Her name was Amber, and originally I thought she was dressed as a Starbucks coffee.
“I’m a Frappuccino,” she corrected me with a curtsy that was cute as hell.
“What flavor?” I raised a single eyebrow. It always worked well with the finer sex.
“I don’t know!” She laughed and then raised her own eyebrow. “What’s your favorite?”
“Strawberries and cream.” I felt heat rush to my face. Thankfully, she laughed. I nodded toward the top of her head. “Is that PVC pipe?”
“Yes! How’d you know?”
“My dad works with it at the golf course. They use it for the irrigation system.” My summers spent in Jackson Hole flashed before me. After so many countless hours literally laying pipe, I could practically feel the smooth material that protruded from her head in a makeshift straw. “I didn’t know they made it in green.”
She slightly bowed and her long, wavy brown hair brushed against her bare, tanned shoulder. She was showing off the green PVC pipe that was stuck in a bubble of white felt, which actually did look like whipped cream, but I couldn’t stop staring at her hair. Or the way it fell so far down her arm.
“Nice,” I said.
Brown eyes gazed up at me. A guy could lose himself in those eyes. She had perfect teeth and a perfect smile. Everything about her was perfect—except she wasn’t Hannah.
I grabbed the bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, twisted off the cap, and began to drink. The sooner I forgot about Hannah, the better my night would go.
“Sorry about your keg,” I said.
She grinned. “It’s not really my keg, but the deposit on it is. Thanks for finding it.”
I shrugged. There was only so much truth-telling I was willing to do. “Eh, it was the right thing to do.”
“Are you always such a Boy Scout?” She bridged the gap between us, which in the crowded kitchen wasn’t much.
I shook my head. “Rarely.”
Whenever she smiled, her head tilted. “I’m not a fan of good.”
“No?” I held her gaze with my own.
“No.” Her hair swayed on her shoulders. “Why be good when bad is so much more fun?” The rest of her costume consisted of nothing more than a tan-colored slip that made her look like she wasn’t wearing anything. The oversized green Starbucks logo in the center of her stomach—not that she had a belly—distinguished her outfit as a costume and not just some sexy lingerie. The girl was tiny with a big personality that I couldn’t drink in enough.
I took another hard swig from the bottle. The rush of bourbon heated my throat and loosened the imaginary hand that always seemed wrapped around my neck, waiting to choke the life out of me.
“So….” I crossed the last bit of space between us until our bodies touched. Even though the house screamed with people, everything and everyone faded to black. Her brown eyes and bewitching smile were all I saw.
She stood on her tiptoes until her lips pressed against mine. There were two guarantees when I was drunk: I was a shitty driver, and I was horny as hell. Since I didn’t have a car, there was no worry about the former, and the latter seemed to be working itself out quite nicely. When her tongue slipped into my mouth, the tang of lemonade awakened my senses. When she led me toward her upstairs bedroom, nothing else mattered for a moment and I was happy.