Page 4 of These Pucking Boys

“Why are you even interested? Don’t you have enough women throwing themselves at your feet?” Lachlan asks.

“You know, Lachy, you could have as many admirers as I do if you weren’t such a grump.”

“Piss off.” He flips Ryan off and then strides to his room.

I sigh. “Why do you have to pick on him all the time?”

“Because he makes it so damn easy.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “We need to leave for the arena in thirty minutes.”

“I know.” I open the fridge and grab a salad.

“You’re still wearing sweats and a T-shirt.”

I dump my salad on a plate, then sit at the counter. “Your point?”

He throws his hands in the air. “I give up. You’re hopeless.”

A grin spreads across my lips. “Unlike you, I don’t need two hours to get dressed.”

He runs his hands over his pristine suit jacket. “Whatever. If you and Lachy aren’t ready in half an hour, I’m leaving without you.”

“Stop stressing. We’ll be ready. When have we ever made you late for anything?”

His brows shoot to the heavens. “Every other day?”

I point my fork at him. “Exactly.”

He stares at me without saying a word. Then he shakes his head. “I swear to God, I don’t know why I still try to have a normal conversation with you.”

“Because you luuv me,” I reply with my mouth full to piss him off. He hates it when I do that.

“You’re such a child.” He stalks out of the kitchen and disappears into his room.

Alone at last. Now I can worry about how I’m going to keep my promise to Mrs. Carpenter. Ryan wasn’t wrong. Her grandson is worthless. I hope one of the pet sitters will work out. Otherwise, I’m definitely fucked.

CHAPTER 3

JUNE

By the time I find a parking spot at the arena, my nerves are fried. Thanks to my detour to the dry cleaner, I didn’t have time to go home and change. But luckily, I always carry a bag with essentials in my purse. In the parking lot, I do my makeup, spray dry shampoo in my hair, and reapply deodorant and perfume. Then I pop a mint in my mouth and head out. Bill already texted me asking where I am. I have the tickets on my phone.

I find him pacing in front of the entrance with his phone glued to his ear. He’s in his work clothes as well, but he ditched his jacket and tie, and his dark hair is messier than usual as if he ran his fingers through it. He still looks better than me, a fact that’s obvious when he gives me an overall glance, tightens his lips, and narrows his brown eyes.

“I have to call you back,” he tells whoever is on the other end of the line.

What I’m wearing isn’t terrible. It’s a cute A-line dress with a constellation print, but it has several marker stains on the front. I didn’t think they were noticeable, but judging from the way Bill is glowering, maybe they are. He hates messy stuff.

“What the hell do you have on?”

Pulling my best Cher fromCluelessimpression, I reply, “A dress.”

“You’re wearing the Boston Zodiacs’ colors.”

I look down, noticing the purple, blue, and black colors. Ah hell. I actually am. “It wasn’t intentional. I planned to stop by the apartment to change.”

His scowl doesn’t go away. “Why didn’t you, then?”

Is he seriously asking me that? “You asked me to pick up your dry cleaning, remember?”

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