I need something more than that.”

  “More than my number, huh?”

  “Yep. It’s either that or my date with the tattoo needle is coming.” He laughs.

  “What if you get more than that?” I ask, my mind spinning over how to sell this to both of our friends.

  “I’m curious what you have in mind.”

  “Well, there is a way that you can help get my friends off my back, and I can help you win your little bet.”

  My idea is to fake it. Swap our numbers. Set up a date over text that we’ll never take, but that we can both show our friends as proof. Flirt a little bit more so there is no mistaking we like each other.

  Kill two birds with one stone.

  But when I look up and see Gia rising from our table so she can get a better view of the two of us, I get the feeling that a fake arrangement to meet up isn’t going to fly.

  The text from Isabella that buzzes my phone says as much: Actions speak louder than words, Moretti.

  I walked over here with a personal pep talk that my friends are right. That I need to live more and dwell on the past less. Well, that’s not exactly what they said—but they don’t know the whole truth about why I am how I am. Only two people do: myself and the one other person I’ve avoided like the plague.

  “You think we can both win our respective fights?” he asks, his smile toying with the corners of his lips.

  “I do.”

  “And how do you figure to do that?”

  I don’t have time to summon courage like I normally would. Gia and Isabella bearing down on me is sufficient motivation to push me out of my comfort zone and into the goddamn fire.

  “Like this.” I step up and press my lips to his.

  I think we’re both shocked by the action, but it takes a split second for his surprise to wear off and his body to respond.

  And oh, how he responds.

  His hands slide up my back and one fists in my hair as his lips command mine. As his tongue slips between my lips, tasting slightly of the lager he’s drinking, and teases mine. He emits the softest of groans, yet I can hear it at the same time I feel it rumble against my chest.

  But one thing outweighs all those things by far—it’s the way my body reacts. The sharp but sweet ache that burns bright. The chills that chase over my skin. The way I crave more of his kiss and the feel of his hands on my skin.

  A feeling I haven’t felt in years.

  A feeling I thought I’d never feel again.

  A feeling that proves to me I’m not broken.

  The kiss lasts but seconds as we’re in a roomful of people, and the sole purpose was to prove a point and make our friends wave their white flags.

  But when we part, when we step back and our eyes meet, it’s obvious he’s as staggered by my kissing him as I am over the way the touch of his lips made me feel.

  I stare at him.

  Astounded.

  Dumbfounded.

  My lips tingling and body feeling like I’ll shock anything I touch.

  I can’t remember the last time that happened.

  I take another step back, unable to process the peculiar look on his face because I’m too busy feeling.

  “That’s one way to convince them,” he says as he scrubs a hand over his jaw. His smile widens. There’s a sheepish quality to it that softens the arrogance in the best way. “You good? I mean, I know I’m feeling good and all, but whew, that was one for the ages.”

  The cocksure grin.

  The pale gray eyes.

  The bob of his Adam’s apple.

  “I’m good. Yeah.” I shake my head and try to rid it of the buzzing in my ears. That’s when I notice Isabella and Gia standing a few tables down, jaws lax and eyes wide with surprise etched in the lines of their faces. “I, uh . . .” Why are my lips still tingling? “Hope that helps you win.”

  “That should more than do it.” One of his friends shouts something across the bar—I don’t quite catch it—but it makes him turn his head and hold a finger up to them. “I, uh—I’ve got to get going. We have . . . plans. For later.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Thank God. I need to find my bearings.

  “Thanks for helping me out.”

  “Same goes for me.” We both take a step backward as a sudden awkwardness settles between us now that the shock has worn off. “Oh. Our numbers. We need to–you know—to sell it.”

  “Right. Yes.” He sets his phone down on the table and reaches out to take mine. Within seconds he has sent himself a text from my phone. “That’s me,” he says, setting my phone next to his on the table. He reaches out to shake my hand. It feels so formal after we were literally just kissing. But I shake it. “Nice doing business with you.”

  We laugh and there’s a moment where we both stare at each other. His eyes darken. His lips part. And then just as surprising as when I kissed him, he cups the back of my neck and brings his mouth down on mine.

  His kiss is more commanding this time. More take control. More of everything that mine was, but better. The pressure of his hand on my neck. The softness of his lips. The way he angles his head to deepen the kiss. The brush of his thumb over my jawline.