I snap my head to my right, seeing Grayson scowling at Ben.
Ben laughs and stands up from the table. “This is your friend?” he asks me.
Grayson’s frowning at me, and Ben’s got a cocky smirk on his face. I have no idea what I just walked in on, and I don’t know what the right answer is. “Um, yeah?” It comes out sounding more like a question than an answer.
“Word of advice,” Ben says to me. “Get some better friends.” He shakes his head and laughs again. “I’ll be seeing you around, Rosalie,” he says with a mischievous smile before turning around and walking back to his table.
“What the fuck was that?” Grayson asks while placing the drinks on the table. “I go for five minutes, and now you’ve got a date with Ben Reed?”
“It wasn’t a date,” I tell him, “He just came over to talk to me for a few minutes.”
Grayson scoffs and sits opposite me. “Trust me, that slimy motherfucker wants in your pants.” He takes a swig of his beer.
He seems familiar with who Ben is. Maybe he's heard rumors and assumes the worst, which is shitty of him. Here I am with him, even though everyone has warned me off of him. “You know him?” I ask.
He waves a hand. “Yeah. From back home,” he says before narrowing his eyes at me. “Question is, how do you?”
I shrug. “I met him at the party last week.”
“Rosie.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Stay away from him.”
I laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” he says, no humor in his tone. “He’s an asshole.”
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “He seemed nice.”
He groans, running a hand down his face. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Drink up,” he says, pushing a drink in front of me.
“You trying to get me drunk?” I tease.
The previous scowl is wiped clean as he smirks. “Yeah. It was on your list. Number 1. Get drunk.”
My stomach flutters. It happens a lot around him. “You remember the list?”
He laughs, low and manly. I really do like that laugh. “Kind of hard not to,” he says.
I feel my face heating as I blush, remembering everything I asked him to do to me, with me, for me.
“You’re so cute when you blush.”
I ignore him, trying not to turn into a tomato, instead picking up the drink he gave me and taking a sip.
“How is it?” he asks.
“Good.” I take another sip. “What is it?”
“Margarita,” he says, taking another sip of his beer.
I tilt my head. “Is that the James Bond drink?”
He shakes his head, laughing. “That’s a martini, Rosie.”
“Oh. Well, whatever it is. I like it.”
“Knew you would.”
I lick some of the salt around the rim, keeping my eyes on him. He shuffles in his chair, his hand gripping the glass tighter as he clenches his jaw.
