Stitch

Prologue - Courtney

Del Mar was not my first choice, but I can't say I'm not happy to be here. The hunk sitting awfully close at the bar appraises me with his eyes, sending a wave of tingles through my chest. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asks.

Layla giggles and, after shooting me a very suggestive wink, runs off to chat with some friends she spotted across the room. Since I have her permission... "Yes please! Vodka cran?"

"Coming right up." He straightens in his seat to get the bartender's attention and passes him a shiny black card, giving me a perfect view of his fancy-ass watch. I'm fairly certain this preppy-as-fuck guy is wearing a Michael Kors watch, which isn't a big deal considering we're adults, but I kind of want to fuck him—watch on, of course. There's just something about men in designer garb that gets me going.

It's been a while.

"I like your watch," I blurt out after the bartender hands me what I hope is the first drink of many.

To my surprise, he sighs at the compliment. "Thank you," he finally says.

If he doesn't want it, I'll gladly regift it to my brother Brady for Christmas. "You don't like it?" I ask.

"No, I do. My girlfriend—sorry, ex-girlfriend—gave it to me, and I can't bring myself to take it off."

Yikes. 

"Oh, I'm sorry." I should probably tell him to give it to me and move on with his life, but I can't imagine he'll appreciate my advice all that much. I shoot him an awkward smile and start to slide off the barstool. Time to track down Layla. It's been a long week, and I'm not trying to be this guy's therapist, as attractive as he is.

"I'm Jake," he says, sticking out his hand.

Never mind, I guess. "Courtney," I reply.

"Well, Courtney, I don't think I've ever seen anyone drink a vodka cranberry as fast as you. Want another?"

I smirk, setting my empty glass on the counter. "It's an acquired skill, and yes please." I'll play therapist for free booze.

After another vodka cran, I don't mind being a therapist—I do love drama, after all, and drunk me is super nice—but luckily, Jake's downed enough whiskey that he no longer needs one.

"You're beautiful," he says softly.

I feel my cheeks heating up. "Thank you. You're very handsome yourself."

I'm serious. Jake's hot. His dark brown hair is flipped back, but not in an over-gelled way, and his eyelashes are, in a word, supreme. If male mascara ever becomes a thing, this guy could model.

He leans forward, and honestly, I haven't made out with anyone in at least a month, so I let him kiss me. Damn is he a good kisser. His hand cups my face as our lips move hungrily in sync. Wow. I could do this all night, although I think I want to end it in my bed. With Jake. I'm totally down to be a rebound. That usually means I don't have to talk to the guy again, which is ideal. I'm not a relationship fan, but I am a sex fan.

Glass shatters nearby, but I'm too wrapped up in our kiss to see the damage, which is really saying something, because I'm nosy as hell.

Then, drops of frigid water spray my face, and Jake lets out a weird yelp-grunt thing, twitching as the sound leaves his slightly swollen lips. His flinching arm bumps his glass, which crashes to the floor.

"R-Rae?" he stammers.

A petite, stunning brunette with shiny, long hair and the most impeccable smoky eye stands before us, staring incredulously at Jake, her glossy lips parted in shock. I physically feel waves of pure hurt radiating from her entire being.