Page 35 of Famous Last Words
“What is so damn funny?”
Grin still lingering, he steadied me with a serious look. “Keller, a puck bunny is—” he shook his head again, concealing another laughter bubble with a cough before clearing his throat “—a puck bunny is a chick who goes around trying to fuck hockey players.”
I took a moment to consider what he was telling me. And, I mean, I’m not one to yuck anyone’s yum, and if that’s how “puck bunnies” like to spend their free time, then good for them, but that is absolutely not me. The sheer thought of looking like I was trying to find a hockey player to rail made my cheeks flame, heat reaching all the way to the tips of my ears. I’d rather look like Adam Sandler.
“Oh, God. Please tell me I didn’t look like a puck bunny!” I gawked at Robbie, mortified.
Robbie chuckled. “Nah. You looked cute.”
I snapped my head up at that, cheeks still burning. Cute? Me? SurelyI misheard him. Lowering one of my brows, I bit back a smug grin. “Did you just say I looked…cute?”
“You’re drunk, Keller,” Robbie deadpanned, rolling his eyes at me before turning to focus onTheMighty Ducks.
Maybe I was a little tipsy, but I wasn’t a complete idiot. Robbie Mason called me cute. And sure, he’s gross and I hate him and all that, but I’m not denying that it did something to me, something I’d never felt before, deep down in the depths of my chest. And I had no idea how to process that reaction.
“Robbie Mason called me cute…” I whisper against the silence, brows pinched together as I try to make sense of last night’s grainy memories.
But then, another blurry flashback hits me like a Mack truck and I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming or throwing up because holy shit.
Lips. Kissing lips.
I blink hard, squeezing my eyes closed.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
Bile rises up the back of my throat.
I’m in full blown panic mode now as I try to comprehend exactly what happened. It’s fuzzy and pixelated at best, and there are some blackout moments for sure, so I can’t be entirely certain because, again, fucking wine. But I’m pretty sure I—oh God—I think I tried to kiss Robbie Mason last night.
And even worse than that—I think Robbie Mason turned me down.
I glance at the note.Fuck.
Suddenly the icy tone of his note, and the fact that he snuck out while I was passed out, makes complete sense. And I want to die.
I stare out the windows, at the sunlight peaking between the sky-scraping buildings of Midtown, and for a moment, I seriously consider taking a running jump and crashing through the glass. Because I am never going to live this down. I might as well jump. Plummeting fifty-eight stories to my death seems way less painful than dealing with the aftermath of whatever happened last night.
With another groan, I fall back against the mountain of pillows, throwing an arm over my eyes. But then that menacing bile gets the better of me, and I jump up and run to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before emptying the entire contents of my stomach.
CHAPTER 16
ROBBIE
Someone send help. It appears I’ve fallen down the Fran KellerInstagramfeed rabbit hole, and now I’m eighteen months deep, looking at a photo of her and some smug, frat-looking douche-bag tagged asRadTadd93, the two of them huddled together in Central Park in the middle of winter. I don’t know how I got here, but it officially sucks, and I want out.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the nightstand.
Suddenly, the bathroom door flies open and Dallas steps out, followed by a swirl of steam and slightly too much cologne. Freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a button down, trademark cowboy hat perched on his head, he stops so fast in his tracks he almost topples over, staring at me where I lie on my bed, hands propped behind my head.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” His eyes are wide like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
I quirk a brow.
“You’re not coming?”
“No…” I shake my head. “I never said I was.”
He scoffs. “You’re seriously not coming.”
