6. Shanay
Six
Shanay
I’m already three bites into a honey-mustard flavored chicken wing when I feel him.
Not see.
Feel.
That shift in the air. That ripple of tension across the backyard like the energy just changed.
I glance up—and yep.
There he is.
Mike Costa.
Towering, all shoulders, jaw, and intensity.
Wearing worn jeans, a gray henley that fits him like a glove, and a scowl that makes my stomach flip.
My fingers tighten around the paper plate in my hands.
He’s here.
At my uncle’s BBQ.
Big, broody, off-limits Mike—who I’ve been fantasizing about since I was old enough to spell zaddy.
And now he’s crossing the yard, slow and powerful, like he has no idea every eye in a twenty-foot radius just landed on him.
I swear, even the grill sizzles louder.
“Why does Mr. Costa look like he just walked out of a filthy Pinterest board?” my cousin whispers under her breath, elbowing me.
“He’s your dad’s best friend,” I hiss. “Stop.”
“Exactly,” she grins. “Filthy and forbidden Pinterest board.”
My skin’s already too warm. And I swear the second Mike’s gaze sweeps over the crowd and lands on me, I forget how to chew.
He sees me.
Not just glances. Not casual.
Sees.
Eyes locked on mine.
And the corner of his mouth twitches—just enough to wreck me.
I blink and look away, pretending to laugh at something my sister says, pretending I didn’t just get soaked from a single look.
He nods at my uncle, does a manly shoulder slap thing with or guys around, grabs a drink—and plants himself across the yard.
Where he continues to watch me.
Not full-on staring. Just… glancing.
Lingering.
Like I’m the only thing he wants to look at, and by his perpetual frown, he’s mad about it.
I try to focus on my girls. Try to keep the conversation light. But every few minutes I glance up and—yep. Still watching.
His jaw is tight. His grip on the Solo cup, tighter.
And when I lick a bit of sauce from my finger and find his gaze, his expression goes dark.
I shift on my feet.
I shouldn’t want that.
Shouldn’t crave the way his eyes drop down my body and stall on my thighs.
But I do.
And when I catch him scowling at one of my guy friends who’s standing close while we’re laughing?
Yeah.
I’m done.
I duck inside for a breath, cheeks hot, trying to shake it off.
That’s when my cousin catches up with me in the kitchen—and decides now’s the perfect time to start running her mouth.
And of course, so do the others.
One drink in and they’re giddy. Loud.
“Tell me you didn’t just run when he looked at you,” Tammy teases.
“I didn’t,” I lie.
“You absolutely did.”
“She’s still waiting on Mr. Right,” my bestie, Lena, adds.
I hiss, smacking her with a dishtowel.
They laugh. I groan. It’s lighthearted and dumb.
When I walk back outside and lock eyes with Mike again—his stare is even heavier.
Hotter.
Hungrier.