Page 17 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

A flicker of something — amusement, maybe — crosses his face. "That's one of the problems, right there." He nods. "Okay."

"What?" The question bursts from me.

"Keep talking," he says, ignoring my confusion.

My irritation rises. "Two. You think you're a good person, but I've seen how you handled this Hannah situation, and I think you need to reevaluate what good means because this is not screaming good person behavior."

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. The alcohol makes them slip and slide like fish in a stream, but I grasp at them desperately. I need him to understand why he's not the good guy in this story, no matter what he tells himself.

"And three. You may feel better about the cheating, but it's still wrong."

"What if I was drunk and taken advantage of?" His question hangs in the air between us, a sudden weight dropping into the conversation.

Laughter bubbles up unexpectedly, tumbling from my lips before I can stop it. I study his face, searching for any sign that he's joking. "I highly doubt you were taken advantage of."

"Just because I'm a guy doesn't mean it can't happen." There's an edge to his voice now, something harder beneath the casual tone.

I roll my eyes, pushing away the twinge of guilt his words trigger. "What did she do? Slip off her clothes and say oopsies?"

He nods. His face impossibly serious.

"Are you saying you were raped?" The word feels too harsh in my mouth, too real for this strange standoff in a stranger's bedroom.

His eyelids flutter, a brief break in his composure. "Why is everything so drastic with you? I'll let you in on some intel on life, Saylor. Not everything is black and white. Haven't you heard of fifty shades of grey?"

He smiles as if he's made some clever joke, but I refuse to reward him with laughter. "Yeah, and he's a fucking psychopath."

Something shifts in his expression. "What is it gonna take, huh? You are so fucking stubborn."

"I'm not." The denial springs to my lips automatically.

He exhales sharply through his nose, lips pressing together in obvious frustration. "Fine, deny it." He pauses for a moment and then says, "What are some things that you like?"

The abrupt change in direction throws me. "What?"

"Tell me something that you like," he demands, his tone brooking no argument.

I shrug, suddenly at a loss. "I don't know."

Sex.

The thought rises, startling me. I freeze, heat crawling up my neck. Why am I thinking that? The vodka cranberries, of course. Alcohol always awakens that particular hunger, leaves me wanting hands on my skin, a warm mouth on my body. Now there's an insistent pulse between my legs, a hollow ache. I shift, pressing my thighs together as if I could squeeze the feeling away. Cade's eyes remain fixed on me, waiting for an answer.

"I can tell you what I don't like," I offer, trying to regain control of the conversation and my body's responses.

"Cheaters," he supplies with perfect timing, and despite myself, I laugh. The fact that he is owning this side of him is funny. I suddenly feel lighter. It's a real laugh, too, not the mocking one from earlier.

"Why're you laughing?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Because I can't believe how proud you are for cheating. It makes you…absolutely insane." The honest assessment slips out, unfiltered.

"How drunk are you?" he asks, studying me with renewed interest.

I roll my eyes, annoyed that he's attributing my honesty to alcohol. "I'm so glad that you can live with yourself after being such an asshole. I just don't see how me telling you what I like solves anything."

His eyes brighten suddenly, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. The expression transforms his face, and something inside me stills, caught like a deer in headlights. A nervous flutter replaces the steady thrum of irritation in my chest.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. Did I say something funny without realizing it?

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