The Mistake

Piper Stevens is undeniably beautiful, but that Twitter smear campaign she started against Grace has not been forgotten.

The kiss lands on my cheek, and although she pulls away afterward, she’s still pressed up against me, her hand stuck to my arm like hockey tape. “So, it’s our senior year,” she says. “Know what that means?”

I can’t even pretend to be interested. I’m busy peering at the kitchen doorway in search of Grace. “What?”

“It means our time is running out.”

Warm lips brush the side of my throat, and I flinch and take a step away.

She frowns. “You’ve been playing hard to get for three years,” she accuses. “Isn’t it about time you gave us what we wanted?”

A snort slips out before I can stop it. “What you want, Piper. I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not interested.”

Her red-lipsticked mouth forms a pout. “Think about how good it will be. All this pent-up animosity between us?” She stands on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, her dark hair tickling my chin. “The sex would be fucking explosive.”

I uncurl her fingers from my arm. “Tempting,” I lie. “But I’ll pass. Hey, if you’re hard up, we’ve got some new meat on the team. This kid Hunter might be right up your alley.”

Her eyes blaze. “Fuck you. Don’t try to pimp me out to your teammates.”

“I’m not pimping you out, babe. Simply giving you a heads up. See you around, Piper.”

I can feel her glaring daggers into my back as I leave the kitchen, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m sick of her constant come-ons and total disregard for the fact that I’m not fucking interested.

I wander through the main floor again, checking every room twice before giving up. Maybe she’s outside. It’s crazy-humid tonight, so the party is both an indoor and outdoor affair, which means it’s time to widen my perimeter.

I decide to start out front. When I step into the parlor, triumph shoots through me, because I catch a glimpse of Grace on the winding staircase.

She’s alone, and my pulse accelerates as I admire how the stretchy fabric of her black skirt hugs her ass. Her long hair flows down her back, rippling like a golden curtain with each step she takes. Shit, she’s on the move.

She reaches the second-floor landing and disappears around the corner, and the loss of visual contact spurs me to action.

Without missing a beat, I stride toward the stairs and hurry after her.

*

Grace

In the upstairs powder room, I wash my hands, then dry them with a New England Patriots towel that makes me grin. Sports merchandising has always seemed like such a lucrative industry to me. Slap a team logo on any old item and millions of people will buy it no matter what it is.

I check my reflection in the mirror, satisfied to find that thanks to my heavy-duty frizz-control cream, my hair survived the stifling humidity it endured on the walk to Greek Row. Morris had picked me up at my dorm, and although we talked non-stop all the way here, we haven’t spoken much since we came inside. The music is too loud, and Morris is too engrossed in the first-person shooting game they’re playing in the den. The moment we arrived, Fat Ted ordered Morris to plant his ass on the couch and slapped a game controller in his hand.

I don’t mind, though. I’ve been having fun watching Morris beat Ted’s record on every level. Each time he does it, the frat boys cheer as if they’re witnessing the final touchdown in the Super Bowl and heckle Fat Ted about getting his ass beat. Fat Ted, by the way? Not fat.

Sometimes I really don’t understand nicknames.

When I step out into the hall, I experience the most acute sense of déjà vu. Except this time, instead of Logan walking out of a bathroom and me waiting in the hall, it’s the other way around.

A surprised noise squeaks out of my throat when I spot him. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in three days, not since the muffin incident.

“Evening, gorgeous.” He grins at me. “I’m totally digging that skirt.”

His blue eyes conduct a slow sweep of my bare legs, and I curse Daisy for convincing me to wear a short skirt tonight. I then curse myself for allowing his sultry gaze to unleash a flurry of hot tingles, most of which scurry downward and congregate between my legs.

I sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“Attending a party.” He rolls his eyes. “Why? What brings you here?”

I answer through clenched teeth. “I’m on a date.”

The confession doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “Yeah? Where’s your date at? You should introduce me.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Logan steps closer, and his spicy scent surrounds me like a thick haze. His big frame dominates my personal space. Broad shoulders and long legs and a chest that’s so ripped I can see each individual muscle straining beneath his T-shirt. I want to slide my hands beneath his shirt and run my hands over every hard ridge. And then slide them in the opposite direction, slip them inside his pants and wrap my fingers around his—