Page 77 of Can't Kiss the Chef

“Is Pipsqueak not tall enough to reach the blankets?” I coo.

The heat behind her eyes would make a weaker man cry. For me, her sometimes cold personality and glaring glances won’t run me off. Not this time.

She’s a persistent little thing, pushing up on her toes and letting these little grunts that honestly stir something up inside of me. I step behind her, using my height to reach over her and grab what I need to make up the couch. The supplies slip from my hand on the way down. Instinctively, I lunge forward to grab the falling blanket, all my momentum stops when my front grazes against Lola’s back.

My pants instantly grow tighter, and all bets are off when Lola lets out a little groan.

“Lo, you can’t make sounds like that in front of me if I am just trying to earn your friendship back.”

She stays snuggled into my groin just long enough for her shoulders to move up and down once before she turns to face me. I keep the playful smile on my face, no hint of disappointment when I feel her moving away.

She clears her throat. “So I’ll take the couch?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m the one crashing the party. I don’t mind taking the couch.”

She turns–and damn, her ass looks good–to pick up the blankets and pillow.

“Good night, Byron.”

“Good night, Lola. I hope you dream of things that could be.”

30

Lola

I laugh, watching the little legs of Ivy’s niece hustle over to her mom and aunt, telling them that this is the best night of her life and everyone else is going to be happy because this party has pizza.

I’m so enthralled by the six-year-old I don’t notice that Byron’s settled in the seat next to me.

“She’s going to break hearts like you one day.”

I pretend to watch the little family I’ve come to adore over the last few years, trying not to think about how I spent all of last year dreaming of having a family with him. He doesn’t know that. He will never know that.

“Maybe she’ll be smart enough not to date within her friend group.”

I feel Byron tense up next to me.

“Want to go take a couple of shots before everyone else gets here?”

I don’t hate the suggestion. I pretend to weigh my options, shake my head from side to side. I forgot about the rest of our friends. I wonder if they’ve all seen the directing debut from my boyfriend–ex-boyfriend. A sex tape that has been going around the college hockey world. I’ll never understand how a girl could sleep with Dalton even though I was plastered all over his Instagram.

“Are people still talking about the sex tape?” My hand is trembling when I go to pick up the tequila bottle.

The both of us must be some kind of sick because even after not talking all summer and working all semester to get some kind of semblance of our relationship back. All that was for nothing. When it really mattered, we were each other’s rock. Over the last day he’s shown me that if I can only have one person in my corner I want it to be him.

“Yeah,” He scrunches his nose up, “it hasn’t really stopped.” His blue eyes grow apologetic as he tells me the truth. Knowing that honesty, even though in this case it sucks to hear, is all I want from our relationship.

I pop the cap off the expensive-looking bottle of tequila and line up four shot glasses.

Handing two to Byron, “Promise me you’ll make sure I have a drink in my hands at all times tonight,” I ask.

“Only if you do the same for me.”

I hold up my first shot in solidarity, and when he clinks his glass to mine, I know I’m about to be in for one hell of a night.

As the party starts winding down, I find myself deep in conversation with this older man about how we expect too much out of college athletes. I’m not sure if he is just appeasing me because I’m clearly hammered or if he actually cares, but I do.

“All of the friends I made in college are athletes, and they all don’t have time to do shit.” I have no control over my hand gestures; they are just flying all over the place.

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