He's Not My Type (The Vancouver Agitators, #4)

by Meghan Quinn

Eli Hornsby—the pretty boy. Pacey Lawes—the elder of the group. And Silas Taters—the asshole.

I don’t know who this is or what she’s doing here, but she is easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my tired eyes on.

She turns toward me, her eyes connecting with mine, and fucking hand to heart, I feel this jolt of possession rock through me so fucking hard that I have to catch my breath. I can’t tell you the last time I felt something like this.

But hell, this girl has me all twisted up inside. One look and my palms started sweating, I felt tongue-tied, and my heart raced faster than when I was chasing down a puck against an opponent. With one look, she brought me back to life.

Narrator: Unfortunately for Halsey Holmes . . . it wasn’t a one-and-done interaction. In fact, he’s seen her almost every day in the hallway of the arena, which has only enabled his crush to the point that when he runs into her . . . he burns. Poor, poor Halsey.

Some might say the author of his story could have cut out the last fifteen percent, and everyone would have still been pleased with the outcome.”

“Holmes isn’t happy, and he doesn’t have a lot of sex,” Posey says out of fucking nowhere.

“Are you his landlord?” Blakely teases. “More like his hairy godmother.” Posey makes himself laugh . . . and only himself.

“Sherman, right?” Silas asks, getting in on it. Oh, look who’s dead to me as well. Posey and Silas, both dead to me.

Mark my words, you and Blakely are going to be boyfriend and girlfriend by the end of the season.