Until the Tequila (The Killers #3.5)
Brynne Asher
To Ty,
May you never know anything other than love and family.
xoxo
1
Hangover
Mary
I’m good. I really am. I mean, it took me almost forever, but I’m finally handling life like a C-list rock star. You know, the one who opens for the opener of the main act? The one nobody’s heard of but they’ve made a little something of themselves?
Yeah, I’m pretty sure I finally made it to that level in life. I mean, I can’t say I’m great but, since there were times when I was really not great, I can, with all honesty and confidence, say I’m good.
Until him.
Until the wine.
And, strap me up and take away my deep-conditioning hair mask, until the tequila.
The tequila is what did me in.
What was I thinking?
So, I might’ve had some wine to take the edge off. But I needed it.
I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to chase the wine with tequila. We were at an Italian restaurant for God’s sake.
But I did. And I drank all the tequila.
Then I drank some more and thought the tequila needed dessert. So, of course, in my freak-out moment, I decided that topping off the tequila with tiramisu was the best thing since dipped nails.
All because of him. No one’s ever made me nervous, wet, agitated, and hardened my nipples all at the same time.
But when I woke up this morning in a strange bed—a bed in a bedroom I’d never seen before—every distilled drop of blue agave turned in my stomach like a bad decision on spring break at the beach.
I only experienced one spring break—college was torture and sucked my joy. Secondary education and I got along like my second, fifth, and sixth sets of foster parents—if you could call them that. There wasn’t much parenting going on and living in those houses was like trying to survive a constant bar brawl. I dropped out of college shortly into my second year and enrolled in cosmetology school the same day.
When I spin my clients around in the chair and see their smile in the mirror, I know I made the right choice. Making people feel good about themselves is the best part of my job. I love hair, nails, color, and everything girlie. My penchant for pretty things leans toward edgy with a hint of glam.
I switch up my locks regularly. My long, naturally blond hair is always dyed to match the water-colored ink crawling up the small of my back. Give me a client who’s willing to push the envelope and I’m in hairdresser heaven. Secretly, I’ve always found anything conventional and conservative boring as hell.
That was, until him.
Evan Charles Hargrove III.
He’s more all-American than the boy next door, the Fourth of July, and red Solo cups all rolled into one. He might look like a frat boy with his tall, muscular frame and rugged good looks, but he’s the tasting room manager at Whitetail Farms. Evan knows more about wine than ninety-nine percent of the population. If I wanted to eat Twizzlers and dark chocolate for dinner—which I do on the regular—he’d pair it perfectly and seduce me while doing so.
His hair is a little overgrown but fits him so perfectly, it makes me want to wash it, run my fingers through it, and style it into the messy do he wears so well. That, along with his whiskey eyes, perfect jawline, and self-confidence of a Fortune 500 CEO, makes him the kind of guy I’ll cross the street and walk an extra three blocks out of my way to avoid.
That’s why I’m always shocked and amazed whenever his gaze settles on me and I find myself weak in the knees and wet in my personal paradise.
That is, when he’s not pissing me off. And, oh, how he loves to piss me off.
If he’s not calling me mermaid girl, he’s teasing me for being short. When he’s not teasing me, he’s complaining how I never take his appointment when he calls the shop to schedule a haircut.
I’ve cancelled his appointment five times because I don’t think I could handle having him in my chair, let alone touching him. I’d end up strangling him or having a mini-orgasm and either would be bad for business.
But Evan works for my best friend, Addy Wentworth. Addy has a way of collecting people and if you’re in her life, you’re her friend for life, so that means Evan is my friend even though he’s the one person I’ve made it my number one goal to avoid.
He’s my frenemy.
I think he knows it, too, as I’ve done my best to ignore him. But somehow, my best is never quite good enough. When it comes to him, I turn foggy and weak.
I see it in every lethal look hidden behind his boy-next-door good looks. When he calls me a fairy—for being small and colorful—and if no one’s looking, he’ll tip his head and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, making me wonder if he’s thinking about what else he can do with it. I sure as hell am.
Don’t even get me started on all the ways he finds to secretly touch me when no one’s paying attention—brushing the small of my back or letting his fingertips lightly tease mine in erotic foreplay. It drives me mad in a multitude of ways.
But the other day—the moment my past came crashing into my present—he caught me off guard and broke through my defenses, informing me he was taking me to dinner. I was shaken by a text I’d just received from my childhood friend, July Mayson—now Silver—and distractedly tried to refuse. But with the finesse of a corporate giant closing the deal of the decade, he shook his head and squashed my denial like a bug. I swear, he saw the crack in my armor and took advantage. “I’m taking you to Girasol’s. You love Italian and I’m trying to sell them on adding The Delaney on their wine list.”