Page 37 of These Pucking Boys

My face becomes hot in zero-point-two seconds. Crap. “I’m sorry. I obviously don’t think you’re boys… ugh. Melissa said it, and I thought it was a cute endearment. I don’t have the history she has with you to call you that, and?—”

He places his hand on my leg, giving me instant radioactive butterflies. “Relax. I’m not mad. You can call them boys.”

“And you?”

His hand slides off my leg as he looks at the road. I miss the contact immediately. “If you want to. Although I’ve never considered myself cute.”

“Hot guys can be cute too.”

He laughs. “You think I’m hot?”

Shit. I can’t believe I said that out loud. I sink further into the supple leather seat, hoping it will swallow me. Here it is, the awkward morning-after moment I was dreading.

“Forget I said anything.”

“You’re blushing. It’s adorable,” he replies, amusement lacing his tone.

“It doesn’t take much when I’m around you guys.”

He chuckles. “I noticed.”

Oh God. Is he thinking about last night? He must be, because I am too. I’m still tender in certain parts.

I clear my throat. “Tell me about your neighbor.”

“Oh, she’s a hoot, the grandmother I wish I had.”

His comment makes me curious about his family, but we’re on the neighbor topic now, and I’m not about to change it to pry into his personal life. “Is she a hockey fan?”

“Not when we met her, but she is now. She comes to every home game and even converted some of her friends to fans as well.”

“How did you officially meet?”

He laughs. “That’s a funny story, but not mine to tell. You need to ask Ryan.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I mumble. “Do you think Mrs. Carpenter will be okay with me staying at her place?”

“I’m sure, but if it makes you feel better, I can call her and make the introductions.”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Thank you.”

I begin to relax, until some jackass cuts in front of Jake’s car, forcing him to step on the brakes hard to avoid a collision. The seat belt digs into my chest painfully, but it’s better than my face smashing against the windshield. One of the boxes in the backseat slides forward, and judging by the noise, something fell out.

“Motherfucker!” Jake yells as he slams the heel of his hand against the car’s horn. Then he turns to me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I check what fell out of the box and see my ukulele case on the floor. I try to pick it up, but the strap catches on something.

“What fell?” he asks but doesn’t look away from the traffic ahead. “I heard something.”

“Just my ukulele. It should be fine.”

“You play?”

“Yeah, or at least, I used to. Bill hates it, so I stopped practicing when he was around.”

Jake’s jaw tenses. “I’m glad he’s out of the picture.”

My heart constricts. I’m glad too, but I’m also super depressed that I wasted years of my life with him. Speaking about all the things I stopped doing because of him, and the stuff I let him get away with… it makes me so mad at myself. I was an idiot.

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