God, that ki—mistake really messed with my head.
He scrutinizes my clothes before raising one eyebrow. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Yes.” I bristle. “Got a problem with that?”
He tilts his head to the side like he’s Tim fucking Gunn judging an outfit on Project Runway. “I’m totally digging the jeans and boots, but the shirt has gotta go.”
I examine my loose blue-and-white striped sweater but I honestly don’t see the issue. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s too baggy. I thought we talked about how you need to show off your stripper tits.”
A strangled cough comes from behind him. “Stripper tits?” Allie echoes as she steps into the room.
“Ignore him,” I tell her. “He’s a chauvinist.”
“No, I’m a guy,” he corrects, then proceeds to flash his trademark grin. “I want to see some cleavage.”
“I like this sweater,” I protest.
Garrett glances at Allie. “Hi, I’m Garrett. What’s your name again?”
“Allie. Hannah’s roommate and BFF.”
“Great. Well, can you tell your roomie and BFF that she looks like a reject from a sailing show?”
She laughs, and then, to my horror—Benedict Arnold!—she agrees with him. “It wouldn’t hurt to wear something more form-fitting,” she says tactfully.
I scowl at her.
Garrett beams. “See? We’re all in agreement. Go big or go home, Wellsy.”
Allie looks from me to Garrett, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. But she’s wrong. We’re not into each other, and we’re certainly not dating. But I suppose it’s better she think that than know I’m going out with him to impress someone else.
Garrett strides to my closet like he owns it. When he pokes his dark head inside, Allie shoots me a grin. She seems highly entertained by all this.
He flips through the hangers to examine my wardrobe, then pulls out a sheer black top. “How about this?”
“No way. It’s see-through.”
“Then why do you own it?”
Good question.
He holds up another hanger, this time a red sweater with a gaping V-neck. “This one,” he says with a nod. “You look great in red.”
Allie’s eyebrows hit the ceiling, and I curse Garrett for putting all these unnecessary ideas in her head. But at the same time, my chest goes warm and gooey, because…he thinks I look great in red? As in, he’s actually noticed what I’ve worn in the past?
Garrett tosses me the shirt. “Okay, get changed. We want to be fashionably late, not asshole late.”
Allie snickers.
I glare at them both. “Can I please have some privacy?”
They’re either oblivious to my annoyance or they’re choosing to ignore it, because I hear them chatting easily in the living room. I suspect Allie is grilling him about our “date,” and I hope to God that Garrett sticks to the bet story. When his husky laughter floats into my bedroom, an involuntary shiver skitters up my spine.
What is happening to me? I’m losing sight of what I want. No, of who I want. Justin. Justin frickin’ Kohl. I shouldn’t be kissing Garrett—or Dean, for that matter—and getting distracted by the strange rush of heat he unleashes inside me.
It’s time to get my head on straight and remember why I agreed to this charade in the first place.
Starting right now.
*
Garrett
Beau Maxwell lives off campus with four of his teammates. Their house is only a few blocks from mine, but a helluva lot bigger, and it’s packed like a hockey arena on game night when Hannah and I walk inside. Deafening hip-hop blasts from the speaker system, and several warm, sweaty bodies jostle us as we venture deeper into the house. All I can smell is alcohol, sweat, and cologne.
I pat myself on the back for convincing Hannah to wear that red top, because holy fucking hell, it looks amazing on her. The material is so thin it outlines every sweet curve of her chest, and that neckline…Sweet Jesus. Her tits are practically pouring out of it, like they’re trying to pop out and say hello. I don’t know if she’s wearing a pushup bra or if her breasts are really that big, but either way, they’re bouncing like crazy with every step she takes.
Several people wander over to say hello to me and there’s a shit ton of curious stares in Hannah’s direction. She fidgets at my side, clearly feeling out of place. My chest goes softer than butter when I glimpse the deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes.
I reach for her hand, which prompts her gaze to fly up to mine in surprise.
