Page 46 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

After what feels like minutes but must be seconds, he stands. Still holding my gaze, he walks deliberately toward the hallway. Just before turning the corner, he glances back at me, then disappears.

The same hallway as last weekend. The same bedroom?

Is he trying to lure me in there? The thought sends conflicting waves of anger and heat through my body. Or is he simply using the private bathroom, away from the drunken crowd?

I should stay put. Should finish my drink and call an Uber and go home and forget I ever saw him tonight. But the alcohol in my veins has other ideas. It wants answers. It wants confrontation. It wants to know why he can laugh with his brother while I'm drowning in shame. Why he and Byron are friendly in the hallway while I'm treated like I'm invisible.

Before I can second-guess myself, I'm moving, pushing through dancing bodies toward the hallway. The music grows fainter as I approach the closed door at the end — the same door from last weekend. I test the handle. Unlocked.

I step inside, closing the door behind me and turning the lock with a decisive click. The room is empty, but I can hear water running in the adjoining bathroom. So, he was just using the toilet. Not luring me here.

The knowledge should make me turn around and leave before he sees me. Instead, I wait, heart pounding against my ribs, anger swirling in my chest.

The water stops. Footsteps approach. And then he's there, rounding the corner from the bathroom, freezing when he sees me standing in the dimly lit room.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and something inside me ignites.

"What is your problem?" I demand, the words tearing from my throat. "How can you hook up with me, tell Byron about it, act like I'm nobody? Then here you are at this party trying to lure me into the same bedroom we hooked up in?"

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, infuriatingly calm. "I didn't lure you anywhere, Saylor. You followed me. I just needed the bathroom." His eyes track over my face, my body. "I think you've had too much to drink."

"You're right about that," I agree, my voice sharp. "I'm wasted. Drinking away my sorrows while you're over there laughing it up with your brother who you don't fucking like by the way."

I take a step toward him, propelled by liquid courage and mounting frustration. "Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now? I have never hated anyone more than I hate you in this moment."

Something shifts in his expression — a darkening of his eyes, a slight parting of his lips. He pushes off the wall, moving toward me with deliberate slowness.

"You know," he says, voice dropping lower, "you're really hot when you're mad. When you hate me." Another step closer. "Are you doing it on purpose? Trying to drive me crazy?"

"You're clearly crazy," I reply, but my voice has lost some of its edge. He's too close now, his familiar scent — soap and mint and something distinctly male — wrapping around me like a dangerous memory.

"What are you wearing under there?" he asks abruptly, eyes scanning my outfit. "Did you buy new lingerie like you said you would?"

The boldness of the question jolts me from whatever trance I was falling into. I move away, putting distance between us, retreating to the far side of the room.

"What is wrong with you?" My voice shakes slightly, from anger or something else. "Do you know how miserable I've been all week?" I stare at him, wondering if he can see that my heart is cracking open. "What happened with Byron? How are you two still friends?"

His expression softens slightly. "Byron isn't talking to me. And I'm sorry about that day in the hallway. I thought you were pissed off and wouldn't want to talk to me."

"It's pretty clear you choose him over me," I snap.

Cade shakes his head. "We've been friends for years, Saylor. That doesn't just disappear after one mistake."

The word 'mistake' lands like a blow. "A mistake," I repeat, tasting the bitterness. "Is that really what it was? A mistake?"

"What would you call it?"

I don't have an answer. What was it? A drunken hookup? The best sex of my life? A momentary insanity? I hate not knowing. Hate the confusion swirling within me. Hate the way my body remembers his touch even as my mind tries to reject it.

"I don't know," I admit finally. "But I hate being confused. And I hate how you make me feel."

A smile plays at the edges of his mouth. "Is that why you followed me in here?"

The question hits too close to home. I turn toward the door, ready to escape. "I'm leaving."

But he's faster, moving to stand between me and the exit. Not touching me, not blocking me exactly, but definitely in my path.

"Do you really hate me?" he asks, his voice gentler than before.

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