Page 80 of The Mistake

His thumb softly grazes my bottom lip. “My friends call me John sometimes, but only my family calls me Johnny.” His gaze burns with intensity. “I liked it.”

My pulse accelerates as his mouth brushes over mine again. The slightest amount of contact, like a feather tickling my lips. He slides both hands down my bare arms, leaving goose bumps in his wake, then rests them on my hip, casual almost, except there’s nothing casual about the way his touch makes me feel.

“Will you go out with me again?”

He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head to look at him. A part of me is tempted to make him sweat, but there’s no stopping the swift, unequivocal answer that escapes my mouth.

“Absolutely.”

26

GRACE

On our second date, Logan and I go to a party, which under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be nervous about. Ramona dragged me to a shit-ton of off-campus parties last year, so if anything, I should be an old pro by now. Butthisparty happens to be at Beau Maxwell’s house. The frickin’ quarterback of Briar’s football team.

The football crowd freaks me out. Their parties are rowdy and tend to get shut down by the cops more often than not. And most of the players are loud and cocky and walk around like they’re God’s gift to the world. Which is ironic, because last year the team put up the worst record Briar has seen in twenty-five years.

The last time I encountered the football crowd, it was at a frat party Ramona and I went to, where I had to break up a fight between my best friend and the football groupie who tried to gouge Ramona’s eyes out for making out with one of the offensive linemen. And I had to do it on my own, because the players were no fucking help. They’d just formed a circle around the girls and wailed out “Meow!” the entire time. Dickheads.

“Beau’s a nice guy,” Logan assures me as we hop out the backseat of the taxi. “Seriously, babe. He’s good people.”

“How is he even still at Briar? Wasn’t he a senior last year?”

“Technically he’s a fifth-year senior. He red-shirtedfreshman year.”

“Good, then that gives him another year to get his shit together,” I grumble. “His performance last year was disappointing. Were you there for the game where he threwfiveinterceptions and zero TDs? What the hell was that?”

Logan wags his finger at me. “Shame on you, Ms. Football Critic. Ripping on a guy for having an off day? That’s harsh.”

I sigh. “Fine. I guess I can cut him some slack. I mean, not everyone can be as good as Charlie Carole, right?”

Heat flares in his eyes. “Your knowledge of college quarterbacks is strangely a turn-on.”

“I think everything is a turn-on for you,” I answer, rolling my eyes.

“Yup. Pretty much.”

We reach the front door, and the deafening music vibrating behind it brings a pang of uneasiness. I grab his arm. “If it gets too crazy, promise we can leave?”

“But these are your people, remember? Why would youeverwant to leave the sweet bosom of your precious football family?”

His smug grin makes me snicker. “Hey. Just because I like watching them play doesn’t mean I want them to playme.”

Logan dips down and plants a kiss on my temple. “Don’t worry. Whenever you want to go, say the word and we’re gone.”

“Thank you.”

A moment later, he opens the door without knocking, and we step into the lion’s den, where I’m immediately blasted with a wave of body heat. God, there are so many people inside the house that the air is on fire. The scent of beer, perfume, cologne, and sweat is so strong it makes my head spin, but Logan doesn’t seem bothered by it. He takes my hand and leads me deeper into the mob.

In the corner of the living room, a high-spirited game of beer pong is in progress, and the girls standing on one end of the table are in various states of undress. Okay, make that a high-spirited game ofstripbeer pong. On the other side of the room, the makeshift dance floor is packed with gyrating bodies and surrounded by furniture topped with tipsy, half-naked girls getting their dirty dancing on.

We showed up late because Logan had hockey practice,but still, it’s only ten o’clock, which seems way too early for everyone to already be this wasted.

“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you get up on one of those tables,” Logan rasps in my ear.

I punch him in the arm.

He flashes his crooked grin and pretends to rub his sore biceps. “Want a drink?” He raises his voice to be heard over the music.

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