Page 42 of The Dixon Rule

“I’m serious,” Will says. “Just…you know…make it look like I have a reason to go upstairs with you.”

The pleading flash in his brown eyes is cause for alarm. He only recently moved in with Beck and Ryder, right after Shane moved to Meadow Hill. So why doesn’t he want to go home? It’s been a week. They can’t already be having roommate issues.

But I’m unable to ignore a man in distress, so when Shane joins us, I shove the garbage bag at him and reach for his teammate’s hand.

With a wink, Will laces his fingers through mine and calls out to Beckett. “Hey, go on without me. I’m gonna crash here.”

Beckett seems startled for a moment. Then he notices our intertwined hands, and the corners of his mouth tick up. “Got it. See you tomorrow.”

Once Beckett and Lily are gone, I tug on Will’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Shane’s jaw drops. “Really? You assholes aren’t gonna help?” He points to the tables still laden with pizza boxes and empties.

I smirk at him. “Not my party, not my responsibility.”

Will merely shrugs. “Sorry, bro. I’ve got other plans.”

Shane glares at his teammate. “Don’t do this, man. She’s going to eat you alive. There’s still time to make the right decision.”

“He’s just jealous,” I assure Will. “I swear, this guy is obsessed with me.”

“You wish,” Shane growls. “And don’t forget who kissed who.”

“Don’t forget whose penis got hard and whose vagina got dry.”

“You were wetter than the Atlantic,” he shoots back.

“Dryer than the Sahara. But it’s okay. I’m positive you’ll be able to turn on a woman someday. Just keep practicing on your sex doll.”

Fluttering my free hand in a careless wave, I pull Will away from the pool area toward the path home. A glance over my shoulder reveals a sullen Shane, broad shoulders hunched, clearing up the rest of the mess.

“You could be nicer to him,” Will tells me. The full moon clearly reveals the amused curve of his mouth.

“I could,” I agree. “But I won’t.”

I’ll also never give him the satisfaction of knowing how much I enjoyed kissing him. Why are the arrogant jerks always the best kissers?

Once we’re safely inside Red Birch and I’ve closed my apartment door behind us, Will offers a sincere look and says, “Thanks for doing this.”

“Are you really staying over?”

He nods. “It’s still cool, right?”

“I mean, yes, but…”

“Don’t worry, I’m not expecting anything to happen.”

“Well, good. Because nothing’s happening. But I do require an explanation in exchange for room and board.”

“You have like an extra sheet and blanket or something I can throw on the couch?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re going to sleep in my bed. It’s big enough for both of us. You’ll have to endure my beauty routine, though. I refuse to go to bed without taking care of my skin.” I study him. “Actually, you could use some face TLC too. You have a bit of a sunburn.”

“I worked outside all week.”

“All right. Come into my office.”

He smiles, drawing my attention to his boy-next-door looks. He’s just that classic all-American guy, the one who wears his letterman jacket in high school, graduates college with a very practical degree, and marries a woman who’ll give him 2.5 kids and bake cookies on the weekends. Then in the fall, they go to pumpkin patches together and take family pictures, posing in matching orange sweaters.

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