“She left out a few details.” I know that Reagan’s dad is the coach of a rowing team but she neglected to mention that she even knew Connor, let alone that he was on that team. Again, I glance over my shoulder. Reagan is leaning up against Grant, half-hiding, watching me with a pained expression.
“We’re also all members of Tiger Inn. A Princeton eating club. You’ve heard of those, right?”
“Kind of like a frat, right?”
Connor shrugs. “Way more relaxed than a frat, but we do bicker.”
I quickly pick through my limited knowledge of Princeton’s social scene to avoid sounding like a dumbass. “Bicker . . . that means pledge, right?”
“Right. You can’t bicker until spring of your sophomore year, but you should start getting to know the various houses.” Grabbing my hand, Connor pulls me toward another room.
“So you’re on the rowing team?”
“Yeah, all four of us. Come on.” Connor grabs my hand and tugs me forward. “Come meet Ash.”
My brain has just enough time to process, my stomach has enough time to drop, and my legs falter as we step into the den. I’m sure my face is displaying the perfect mix of shock, embarrassment, and horror. There, stretched out in an oversized armchair, beer in one hand, remote in the other, is the tall, lean form with dark brown eyes and shaggy hair that I’ve sworn out of my life.
Ashton “I Regret You” Henley.
“This is Ashton, our captain, though for the life of me I can’t figure out why,” Connor says in a playful manner, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I know exactly who Ashton is and am about to collapse.
I can’t speak as I stare at that face, as I watch those eyes shift from me to Connor to Connor’s hand holding mine, taking a long sip of his beer as he does so.
“Irish,” he finally offers in a flat tone. I notice his jaw is clenched. This is probably as comfortable for him as it is for me. His regretful night—the girl he wants to forget happened—is standing in his house.
“Wait a minute . . .” Connor’s hand slips out of mine. Oh . . .here we go . . . A finger points toward me as Connor’s head cocks to the side. He stares wide-eyed at his roommate. “This is the girl who dared you to get that tattoo?”
I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, silently saying goodbye to any chance I might have had with Connor. When I open them again, the two of them are staring at me.
“Well, how about that!” Connor throws an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me to him. “You’re famous around here!”
I feel the color drain from my face. “Famous?” I manage to squeak out. As what? The robot-dancing, face-sucking virginal boozehound? I turn around to find that Grant and Reagan have snuck up behind us. I throw a set of extra-sharp daggers directly at Reagan’s face for setting up this ambush. Her mouth clamps on her drink as she quickly ducks behind Grant.
I turn back to face the guy I want to impress and the guy I want to forget, and I silently wonder how today could possibly get worse.
“Ashton. Babe—we’ve got to get going if I’m going to get to the airport in time.” I hear the voice before the blond appears through another entrance into the room with her purse and coat slung over her arm. Leaning over the back of his chair, she lays a long kiss on his lips.
Connor leans toward me in ignorant bliss. “That’s Ashton’s girlfriend, Dana.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Man Whore
I’ve given up on talking by this point. I know that whatever comes out of my mouth will be idiotic gibberish because I tend to speak that way when I’m nervous or shocked or upset. Right now, standing here, watching Ashton and his girlfriend kissing, the perfect storm of all three brews inside me.
Dana pulls away from Ashton at the sound of her name. “Hi, Reagan! Hi . . .”
“This is Livie,” Connor says.
She offers me a warm smile. “Hi, Livie. It’s nice to meet you.”
I try to smile back. I think that I succeed. I’m not sure; it could have looked more like the sneer of a rabid animal. I’m too busy trying to calm the screaming inside of my head.
That asshole cheated on her. With me!
My eyes dart to his face, to see that he’s staring at me with a strange expression. It’s not his usual arrogance. It’s not guilt, which it should be. No, I know exactly what it is. Desperation. He’s pleading with me not to say anything. He doesn’t want his girlfriend to find out. It all makes sense now. This is why he wants to keep what happened between us quiet. But then . . .why would I be famous?