Page 6 of Bend

“That’s fair,” I say. “Mom’s galbi is pretty fucking elite.”

“And the kimchi?” she continues, eyes wide. “I don’t even like most kimchi. It’s usually too vinegary or too aggressive. But your dad’s? Fucking perfection. I would absolutely fight someone over it.”

Omen smirks. “Oh yeah? Is that why I watched you demolish three plates of food?”

She gasps. “First of all, don’t food shame me. Second of all, I was being respectful.”

“Respectful?” I laugh, “You were inhaling that shit like you were starved,” I correct.

She waves me off. “I was trying not to offend your mother. I swear to you, that woman smiled at me and I blacked out and accepted more food. I don’t even remember saying yes. She’d just gently slide another spoonful onto my plate and suddenly I’m committed.”

“It’s because that’s how she shows love,” I say.

“Well I’d happily accept her love for every meal,” Isla mutters. “Even if I physically couldn’t move for the first hour after dinner. No joke, I thought I was going to need help just standing up. I have never eaten that much in my life,” she continues.

The bar starts filling up in waves.

I lean back, take a slow pull, let my eyes drift the way they always do when the door opens.

That’s when she walks in.

Olive crop top that bares just enough stomach. Denim shorts that fit like fucking armor, hugging her hips like they were made for her and nobody else.

Her makeup’s bold. Dark liner framing her eyes. Gloss across her pouty lips, catching the light when she presses them together. Her hair is loose and heavy around her shoulders, thick and a little wild in a sexy way.

She walks straight to the bar, and my eyes track her the entire way.

Goddamn.

She is stunning.

I’m mid-sip when—

“Earth to Draygon.”

My head snaps slightly as Isla’s fingers snap in front of my face.

I blink once, slow, then glance at her. Her eyes track across the bar, land exactly where mine have been parked for the last minute, and her smirk widens.

“Oh,” she says lightly. “Okay. I see what's happening.”

“Don’t,” I mutter, already knowing.

She ignores me completely.

“I’m gonna grab another round,” she says, sliding out of her chair. “On me.”

“Isla—”

But she’s already gone.

Omen leans back, watching her go with mild amusement that goddamn fucking annoying, then glances at me like this his entertainment tonight. Fuck that, I’m not giving the little fuck the satisfaction of a reaction. My attention’s already back where it was.

On her.

Isla weaves through the bar easily, stepping up to the bar directly beside her. She orders our beers, casual as hell, then turns her body toward the girl and says something I can’t hear over the music. The girl shifts slightly, guarded at first, then curious. Isla laughs at something, nods toward our table, subtle but obvious enough.

And then the girl looks over.