Page 7 of Forbidden Puck
“Lance?”
But Lance's phone made a beep and distracted him. “Oh. Hey.Perfect, dude. Turns out my little sister is free to visit for the weekend. Said she had some plans but they fell through. You mind if she stays with us, Radar?”
“Not at all.” I paused. “Didn't you say your sister was nuts,though?”
“Oh, she'scompletelyinsane. She has this idea in her head that lies are the worst thing ever. If you lie to her and she finds out, she flies off the fucking handle. Just be warned.”
I laughed. “Well, whatever. She'll be your problem, not mine.”
Someone in the row ahead of us wisecracked, “youknowRadar is going to add your sister'spanties to his collection, right Lance?”
Laughs came from all over, but Lance slowly turned his head to shoot me an enraged stare.
“He better fuckingnot.”
I patted his shoulder. “Relax. He's just being stupid. Family is off-limits and everyone knows that.”
That put Lance at ease. Because if there was anything you could say about me, it was that I lived by the code.Andeveryoneknows that there's no bigger sin than sleeping with one of the boys' family members. Wives, girlfriends, sisters, moms, aunts,whoever—just don't.
Don't even look at them.
Because there's no faster way to tear a team apart and get your ass traded than to get involved with a teammate's sister.
Chapter 3
Weekend Plans
Ella
I sat in front of my drafting table, the bright light from my work lamp focused on the layout in front of me. My work-space was, and always is, organized chaos: hundreds of overlapping photographs of the client's rooms. Floor plans. Fabric swatches and samples. Clippings from fashion magazines for reference and inspiration.
This table might look like a mess to an outsider, but to me, it's a puzzle in progress. Each piece has been carefully arranged andbelongsexactly where it is, forming a picture and a plan in my mind.
Tonight, though, no matter how much I stared at my project, I couldn't see the next move.
I sipped from my glass of wine and sighed. Another Friday night with no plans. Work can replace an actual, healthy social life and friends, for only so long. Soon, you'll start to feel spent, and your work suffers. And then youhaveto take a break.
I flicked off my lamp and forced myself away from my studio. Into the living room, I threw myself face-first on my couch. My cat, Eucalyptus—so named because of his adorable, koala-like visage, if you're wondering—saw an opportunity to assert his feline dominance and leapt into action. He jumped on the sofa, planted his front paws on my back as if he were a soldier stabbing a flagpole into foreign soil, and loudly purred as he stood triumphantly over me.
“Oh, yeah,” I groaned into the sofa cushions as the cat kneaded the tight muscles between my shoulders with his paws. “That feels great. Can you do that a little harder?”
Sensing that I was actuallyenjoyingthis, Eucalyptus chuffed, leapt off the couch and trotted away with his head held snootily high.
“Well, that figures.”
It was, after all, the selfish behavior I'd come to expect from a man. Then again, a cat can be one selfish little asshole, but at least he can't lie to you.
Speaking of. It'd been three weeks to the day since Matthew revealed his true and revolting colors. And what made this Friday night particularly depressing was the constant reminder that, had Matthew been the guy Ithought he was, the two of us would've been en route to Key West at thisverymoment.
It was all so disappointing. Not because I missed him, because I didn't at all—everything he'd said was more than enough to taint any good memories I might've had—but rather because he turned out to besucha goon.
What was most disappointing was that I had to start over, again, and had no idea where to find any good men. And I still carried that awful v-card with me, which seemed to have only one true purpose in life: to scare men off.
Especially the men in New York.
It seems like every man in the city is only interested in one thing: trying to get between a girl's legs. And he'll say and doanything to get there. Every man you meet, you can justtell,is immediately calculating his odds and mentally plotting his strategy to get you into bed. It's gross and lame, and what more can I say? Maybe if I wasn't a virgin, I wouldn't find it so gross and off-putting. Maybe I'd just accept it as therealityof modern dating.
Maybe it's true, what other girls sometimes say: all the good guys are already snatched up, married and raising kids. And if they're not taken, I havenoidea where they're at or what the heck they're doing with their lives.
