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Like Wildlings storming Castle Black, the towering goliaths of the Briar University hockey team trample through the house, all thick shoulders and broad chests. “All hail the conquering heroes,”
The privileges of dating royalty. Although a fourth-stringer ain’t exactly Prince Harry, but maybe somewhere closer to the coke-addict son of someone prince-adjacent.
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“Your boobs have a gravitational force that only attracts douchebags,” Sasha says with a snort.
“If your girlfriend wants to take her top off, I’ll forfeit right now,” Foster says, trying to get a rise out of Hunter. He’s too easy. Caveman mode activated, Hunter yanks his T-shirt over his head and pulls it down over Demi so it looks like a baggy dress on her. “Eyes on the cups, dickhead.”
Buy a man flowers, at least. Or hell, lead off with a good joke. But it is what it is, I suppose.
Because whoever is torturing this poor girl is certainly watching us right now and they can eat shit. “Lead the way, babe.”
“Gotta be honest,” I tell her, entwining my hands behind my head, “I’ve never seen a girl so unhappy to be locked in a bedroom with me.”
Which is even more reason to get the hell out of here before I catch feelings. Because Conor Edwards is absolutely the guy you fall for before you learn that girls like me don’t get guys like him.
He’s sweet, charming, funny—all those sneaky qualities of men that trick us into believing we can turn them into something civilized.
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“Babe, you’ve got the kind of body that boys build in their heads under the sheets after dark.”
“Okay, so we’ll close our eyes for five minutes and then get up.” “Just rest our eyes. You know, eyes get tired.”
From the first whistle, Coach has been on a rampage like he just found out Jake Connelly knocked up his daughter or something.
Even Hunter, who’s tried his damnedest to maintain a positive attitude as team captain, is starting to look like he wants to call his mommy to come pick him up.
He’s acting weird. And sort of whiny. Suddenly I’m wondering if this is some kind of personality disorder thing.
“Are you our new mommy?” The third guy cracks open a beer, smiling with stupid puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t help but laugh in return.
“Um, yeah, all good. I’m…you’re…ah…I like your dress.” Matt snickers from his new perch on one of the recliners. “Pick your tongue off the floor, loverboy.”
I wouldn’t quite call them perfect gentlemen, but they’re not sleazebags, either.
“Could you jackasses try not embarrassing yourselves in front of the company?” Conor chides. “Sorry, they’re not housebroken.”
Conor looks aghast. “Abstain? Hell no. I’m gonna try to seduce you at every turn.”
Just an LOL. To a video of a surfing Chihuahua! What the hell.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper. “Having dinner with my girlfriend,” he says with a sly smirk that suggests he’s up to no good. “She tries to keep me locked up in her bedroom all day,” Conor tells the table, “but I thought it’d be fun to meet her friends.”
“It was a nice kiss.” Nice? Well, fuck me. That’s the most lukewarm response to a kiss I’ve ever received.
mean, think about all those people at the bar looking at us.” Frankly, I didn’t even notice anyone else. When I’m with her, I’m only watching Taylor.
Taylor Marsh has no idea how cool she is, and that’s a fucking shame.
I don’t give a shit what other people think.” I don’t live my life on the basis of other people’s opinions or to please anyone but myself.
I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I watched you cross the room at that party.”
“my conspiracy to keep her away from malls ends today.”
Have I mentioned that Summer is banana pants?
When I spot number nineteen at the bar, he offers to buy me a shot, and I accept because my pride never gets in the way of free booze.
Speak of the well-meaning devil.
My mom didn’t raise me on fairy tales and I was stupid for falling for my own ill-conceived ruse.
“I know I’ve been a fuckboy in the past. But I don’t want to be that guy with you.”
I don’t think she’s convinced yet that I’m reformed, and to be honest, no one is more surprised by my recent turn in favor of monogamy than I am.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” I respond. Foster snorts. “So then what’s your excuse?”
“Honestly, I’m trying to see how long I can go before she realizes I’m a dirtbag and she’s too smart for me.”
“You know, if you didn’t treat yourself like a dirtbag, maybe other people wouldn’t, either.” “Thanks, Dad.” “Whatever, dickhead.”
But if he’s going to have a midlife crisis, I’d rather it be with a boat than a younger woman.”
“You can’t go to jail for setting your own boat on fire,” I inform her. “I read that somewhere.”
Taylor Marsh, able to leap tall bitches in a single bound.
“Make a man outta me, Taylor Marsh.”
“No one who cares about you gives a damn if you grew up rich or not. Anyone who does isn’t your friend anyway, so fuck ’em. You belong here just as much as anybody.”
Jesus, woman. I take my eyes off her for five minutes and she’s gone and shacked up with some townie.
But Christ in a basket I never, ever envisioned Iris Marsh knocking boots with a Chad of all people.
“If you decide you don’t like the dude, just give me a signal,” I tell her. “And then what?” “I don’t know. I’ll switch out his sugar with salt or something. I could also replace all his beer with piss, but then you’d have to drive us home.”
“Deal. But only if he’s a super douche, like he’s got a portrait of himself hanging up in his dining room.”
“Number forty-two,” Taylor supplies. Fuck me. “What is it?” She stares at me, alarmed by the look on my face. “This is Coach’s house.” She blinks. “I don’t understand what you mean.” “I mean this is Coach Jensen’s house. Forty-two Manchester Road.” “But this is Chad’s house.” A strangled laugh pops out. “Hey babe, let’s play a game—” “What are you babbling about?” “—It’s called ‘Guess Coach Jensen’s first name.’”
“Oh my God. IS IT CHAD?” “It’s Chad,” I choke out between hearty chuckles.
