Page 3 of Unwritten Rules
“Well, he’s the shit,” Nathan comments. He chugs the rest of his beer before slamming the glass down, rattling the wooden table. “And if you can, I would like to request signatures from every man on the team. It’s the least you can do for abandoning us.”
I roll my eyes. “God, you’re so dramatic when you’re drunk.”
“Speaking of drunk,” Noah mutters, standing from the stool. “I better get this one home if he wants to not be hungover when you leave in the morning.”
I chuckle. “That’s probably for the best.”
“I’m not drunk,” Nathan slurs in protest. His dark eyes are blown wide as he meets my gaze. He tries to stay upright on the chair, but gravity seems to be non-existent to him at the moment because his body slumps to the side. Thankfully, Noah is there to catch him. “Okay, maybe I am drunk.”
“Go home,” I urge. Slurping on the straw, the vodka seeps into my bones, adding to the airiness gliding through my bones. “I’ll see you both in the morning. I’m going to need the fattest cup of coffee to keep me awake on the drive.”
Noah throws Nathan’s arm around his neck and lifts him from the stool. Nathan is unsteady on his feet but manages to wave at a group of girls sitting at the bar. He’s never one to miss the opportunity of stealing his chances with the ladies. They giggle at him before going back to whispering among themselves.
“Do you need a lift home?” Noah asks, his emerald eyes finding mine in the dark room, his free hand gripping the handle of the pram. “If I had’ve known you were going to sink as many drinks as you did, I would’ve offered to drive your car instead.”
“Yeah, look, I didn’t think that far ahead.” I shrug. “I’m okay, though. I can come back in the morning to grab my car before I start packing it.”
He raises a brow at me. “Are you sure?”
I wave him away with my hand. “I’m sure. I’ll stay for one last drink before I call it a night. You get the big idiot home and tuck your daughter into bed. My house is only a short walk away.”
Noah contemplates his options. I’ve known this man since I was three, and in all the years of attending house parties or hitting the clubs, not once has he allowed me to stay behind without taking me home. He is the first person to make sure his friends are safe before worrying about himself, and this instance is no exception. But maybe it’s the expression on my face telling him I’m okay, and the large mass hanging from his shoulder, that has him nodding in agreement.
“Let me know the moment you leave and the second you walk through your front door, okay?” He shoots me a pointed look. “The last thing I need is for you to be kidnapped, or worse, the night before you leave.”
“Well, if I’ve been kidnapped, I would suggest looking at Nathan as the prime suspect.”
“You can’t leave us, Tate,” Nathan whines. His eyes are closed as he uses Noah’s body for support, his head lolling forward. “We’ll be lost without you.”
Noah shakes his head. “Speak for yourself.” He flicks his eyes to me and smiles, the gesture warm and comforting. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“Of course. Night, guys! Get home safely.” I smile at my niece, sadness swirling in my chest over the thought that after tomorrow, I won’t be able to drive over to Noah’s house and play with her whenever I want or spend evenings with her when he’s out of town racing. I’ll just have to settle for photos of her, which doesn’t feel the same as witnessing her grow up before my eyes.
“Night, Tate. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I watch with amusement as Noah drags Nathan out of the pub while pushing the pram with ease, attracting a few curiousglances when Nathan starts calling my name. Laughter bursts from my lips, and all I can do is shake my head. I leave the table on shaky legs and find an empty stool at the bar. I swear that man doesn’t have an embarrassed bone in his body.
“What would you like?” the woman behind the bar asks while polishing a glass. She couldn’t be much older than me. I think I recognise her from high school, but in my tipsy state, I can’t remember her name.
“Just a vodka and lemonade, please.”
She turns to make the drink, and with nothing else to do while I wait, I pull my phone from the little black handbag strapped over my torso. Vision blurring at the edges, I clumsily click on one of the social media apps I check far too often and scroll, eyes skimming the usernames and photos.
Scrolling on my phone for hours was a bad habit I developed while working at Happy Limbs. After long hours at work, all I craved was quiet time on the lounge. I didn’t want to talk or see anyone, so going on my phone was my only vice—a way to calm the turmoil of the day. It was also a way to stay updated on classmates from high school—mostly those who left Barrenridge after graduation. Nash Stone is over in America, killing it with his basketball career, and Morgan Elliot is somewhere in Western Australia, living a quiet life far away from this place. I see many familiar faces from my year group around town, but we weren’t close enough to strike up a conversation, even six years after graduation.
I’ll settle for staying in the loop from the comfort of my phone.
The bartender places my order in front of me, pulling my attention away from the screen and to the condensation sliding down the glass. With great effort—my hands feel too heavy to be attached to my body—I slip my phone into my handbag andreach for the glass. I hate the feel of the paper straw against my lips, but I welcome the ice-cold liquid cooling my insides.
With a sigh, I glance to my right at the people sitting at the bar, sipping on their drinks in silence. The man on the stool beside me catches my eye. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.Where have I seen him before?When you live in a small town, you come to learn everyone’s faces and names by heart. Barrenridge is not a town you can hide in, and this man is doing anything but hide with the intense presence he’s emitting.
I swallow hard at the sight of him. Stunning is one word I would use to describe his appearance. Followed by downright gorgeous. It’s not often you see men of this caliber walking the streets of Barrenridge, which is why I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing here.
Inky strands of hair cover his forehead, making it difficult to see his eyes as he stares ahead. Long, slender fingers hold the base of the whiskey glass firmly while the other drum mindlessly on the bar. Silver rings adorn some of his fingers, the metal glinting under the overhead lights above us.
My eyes travel up from his hands to his side profile. The precision with which the sides and back of his hair are shorter than the hair on top, neatly trimmed around the edges, tells me he takes pride in his appearance. The black athletic shorts and hoodie indicate he’s active, which has me wondering what this man does for work or if this is his preferred style.
He is simply breathtaking.
