Jasper Vale (The Edens #4)(3)

It was the nicest profile I’d ever seen. He had a perfect forehead. Not too round. Not too flat. His dark brown hair was longer on top and shorter at the sides, a few strands sticking up out of place. He had a strong chin, square at the bottom. Soft lips with a full pout. A classic nose except there was a bump on the bridge, like it had been broken before.

“Does it hurt when you break your nose?”

“Yes.” He glanced down at me, his brown eyes catching the Vegas lights and giving them a sparkle.

Jasper had lived in Montana for months. There weren’t a lot of single, handsome men in my small hometown, so when Jasper had arrived in Quincy, he hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Or maybe he had.

Seriously, he was hot. Smoking hot. I should have been crushing on him for months.

Was this beer goggles? I’d never had them before. Except I hadn’t had any beer tonight. Just those vodka tonics and the shots Lyla and I had taken before we’d left the club, but they hadn’t hit me yet.

“You’re extremely hot.”

Okay, maybe the shots were kicking in after all.

Jasper arched an eyebrow the same dark shade as his hair.

“You’re kinda grumpy and brooding too. Also hot.”

“Do you always say what’s on your mind?”

“Only when I’m drunk, remember? I talk a lot.”

Jasper stared down at me, something flashing in his gaze, but I couldn’t make it out. The fuzzy edges of my mind were beginning to get fuzzier.

“What else?” Jasper asked.

I studied his mouth as he spoke, the way he formed the words. The flex in that sharp, chiseled jaw. “What else what?”

“What else is on your mind?”

“Oh.” I let my gaze trail down his chest, taking in his broad frame stretching the black T-shirt he wore with faded jeans. The shirt’s cotton molded like a second skin to his biceps and shoulders but was looser against his stomach. Did he have a six-pack? I bet he had a six-pack. “I’d kill to see you without your shirt on.”

Jasper barked a laugh. It was hoarse too, like he didn’t laugh enough.

Sad. Should I give him a hug?

Too busy contemplating that question, I didn’t realize what he was doing until it was too late.

Jasper reached a hand behind his head, fisting his shirt. Whoosh.

Shirt gone.

“Holy. Freaking. Abs.” My jaw dropped. “Six. Definitely six.”

“Eight,” he corrected. “Count again.”

“Whoa.” I reached out to pet a muscle, just to make sure it was real. The muscles bunched beneath my fingertips.

“That tickles.”

“You’re ticklish? Aww. That’s adorable.”

He frowned. “I think I liked it better when you called me grumpy and brooding.”

“Ow, ow!” A woman walking behind us did a catcall. “Sweetie, if you’re not gonna drag that man to your hotel room, please send him to mine. Planet Hollywood. Room 1132.”

My cheeks flamed.

Jasper was Foster’s best friend. I couldn’t drag him to my hotel room, right? Right. That could get awkward. But I really wanted him to lose those jeans too. What did his legs look like? Were his thighs as bulky as they looked? Were they dusted with the same dark hair that trailed from his navel to the waistband of his jeans? How far did that trail go, anyway?

“Eloise.”

My gaze whipped up to his face. “I like how you say my name.”

“You’re blushing.” Jasper’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. Something else crossed his gaze, maybe teasing, maybe flirting, but it happened too fast for my sluggish brain to catch.

“I’m drunk,” I blurted.

“So am I.”

“No way.” My mouth parted. “You are?”

“Yep.” He leaned in closer, his eyes, slightly unfocused, drifting to my lips.

“Um, are you going to kiss me?”

Jasper hummed. “Thinking about it.”

For the first time tonight, I was speechless.

He leaned in.

I lifted my chin.

But then a gurgle filled the air and beside us, the quiet pool of water erupted into those moonbeam streams.

The people around us surged forward, forcing us against the concrete barrier and breaking the moment.

Bummer. I sighed, shifting to watch the show.

Jasper tugged on his shirt, then leaned forward too, our shoulders brushing as music filled the air.

The song was different this time, an intense symphony with a fast tempo and a heavy drum beat. The timing of the music and lights and movement was synchronized flawlessly.

“It’s perfect,” I murmured. “How many tries do you think it took for them to get this perfect?”

“I don’t know.”

I leaned into his arm, my head hitting his shoulder. He didn’t shift or nudge me away, so I didn’t move. “I think perfect is overrated.”

“Agreed.”

“When I was a kid, I used to get so mad when stuff wasn’t perfect. Like if I was drawing a picture and messed up, I couldn’t just erase the mistake or live with it. I’d have to get a new piece of paper and start all over again.”

There’d be piles of crumpled paper around me and tears dripping down my face because I couldn’t get the picture just right.