Page 2 of End Game

I’m about to tune out this very sports-heavy and boring conversation when one of them says something that has my ears perking up big time.

“Now we’ll have to find someone else to move into his room.” This is said with an exasperated groan. I even catch the guy tossing the rest of his muffin onto a napkin on the table, and I swear I see steam rise from the broken bits.

Oh my God, I am so hungry.

The one who gave poor old Sampson endless shit—I slide my gaze over to check him out, and holy wow, his freaking face makes my breath catch—is glowering at his friend the muffin destroyer. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Empty rooms are a commodity around here.”

“I don’t want to live with someone else,” the muffin man practically whines before he snatches up a chunk of the muffin—looks like blueberry—and shoves it in his mouth. “We had a good thing going.”

“We still do,” Mr. Handsome pretty much growls, and be still my rapidly beating heart. The voice matches the face, and the face is like whoa. Dark hair. Dark eyes. High cheekbones and a strong chin. Even frustrated with his friend and teammate and roommate, there’s a faint smile curling his lips, and it’s a good one.

Mad understatement. It’s agreatone.

“Right.” Muffin Man shakes his head, and the other guy at their table just laughs. “I’m going to let you take care of finding a roommate to rent out that room, then. I don’t have time for that shit.”

“I don’t have time for it, either, but I’m sure it won’t be difficult.” Mr. Handsome chooses that moment to glance around the café, and for the briefest moment, our gazes meet. Lock. He doesn’t look away, andneither do I, and on his face appears this slow, downright panty-melting smile that has me dropping my gaze, my cheeks going hot.

Holy hell, this guy is way too good looking. And he knows it.

I keep my focus strictly on the table while I listen to them discuss roommate options as they finish eating. Then all three of them stand, impressively towering above everyone else as they move as one unit toward the door, tossing their trash on the way out.

Within seconds I’m on my feet, following them at a discreet distance, my earlier hunger forgotten. The great thing about Santa Mira is that the college campus is literally in the center of town, and most everything a student needs to get to is within walking or biking distance.

My suspicions are confirmed when they don’t jump into a car and take off. They amble at a leisurely pace down the sidewalk, chatting loudly and gesturing with their hands until they eventually make a left onto a side street that is lined with apartment buildings and the occasional house.

“Should we mention the open room on one of those Facebook groups?” the muffin man asks, his voice ringing loudly.

The handsome one makes a dismissive noise. “Who’s on Facebook anymore besides people as old as our parents?”

“I have a Facebook profile.” Muffin Man sounds offended.

“So do I, but I’m never on it,” Handsome retorts as they all slow in front of a cute older white clapboard house trimmed with black. And there’s an actual porch with a saggy couch that’s definitely seen better days, but I could live with that.

“Then what do you suggest we do to find a new roommate?” asks the other guy, who apparently doesn’t talk much. He’s bigger and broader than the other two, his bulky arms covered in tattoos.

“Ask around, I guess.” Handsome shrugs as they head up the path that leads to the porch, and then all three of them practically run up the stairs. “We’ll find someone. I’m not worried about it.”

He glances over his shoulder as if he can feel my presence, his gaze snagging on mine, and he comes to a stop, turning to fully face me. I start backing up out of pure instinct at being caught.

“Can we help you?” He doesn’t sound hostile. No, he seems downright open. Definitely friendly.

Deliberately charming.

His roommates turn to check me out, the three of them imposing as they stand shoulder to shoulder on their porch.

“Um.” I stop walking, the rest of my words getting caught in my throat. How do I approach this without sounding like a stalker who listens in on their private conversations? “I was in the café earlier—”

“Right.” Handsome interrupts me. “I remember.”

Oh. Did I make an impression?

Probably not.

“And I couldn’t help but ... overhear your conversation?” I wince, feeling bad. My heart is racing and my palms are sweating. I shake them out, and the guys share a look.

One that definitely saysWhat is this girl’s problem?

“What conversation?” the muffin man asks warily.

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