Page 19 of Hat Trick

My cup crumples as my knees dartinward.

I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do at all, but for the first time in my life, I’m flying by the seat of my pants—or skirt, as the case may be. All I know is that the panic I felt when he walked away at the engagement party is not something I want to experienceagain.

Marshall plucks the cup from between my knees, holding it up with a raised brow before basketball-tossing it into the trash bin opposite us. Naturally, he’s got dead-center aim, and it disappears into the depth ofwaste.

“I had a pretty shit day,” he says, repeating the NBA-worthy throw with his own cup. “Figured if there was anyone out there who could make it better, it’d beyou.”

Unexpected warmth squeezes my heart. “That’s sosweet—”

“Asfriends.”

What?My mouth falls open, and there’s no way that I look anything but ridiculous right now. “What do you mean asfriends?” My voice emerges loud enough that a few people walking past slow down and crane their heads to look back atus.

“Lover’s spat,” Marshall tells them with a little finger wave in our direction. He goes as far as to wrap his arm around my shoulders and yank me up against his hard body. “You know how itgoes.”

You know how itgoes?!

What is he—is he . . . I can’t even get my thoughts to straighten out, I’m so flustered. But I do manage to untangle myself as I shoot over to the far side of the bench.Breathe, breathe, breathe. Donotrevert back to the OldGwen.

It would be so easy to do just that. To lay into him with a sharp tongue and a one-liner about not needing him as a friend, that I have plenty of friends (I don’t), and that I especially don’t need hisfriendshipwhen he led me to believe that this was, in fact, adate.

But I refuse to be thatperson.

This is a test, that’sall.

A test of my self-control and respect for my self-worth, and there is no way I’m going to give him even the smallest glimpse into my shock . . . and, yes, my disappointment. I press a hand to my chest, feeling the erratic pounding of my heart through my coat. Yup, disappointmentexists.

I’m not happy aboutit.

Determined to show how unaffected I am by his announcement, I flick my red hair over my shoulders and make a point to meet his gaze. “Friends is good. I mean, we haven’t even gone to the sculptures but I can already tellthat. . .”

I purposely dangle that unfinished sentence in his face, letting him make of it what hewill.

Marshall doesn’t let medown.

Square jaw clenches. Pewter gray eyesnarrow.

No doubt about it, if I played hockey and he was coming my way, I’d be down in the fetal position in three secondsflat.

Model-handsome or not, he’s got the wholeI-will-make-you-piss-yourselfglare down to aT.

Not that I’ve pissedmyself.

Nor do I intendto.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, voicehard.

I pretend to admire my cuticles, turning them this way and that. He willnotsee how much I was looking forward to tonight. Obviously, I was mistaken—Marshall isn’t a forever kind ofguy.

He’s not even anowkind ofguy.

Not when push comes to shove and I finally throw myself athim.

Guess he wanted the chase like every other guy inexistence.

To my surprise, he captures my wrist, halting my inspection of my manicured nails, and tugs me forward, towardhim.

I don’t have the chance to preserve mybalance.

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