More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
The last time Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was sober at a party was never. Dude drinks like a fish or gets higher than a kite every time he leaves the house, and if you think that affects his performance on the ice in any way, then think again. He’s one of those rare creatures who can party like past-day Robert Downey Jr. and somehow be as successful and revered as present-day Robert Downey Jr.
“Oh, come on. Is this about all the shit we’re giving you about the beard?” Exasperation shoots through me. “Because that’s like the first chapter of Beards for Dummies, bro—if you grow a mountain man beard, your friends will make fun of you. End of chapter.” “It’s not about the beard,” he mutters.
Do the fucking math, John.” Oh shit. He first-named me. Tucker only calls me John when I’ve really pissed him off.
“Jesus,” I cut in. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?” Her cheeks are even redder now. “Sorry. Sometimes I babble when I’m nervous.” I shoot her another grin. “I make you nervous?”
“No. Well, maybe a little. I mean, I don’t know you, and…yeah. Stranger danger and all that, though I’m sure you’re not dangerous,” she adds hastily. “But…you know…” “Right. Ted Bundy,” I supply, fighting hard not to laugh.
“You’re on hold, huh?” “Yup.” I glance over at her again. “I’m Logan, by the way. Thanks for letting me use your phone.” “No problem.” She pauses. “I’m Grace.”
“Die Hard Two, actually.” She looks embarrassed. “I’m having a Die Hard night. I just finished the first one.” “Do you have a thing for Bruce Willis or something?” That makes her laugh. “Nope. I just like old action movies. Last weekend I watched the Lethal Weapon franchise.”
“Unless you have somewhere you need to be.” I think it over for a second before shaking my head. “Naah, I have nowhere else to be. I can hang out for a while.” Really, what’s the alternative? Go home to watch Hannah and Garrett hand-feed pizza to each other and sneak kisses during the movie? “Oh. Okay,” Grace says warily. “Uh…cool.” I chuckle. “Were you expecting me to say no?” “Kind of,” she admits. “Why would I? Seriously, what guy turns down Die Hard?
“But I’ve got a whole bag of gummy bears hidden in my desk drawer.” “Marry me,” I say instantly.
When he realizes I’ve caught him staring, he just winks and turns back to the screen.
“Hey, do you think you could land a plane if you had no other choice?”
He chuckles, and the husky sound sets off another round of tingles. “I might be able to fly a helicopter,” he muses. “That’s probably easier than a jet, right?” “Maybe? Honestly, I know nothing about aviation.” It’s my turn to sigh. “Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I’m not sure I understand how planes even stay in the air.”
But when the credits scroll up on the screen, he doesn’t make a single move to get up. Instead, he looks over and asks, “So what’s your deal?” I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?” “It’s Friday night—how come you’re sitting around watching action movies?” The question makes me bristle. “What’s wrong with that?” “Nothing.” He shrugs. “I’m just wondering why you’re not out partying or something.” “I was at a party last night.” Don’t remind him you saw him, don’t remind him you saw him— “I saw you there, by the way.”
“I babbled. A lot.” I offer a little shrug. “I have a really bad habit of doing that around guys.” “You’re not babbling right now,” he points out. “Yeah, now. Do you not remember the serial killer rant I gave you two hours ago?” “Trust me, I remember.”
He’s right. I’m sure there are lots of teams that would want me to play for them. I’m sure one of them would’ve even drafted me—if I’d entered the draft. But Garrett doesn’t know that. He thinks I’ve been passed over these past two years, and—have I mentioned what an asshole friend I am?—I’ve been letting him think it. Because fucked up as it sounds, having my best friend believe I didn’t get picked bums me out a helluva lot less than admitting that I’m never going to play for the pros.
You’ve officially given me enough ammo to rag on you for years.” Yup, I sure did. Nobody ever said I was smart.
Jesus. Is my game slipping?
I type in her name and press enter, then tuck the phone away. “Maybe we can hang out again sometime? We could watch the next Die Hard in the lineup…” “Yeah, sure. That sounds great.” Seriously? Another “yeah, sure”?
Besides, it’ll be a good warm-up for the summer. I tend to forget how much I hate working in the garage, so on that first day back, it’s like being sent to the front lines of a war zone.
“I’ll stop smiling like this if you agree to be my date tonight.” “You’re the most annoying pers—” The grin widens, and he even throws a little wink in there. Ten minutes later, we’re out the door.
Her friend suddenly snorts. “Hey, remember the year at the spring fair? When your mom crashed the stage during that folk band’s set and performed a birthday rap for you?” “You mean do I remember the day I researched how to emancipate myself from my parents?” Grace replies in a dry voice. “Vividly.”
“Aw, hey, don’t cry.” He quickly reaches inside the center console and pulls out a travel pack of tissues. Damn it, I can’t believe I’m bawling in front of him. I sniffle as he hands me the pack. “Thank you.” “No prob.” “No, not just for the tissues. Thank you for showing up and rescuing me. This whole day has been so humiliating,” I mumble.
“Do you want me to drive you home? Because I was thinking of taking you somewhere else first, if you’re interested.” My curiosity is piqued. “Where?” His blue eyes twinkle mischievously. “It’s a surprise.” “A good surprise?” “Is there any other kind?” “Um, yeah. I can think of a hundred bad surprises off the top of my head.” “Name one,” he challenges. “Okay—you’re set up on a blind date, and you show up at the restaurant and Ted Bundy is sitting at the table.” Logan grins at me. “Bundy is your go-to answer for everything, huh?” “It appears so.”
