She was going to ruin him.

That was the only thought rattling around in Patrick Feely’s brain as he watched her, sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter like some kind of posh, untouchable goddess… except she was tipsy. Tipsy and barefoot, with her fancy cardigan tied around her waist like she’d just walked out of some preppy catalog and decided to go rogue.

Patrick’s lads—Gibsie, Johnny, Hughie, and Joey—were crowded around the table, half-buzzed and laughing their arses off, but he couldn’t hear a thing over the way she kept looking at him.

“Feely,” she called, pointing her cup at him. “Why are you always staring at me like I’m a maths problem?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You squint. You do. Like you’re trying to solve me.”

Patrick, stunned, rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I am.”

She grinned like he’d just given her a gold star. “Well I’m complicated. Very complex. My ma and da says I can’t date. Image and all that rubbish.”

“You’re drunk,” he said, voice softer now.

“And you’re pretty,” she replied, like that was a logical follow-up.

Gibsie choked on his drink in the background.

Patrick tried not to combust on the spot. “You think I’m pretty?”

She slid down from the counter—graceful despite the tequila—and stalked toward him in slow, swaying steps.

“I know you’re pretty,” she whispered, poking his chest. “You’re also patient. And annoyingly sweet. And smart. And you always save me the strawberry Starburst.”

“I didn’t think you noticed that,” he murmured.

“I notice everything about you, Feely.”

The air caught between them. The noise of the party blurred into static.

“I like you,” she confessed suddenly, swaying closer. “Like… really like you. Isn’t that so terribly irresponsible of me?”

Patrick’s throat worked hard. “You don’t mean that. Not really.”