Page 65 of Boyfriend
She nods grimly. We both know that Kippy is strapped for bartending help. One time Carly and I offered to train as bartenders, because the tips are better. But Kippy prefers men. And he had the balls to tell us right to our faces that he wouldn’t let us try it because we’re the best servers he has.
Neither of us wants to argue ahead of our bonus anniversaries, either.
“It gets worse,” she hisses. “Price made a point to tell me that he’ll be seeing a lot more of me. Then he grabbed my ass when I was standing at the touchscreen working on an order.”
“I hate him,” I whisper.
“Two more months,” Carly whispers back. “That’s all I have to stick this out until my bonus check. Let’s not panic yet,” she says, although she looks to be doing that very thing.
“Okay,” I agree just as the bartender on shift dings his little bell. “That’s my last drink order for the night. I’ve already dropped the check, too.”
“Go,” Carly says, shooing me. “Go be with your man. I’ll be fine, Abbi. We both will.”
I’m sure she’s right. I’ve survived Price before. I can do it again.
* * *
The hockey house is a big, multipeaked Victorian home just off campus. The lights are blazing from inside as I climb the stairs to the big porch. My arms are weighed down by a shopping bag full of groceries, and I’m feeling a little foolish.
Lots of women go to parties at the hockey house. It’s just that I’ve never been one of them. The total number of college parties I’ve attended is a pretty low number. I started college less than a year after my mother’s death, when I still lived in Dalton’s home. Both grief and a long commute prevented me from becoming a partier. That was a dark time, and I’m lucky I got decent grades and stayed in school.
So it almost feels like I’m visiting a foreign country as I approach the door.
Before I can reach for the doorbell, the door flies open, and Weston’s smiling face appears. “Abbi! You made it! Let me take that.” He opens the screen door and takes the bag with one of his strong arms.
And then? He uses the other one to scoop me into a kiss.
A really good kiss.
Top-notch.
When he pulls away, it’s too soon. “Somebody's been hard up for a week,” I whisper. And I might mean me.
Weston doesn’t reply. His warm eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, and I get one more kiss on the temple. “Come in. I made the freshmen clean the kitchen, just in case you were serious about making a cake.”
“Oh, I was dead serious.”
“Awesome. Come on, let me show you the place.” He turns to carry my grocery bag into the house.
I straighten my spine and follow him into the living room, where a dozen or so hockey players and various women are perched all over the furniture. The Bruins game is playing on a giant TV on the wall.
“This is where the magic happens," Weston says, indicating the whole first level of the house with a sweep of his arm. "If by magic you mean a lot of debauchery and smack talk."
"Noted." I peel off my coat and Weston hangs it on a coat rack. And I swear every head in the room swings around to stare at us.
"Uh, guys. You remember Abbi from the Biscuit.”
"Hi, Abbi," several voices call out in unison.
“Tonight she’s our guest, yeah?” Weston says. “That means her glass is never empty.”
“Got it,” says a freshman who’s seated on the floor. I guess the furniture is for upperclassmen.
“Good,” Weston says. Then he takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen.
He hadn’t been joking. It's a great kitchen—not fancy, but spacious. There’s a big table with eight chairs, too. And my favorite appliance—the mixer—gleams in the corner. "Wow. Time to cream some butter and sugar."
“Cream? Oh honey, yessss!” He lets out a salacious moan.
