Page 24 of Off the Grid

“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.

Nope. What I felt the first time definitely wasn’t a fluke.

It was real—is real. The tingle, the ache, the sweet burn. All three are owning my body for a second time.

And when the kiss ends, when he leans back and stares at me with that cocky, lopsided smirk of his, he gives a nod. “There.” He taps the table beside us with his hand. “Now we’re even.”

I chortle as he grabs his cell phone and beer off the table, gives me one more nod, and then heads back to his friends.

There’s a whoop of cheers and high fives all around as he sits down with them. It’s only when I go to grab my own cell and glass of wine off the table that I notice the business card he left behind.

Or at least that’s what I think it is until I turn it over and see the bright blue DARE printed in fancy font across the top in bold letters. And then the following words written beneath: Find the woman least likely to be hit on and get her phone number.

I stand there and stare at the dare card, trying not to be offended by it, but it’s only natural that I am. Anybody would feel the same.

Talk about a blow to my ego.

Talk about proving my own words right about men not being worth it.

Dumbfounded and ignoring the pressure in the center of my chest, I look in the direction of his friends and see them laughing and patting him on the back.

Tears threaten and my throat burns. This is why. Why on earth would I put myself “out there” only to feel like this?

“Hey. What was that?” Isabella asks with a little shimmy and a hand held up for a high five that I don’t return.

“You got his number, right?” Gia asks. “Because, damn girl, that was hot and you definitely stepped out of the box.”

I nod and palm the stupid card, hoping to hide my mortification. “Yeah. I did. We’re going to meet up when I get back. I—uh—I’ll be right back. The bathroom.”

“Do you want one of us—”

“No, I’m fine.” I muster a smile and then try to walk as calmly as possible to the restroom on the other side of the bar.

It’s only once I shut the bathroom stall door that I sag against it and let the emotions hit me. Shame. Anger. Disbelief. All three of them run a race through my head as I stare at the stupid card.

I was the butt of their joke. Of his joke.

I try to shake the thought off but it doesn’t shed completely.

“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. Trying to win that bet.”

Well, he was right about one thing—trying to win a bet. And I was right too—that I was the one who looked the most gullible. The easiest mark picked so he could win his fucking dare.

Leaning against the bathroom stall, I close my eyes and give myself a pep talk that doesn’t relieve the demoralizing hurt.

C’mon, Cami. You promised yourself you’d never give another person the power to knock you down. To steal your pride. To take a part of you and ruin it. To make you a victim.

I close my eyes, the card in my hand feeling like lava singeing my skin.

And then I laugh like a loon into the empty bathroom. At myself. At the situation. At what this entire evening has turned into.

An ambush. An accidental meeting. An arousing kiss. An abject disaster.