But I assume he knows this, and the confidence I noticed from across the room practically saturates the air. His phone buzzes again, but he gives it only the briefest glance down and silences it. “Why would you assume Heineken?” he asks.

I stack a handful of coasters on the tray and shrug again, trying to nip the conversation in the bud. “No reason.”

He’s not buying it. The corner of his mouth turns up a little and he says, “Come on, Dimples.”

At almost the same time, I hear Fred’s “Goddammit” and hold out my hand, ready when he slaps a crisp dollar bill into it. I smugly tuck it into the jar.

The guy follows my movement and blinks back up at me. “ ‘Car Fund’?” he asks, reading the label. “What’s that about?”

“It’s nothing,” I tell him, and then wave to the line of draft beers. “What were you guys drinking?”

“You just made a buck off of something I said and you’re not even going to tell me what it was?”

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and give in when I realize he isn’t going to order until I’ve answered him. “It’s just something I hear a lot,” I say. In fact, it’s probably something I’ve heard more than my own name. Deep dimples dent each of my cheeks, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say they’re both my most and least favorite feature. Couple that with sun-streaked—often wind-blown—hair and a smattering of freckles, and I’m about as Girl Next Door as they come.

“Fred didn’t believe it happens as often as I said,” I continue, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “So we made a little bet: a dollar every time someone calls me Dimples, or references said dimples. I’m going to buy a car.”

“Next week at this rate,” Fred complains from somewhere behind me.

Dudebro’s phone chirps again, but this time he doesn’t check it, doesn’t even look down. Instead, he tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans, glances from Fred to me again, and grins.

And I might actually need a moment.

If I thought this guy was pretty before, it has nothing on the way his entire face changes when he smiles. A light has been switched on behind his eyes, and every trace of arrogance seems to just... evaporate. His skin is clear and tan—it practically glows with a warmth that seems to radiate out, coloring his cheeks. The sharpness of his features soften; his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. I know it’s just a smile but it’s like I can’t decide which part I like more: the full lips; white, perfect teeth; or how one side of his mouth lifts just a fraction higher than the other. He makes me want to smile back.