Page 54 of Never Your Girl

“No,” I say quickly. “He’s just someone I know from school.”

She raises a brow but doesn’t push. “Lucky you.”

I roll my eyes and pull on my jeans, trying not to think about how ridiculous it is to associate the word lucky with Bridger Sanderson.

Lucky would be not feeling this weird pull toward him.

Lucky would be not sharing a house or a bed with him.

As I stuff my phone into my bag, a notification pops up from ColdAsIce17. My fingers hover over the screen for a moment before I open it.

ColdAsIce17

Thanks for what you said earlier. You being there means a lot.

My heart constricts.

Me

Anytime.

I hit send and close the app before I get sucked into a conversation with him. Once we get started, it’s difficult to stop. With a wave to a few of the girls, I grab my bag and head for the parking lot where Bridger is waiting. As soon as I slide into the passenger seat, the atmosphere turns suffocating. The silence between us is heavy, thick with things that remain unsaid. I rack my brain for something that will lighten the mood but there’s nothing.

My mind is blank.

At this point, I’d take snarking back and forth like we usually do, over the explosive tension brewing between us like an impending storm. Any moment, it’s going to break. I’m afraid of what will happen when it does.

It’s a relief when we finally pull up to the hockey house. The windows are glowing with light, and the faint bass of music thumps through the walls. Inside, the living room is packed with his teammates and their girlfriends. Red Solo cups are scattered across every available surface. I recognize a few of the guys. Ryder McAdams and Wolf Westerville. They eye me with curiosity. Kind of like I’m a puzzle they’re both trying to figure out.

“You want a drink?” Bridger asks, staring into the living room.

“Nah, it’s not really my thing.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

“Probably because we’re not actually friends,” I say with a pointed look.

“Yeah, that must be it.”

I know he’s teasing, but the words sting anyway. It’s not like I don’t have my reasons. I’ve watched my mom drink away her problems for years, stringing herself along from one bad decision after another. I love Vivienne, but I don’t want to end up like her, hopping from man to man in hopes of finding my happily ever after.

I want to be the one in charge of my own destiny.

And that’s difficult to do when you’re intoxicated and your judgment is impaired.

“Should we head upstairs?” Bridger asks, interrupting the whirl of my thoughts. “It’s quieter.”

With a nod, I follow him up the staircase, grateful to leave the noise and watchful stares behind.

His footsteps are steady on the hardwood, the sound mixing in my ears with the echo of my pulse that seems a beat too fast. By the time we step into his room, I’m hyperaware of the silence that has fallen over us. He shuts the door, and for a moment, we stand there, awkwardly rooted in place.

He glances at me. “Should I step out while you change?”

The question takes me by surprise. It’s thoughtful. Unexpectedly so. But probably unnecessary. The memory of his eyes on me during my performance flashes through my mind, and I push it aside, shaking my head.

“It’s fine,” I say, forcing my tone to be casual. “We can both just turn around.”

He nods, and we move in unspoken agreement, our backs to each other as I drop down and sort through my bag. I pull out a pair of shorts and a tank top, my fingers fumbling slightly as I peel off my jeans. I remind myself that this is no different than getting ready for bed any other night.

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