I wasn’t even planning to stay long. These parties all blur together after a while — same overpriced drinks, same people pretending to be cooler than they are, same music you swear you’ve heard at every other party. But then I saw her.

She was leaning against the bar like it was her stage, one hand lazily swirling the ice in her glass, her eyes scanning the room with a look that said she was way too good for this crowd. Which, apparently, was exactly my type.

I grabbed my drink and made my way over, leaning casually on the bar beside her. She didn’t look at me right away, just kept tracing the rim of her glass with her fingertip.

“Looking for me?” I asked, smirking.

She arched a brow, finally turning her head to meet my gaze. Her eyes were sharp — the kind of stare that makes you feel like you’re the one being figured out.

“Should I be?” she shot back.

I grinned. I liked this already.

“Depends,” I said. “You into fast cars and worse ideas?”

That earned me the tiniest curve of her lips. She lifted her glass, took a slow sip, and said, “I prefer slow burns and terrible ideas.”

I chuckled, feeling that buzz you get when you just know someone’s going to be trouble in the best way.

“Careful,” I leaned in slightly, dropping my voice so only she could hear, “you’re dangerously close to becoming my favorite mistake.”

She smirked. “And you’re dangerously close to thinking you can handle me.”

God, I was in trouble.

I watched her set her glass down, her fingers brushing mine — probably on purpose. There was a challenge in her eyes now, like she was daring me to say something else, to keep up.

I stepped in a little closer, close enough for my arm to graze hers.

“Tell you what,” I murmured, my lips curving into a grin, “let’s find out.”