Bringing my lips close to her ear, I murmur, “Relax.”
Leaning in is a big mistake, because she smells fantastic. That sweet, familiar cherry fragrance mingles with the faint hint of lavender and something uniquely feminine. It takes a serious amount of willpower not to press my nose into her neck and inhale her. Or taste her with my tongue. Lick and kiss the hot flesh of her throat until she moans.
Oh man. I’m in big trouble. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss. Every time the memory floats into my head, my pulse races and my balls tighten, and all I want to do is kiss the crap out of her again.
The overpowering lust, however, is accompanied by a sense of crushing rejection. Because, clearly, I was the only one affected by that damn kiss. If Hannah had felt something, even in the slightest, she wouldn’t have stuck her tongue down Dean’s throat two seconds later. Dean. One of my best friends.
But she’s not here with Dean tonight, now is she? Nope, she’s my date, and we’re here to make another guy jealous—why can’t I give in to temptation? This might be the only chance I get.
So I plant a soft kiss on the side of her throat before whispering, “You’re gonna be the center of attention tonight, babe. Smile and pretend you’re enjoying it.”
I steal another kiss, this time on the corner of her jaw, and she sucks in a breath. Her eyes widen, and either I’m imagining it, or there’s a glimmer of heat there.
Before I can interpret what I’m seeing, one of the linebackers interrupts us. “Graham! Yo, good to see you, man!” Ollie Jankowitz lumbers over and slaps my back, and the contact jars my entire body because the dude is monster-sized.
“Hey, Ollie,” I say before nodding at Hannah. “Do you know Hannah?”
He wears a blank look for a second. Then his eyes dip to her chest, and a slow smile stretches across his bearded face. “I do now.” He sticks out one meaty paw. “Hey, I’m Oliver.”
She awkwardly shakes his hand. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Got anything to drink in this place?” I ask Ollie.
“Kegs are in the kitchen. Lots of other party favors floating around, too.”
“Nice. Thanks, man. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
I lace my fingers through Hannah’s and lead her to the kitchen, which is packed with drunken frat brothers. I haven’t spotted Beau yet, but I know we’ll run into him eventually.
I’m not too thrilled at the prospect of seeing Kohl, though.
I grab two plastic cups from the stack on the granite counter and make my way to one of the kegs. The frat boys protest, but when they notice who’s pushing them aside, they part for me like the Red fucking Sea. Just another perk of being the captain of Briar’s revered hockey team. I pour two beers, then duck away from the crowd and hold a cup out to Hannah, who adamantly shakes her head.
“It’s a party, Wellsy. Won’t kill you to have one measly beer.”
“No,” she says firmly.
I shrug and take a sip of the watery alcohol. The beer is cheap as fuck, but that’s probably a good thing. Means there’s no chance of me getting wasted off this shit, not unless I drink a whole keg to myself.
As the kitchen empties out, Hannah leans against the counter and sighs. “I hate parties,” she says glumly.
“Maybe that’s because you refuse to drink,” I tease.
“Go ahead and bring on the prude jokes. I don’t mind.”
“I know you’re not a prude.” I wag my eyebrows. “A prude doesn’t kiss the way you do.”
Her cheeks redden. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you’ve got a sexy tongue and you know how to use it.” Ah shit, wrong thing to say. Because now I’m hard. Luckily, my jeans are tight enough to keep my erection from tenting like an asshole.
“Sometimes I think you say things just to make me blush,” Hannah accuses.
“Nope. I’m just being honest.” A swell of voices wafts past the kitchen, and I find myself praying that nobody walks in. I like being alone with Hannah.
And even though there’s no reason to put on a show when we’re alone, I still move closer and sling one arm around her shoulder as I take another sip of water-beer.
“In all seriousness, why are you so anti-drinking?” I ask gruffly.
“I’m not anti-drinking.” She pauses. “I actually kind of like it. In moderation, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo, rolling my eyes before reaching for the second cup I left on the counter. “Would you have a beer already?”
“No.”