Page 18 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"You are finally using a regular tone with me."

The observation irks me, and before I can think better of it, I lunge forward, trying to push him. He dodges, sidestepping my hand with ease. His evasion only fuels my irritation, so I try again. Once more, he jumps back. The lack of contact is deeply unsatisfying, so I stalk after him, determined to make him hold still.

He leaps onto the bed, and the absurdity of the moment strikes me. Here we are, two grown adults playing an impromptu game of tag in the middle of a party.

I laugh, surprising myself. "What're you doing?"

"Getting away," he replies.

"Just let me hit you," I demand, reaching for him.

He jumps off the far side of the bed, landing lightly on his feet. "Girl, you got some issues."

That does it. Something about his mocking tone breaks through the last of my restraint. I surge forward, catching his shoulder with my palm. He grabs my wrist, steadying himself without applying pressure.

"Are you smiling?" he asks. "Is Saylor, my number one hater, actually smiling in the presence of me?"

I roll my eyes, but the smile remains, stubborn and unexpected.

"Don't stop, hater. It's actually a sight to see."

I try to hide my expression, turning away slightly.

He smiles. "Don't hide it. Come on, you can do it."

Despite my best efforts, the smile refuses to fade. Something in his voice, in his expression, makes resistance impossible. But I swear it's the vodka. Normal Saylor would be livid right now.

"There it is," he says, his own smile widening in response.

For a breathless moment, we just stare at each other's smiles. I've never really looked at him before, not properly. He has a strong jaw, full lips, straight white teeth. Something shifts in the air between us, an electric charge gathering like a storm. I wonder what he's thinking, what he sees when he looks at me. The intensity of his gaze becomes too much, so I place my palm against his cheek, forcing his eyes away gently.

He captures my wrist, gently pulling my hand from his face. "You can't keep your hands off me, can you?"

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I roll my eyes and turn to leave, but his fingers wrap around my arm, tugging me back. The movement is more forceful than he intended, and I collide with his chest, my body pressed against the solid warmth of him.

"Are we good?" he asks, his voice low and close. The scent of mint on his breath mingles with the clean smell of his laundry detergent, an unexpectedly good combination.

I straighten, pulling away from his hold, and nod. "I guess."

"Saylor," he says my name with a weight I've never heard before. "What will it take for us to be good?"

My gaze drops to his lips, and I have to force it back up to his eyes — those golden eyes. Something about him seems different right now, or maybe I'm seeing him clearly for the first time. Or maybe I'm seeing him fuzzy for the first time. Vodka makes him look good.

"What?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Stop playing—" he laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Come on."

A wild curiosity seizes me, a reckless wondering about what would happen if I kissed him. His lips curve into that ridiculous smile, and I'm suddenly, painfully aware of how handsome he is. Not just physically attractive — I've always known that — but something about the way he's looking at me now, the way he says my name, makes him beautiful in a way I hadn't anticipated.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, and I realize I've been staring too long.

"How much I don't like you," I answer automatically, the lie falling from my lips with practiced ease.

"Still?" Disappointment flashes across his face, followed by determination. "Okay, uh." He claps his hands once, as if summoning his resolve. Before I can react, his hands are on my shoulders, guiding me to sit on the edge of the bed.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach, their wings beating against my ribs as I look up at him. His hands feel impossibly large on my shoulders. He sits beside me, close enough that our thighs almost touch.

"I excel in school, and I'm an asshole about it because it was the only thing I was better at than my brother," he begins, words flowing out in a rush. "I used to play hockey but then I got injured pretty badly. It persisted, so I stopped playing."

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