Page 9 of Hate to Love You

If I’ve learned anything over the three years I’ve known Brody, it’s that I have to stop responding to him or the back and forth will continue indefinitely. He’s like a needy child. One who doesn’t care if it’s positive or negative reinforcement he receives, he just wants attention.

I growl as he steals yet another fry. His dimples flash as he aims a full-wattage smile in my direction. On any other guy, I find dimples adorable. But not on him. As far as Brody McKinnon is concerned, there’s not a damn thing he can do to soften my feelings for him. They’re etched in stone for all of eternity.

Plus, he delights in pissing me off.

How perverse is that?

“Riddle me this, how do you eat this crap and stay so thin?” Even though I’m sitting next to him, his eyes wander up and down the length of me. His perusal brings a sharp sting of heat to my cheeks. “You must have one hell of a metabolism, Davies.”

“My metabolism,” I bite out, “is none of your beeswax. I’m sure you’ve got more pressing matters to think about. Like the number of parties you can hit tonight timed by the number of girls you can mislead into making you a drunken mistake they’ll regret in the morning when they’re racing to the pharmacy for the Plan B pill.” I bat my eyelashes at him. “You know…the important stuff.”

Rather than respond to my insults, he sweeps them aside and ignores them. Looking serious, he points a fry in my direction. “You should treat your body like a temple. It’s the only one you’ve got. Maybe we should get together sometime and go over the importance of proper nutrition.”

I snicker. “Sure, McKinnon. Now, would that involve me showing up at your house and playing a game of hide-the-sausage?”

A huge grin lights up his face, and his shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. “Sure, we can play that while I explain the basic food groups. I always like when you can hit two birds with one stone.”

“The only thing around here that’s going to get hit—”

“All right you two,” Zara snaps. “I’ve had just about enough!” Her glare encompasses both of us. “If you don’t stop this incessant bickering, I’m going to turn this car around, and you’ll both be sorry!”

I give Zara a sullen look and jerk my thumb in Brody’s direction. “He started it.”

“I don’t care who started it,” she says. “I’m gonna end it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mom,” I grumble.

“Good.” She waggles a finger between us. “You two need to learn how to play nice with one another.”

Brody holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m trying to play nice. I’d like to play nice all damn day with her.”

He leers, and I shoot him another hard-edged look.

As much as I like Luke, I could do without his trusty sidekick. When Zara confessed that she was involved with the blond-haired hockey player, I never considered the possibility that Brody and I would occasionally be thrown together.

So, unless I want to stop hanging out with Zara, I’m going to have to find a way to deal with him.

My friend clears her throat. “About this weekend…”

The shift in topic makes me glance expectantly at Zara. When she doesn’t continue, my gaze bounces to Luke and then back to Zara again. For some reason, all three sets of eyes are now focused on me. A sinking sensation fills my belly.

“What?” I tense and meet each of their gazes in turn with a frown. No one says a word. It’s crickets. “What’s going on this weekend?” My current plans include yoga pants and a comfy sweatshirt, binge-watching Netflix, and ordering a large pizza with extra cheese. Other than that, I got nothing.

“Well…” Zara’s voice trails off, and she glances at Luke.

“Just spit it out,” I say. My nightmare just so happens to be sitting next to me. So, how much worse can this get?

“The guys are having a huge blowout at the house on Saturday, and I want you to come with me.”

“Nooooooo,” I moan and slump on the bench.

I should have realized this conversation was going to happen. I’d heard through the grapevine there was going to be a massive party at the hockey house. It’s been plastered all over social media.

“Yeeeeeeees,” she responds.

“Come on, Zar,” I whine pathetically. “Please, don’t make me go. You know how much I hate those things.” I’m not a total stick-in-the-mud. I’ve been to my fair share of parties over the past three years. But hockey parties are a madness all their own. It’s debauchery and binge drinking at its finest. It’s like they’ve ripped a page out of Hugh Hefner’s playbook. All someone needs to do is start wearing a yacht captain’s hat and a burgundy velour bathrobe, and it would resemble the Playboy Mansion during its heyday.

Zara’s voice gentles as if she’s trying to reason with an overtired child in the midst of a full-on tantrum. “I know, sweetie. And I totally get it, I do. But—”

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