“Seriously, Grace, don’t stress. You know what they say—haters be hating, and bitches be bitching.” I laugh again. “That’s going to be my new motto.” “Good. It should be.”
His tone becomes thoughtful. “So you have a talent for reading people, huh? Can you read me?” I smile. “I haven’t quite figured you out yet.” His husky laughter warms my cheek. “I haven’t quite figured me out yet either.”
“Well, this has been fun, but I think I’ll go upstairs and kill myself now.”
“No, you just want what we have. You want the connection and the closeness and all the gooey relationship stuff.” My mouth snaps shut. Is she right?
“Am I the last person you think about when you go to bed and the first one you think about when you wake up?” I don’t answer. “Am I?” she pushes. “No.” My voice comes out hoarse. “You’re not.” Fucking hell. She might be right. All this time I’ve been feeling guilty about wanting my best friend’s girl, but I think what I really wanted was my best friend’s relationship.
“Well, thank God. Because I was seriously considering promoting Tuck to the number one best friend slot.” “Are you kidding? Big mistake, G. He’s a terrible wingman. Have you seen his beard?” “I know, right?”
Hell, I'm surprised karma hasn’t rained down on me and given me three flat tires and a sprained ankle by now for being such an ass.
My phone buzzes, and I hurl myself at the night table like an Olympic high jumper. She texted back. Oh, thank fuck. That means she doesn’t view me as the antichrist— The message isn’t from Grace.
Yeah, well, I don’t care that they care. Ignoring Logan is a lot easier than ignoring Ramona, though. I knew him for a whopping total of eight days. I’ve known her for thirteen years.
Stop doing things that make you feel empty. Have fun. Make things right with that girl, if that’s what’ll make you happy. Quit sulking and make the most of your senior year.” “I’m not sulking.” “Yeah, well, you’re not doing anything productive, either.”
Freedom, hockey, and friends. Yup, all those things make the list. But the number one slot? That’s a no-brainer. I need to make things right with Grace.
“I swear to God,” she interrupts, “if I have to hear one more lecture about my breath control, I will punch you. All of you. I like to sing when I run. Deal with it.”
Then her head lifts, and holy shit again, because I was right the first time—it is her. I stumble to a stop, completely forgetting about Dean and Hannah, who keep running. From her perch on the steps, Grace looks in my direction, and although thirty or so yards separate us, I know she recognizes me.
“I want to take you out on a date.” She looks amused. Goddamn it. Amused. As if I’ve just told her a humdinger of a joke. “I mean it,” I insist. “Will you go on a date with me?” Grace is quiet for a moment, then says, “No.”
“Okey dokey. I’ll keep being the question-asker then.” “Did you just say okey dokey?”
Defeat crushes down on my chest, followed by a surge of hope, because technically, she didn’t say no. She said “not right now.” I can absolutely work with that.
It’s good to be home. Not to rip off Dorothy or anything, but there really is no place like it.
“We should’ve bribed Simms’s profs to fail him,” Garrett says with a sigh, and I realize I’m not the only one worrying about Simms’s departure. “We’ll be okay,” I answer, rather unconvincingly. “No, we won’t,” comes Dean’s voice, and then he enters the kitchen
“Holy shit,” I blurt out. “You shaved the beard.” I glare at Garrett. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve thrown us a party.” Dean snickers. “You mean thrown him a party.” “No, he means us,” Garrett replies for me. “We’re the ones who had to stare at that ghastly thing for half a year.” I smack Tuck’s ass as he breezes past my stool. “Welcome back, Babyface.” “Fuck off,” he grumbles. Yup, it’s good to be home.
“You know who else had natural charm?” I retort. “Ted Bundy.” Dean dons a blank look. “Who?” “The serial killer.” Oh Jesus, I’ve jumped on the Bundy bandwagon. I’m turning into Grace.
“I’m a shitty friend,” she whispers. I offer no argument. “I shouldn’t have sent him that message. I don’t even know why I did—” She stops abruptly, shame reddening her cheeks. “No, I do know why. Because I’m a jealous, insecure bitch.” Again, no argument there.
But common sense comes too late, because Logan is now moving away from the counter and marching in my direction. “Hey, gorgeous.” He slides in the seat across from me and places a chocolate-chip muffin on the table. “I got you a muffin.” Damn it, I guess he’d noticed me right when he’d walked in. “Why?” I ask in suspicion, and without saying hi. “’Cause I wanted to get you something, and you already have coffee. Ergo, muffin.” I raise one eyebrow. “Are you trying to buy your way into my good graces?”
“Yup. And excellent pun, by the way.” “I wasn’t punning. My name just happens to be a homonym.” His blue eyes gleam as he downright smolders at me. “I love it when you talk homonyms to me.”
“Congrats on your wide-open schedule,” I grumble. “But I’m not going out with you.” Logan grins. “Tonight, or in general?” “Both.”
“No need. We’re all done here.” I scrape my chair back and hop to my feet. “We most certainly are not,” Logan mutters. Amused, Garrett glances from me to Logan. “I took a mandatory conflict resolution seminar back in high school. Do you guys need a mediator?”
I’m not in the mood to go to a kegger tonight, but Garrett informs me that if he has to go, then I have to go, because, and I quote, “best friends suffer together or not at all.”
I politely pointed out that we could always pick the “not at all” option, which earned me a dark scowl and a menacing you’re going finger-point.
