Page 32 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I step closer because pushing her buttons has become my new favorite hobby. “Anything else, princess?”
She looks at my chest and swallows nervously. I’m close enough now to smell that expensive perfume she wears, close enough to see the way her pupils dilate when she’s trying not to look at me.
“You think I’m hot,” I tease.
“I absolutely do not.”
“You’re looking at my chest right now.”
“I’m looking at you because you’re in my personal space.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you drive me nuts too.” I gesture around the living room. “What’s up with all the furniture moving? You keep shifting everything around a little each day.”
She straightens her shoulders. “I’m trying to find the optimal placement for everything.”
“You’re trying to make me crazy. I tripped over that random ottoman that appeared by the couch and almost died.”
She rolls her eyes. “For a hockey player, you’re surprisingly clumsy.”
That’s when she makes her mistake. She pokes a finger right in the middle of my chest, probably trying to emphasize her point. I’m amused but try not to show it.
“I think you just like seeing what buttons you can push,” I say. “If you want me to fuck you and get the stick out of your ass, just ask.”
“Fuck you!” she snaps, but her face is burning red now.
A little later, my phone buzzes with the team group chat. The guys are bugging me to hang out, and honestly, it sounds like a good way to blow off steam. I get dressed, figuring I’ll head down to Secret History for a few beers.
Juliet knocks on my bedroom door just as I’m pulling on jeans.
“Get dressed,” she demands through the door. “We’re going out.”
“I am getting dressed.”
“Good. Ivy suggested that we appear in public more. Team bonding night is perfect for visibility and PR.”
I was already planning to go to the team hangout, so I reluctantly agree. “Fine. But I’m not holding your hand the whole time.”
“Just don’t embarrass me.”
She disappears to change, and when she comes back, she’s wearing a tight little crop top that shows off her stomach. I liked the tank top better because I could see her nipples through it, but I keep that observation to myself. Actually, no, I don’t.
“I liked your tank top more,” I tell her as we head toward the elevator. “I could see your nipples in it.”
She gapes at me, then hits my arm. “You’re disgusting.”
“Funny that you think that’s going to correct my behavior.”
Privately, I hate that I notice what she’s wearing. Hate that my teammates are going to notice too. Anyone else getting to see Juliet look hot better keep their comments to themselves, or I’m going to cut out their tongues.
She takes my hand as we approach the bar, and I try not to think about how small her fingers feel wrapped around mine.
The Secret History is tucked into the bottom floor of The Sinclair, half-hidden behind an unmarked door like it’s daring you to find it. All dim lighting, walnut paneling, and mismatched leather booths that look like they’ve soaked up decades of secrets. The place walks the line between exclusive and chaotic with perfect balance.
The bar hums with something low and sexy. Etta James or some moody cover of a Top 40 hit. The copper bar top gleams under candlelight, and there’s a fireplace surrounded by velvet armchairs that the team has basically claimed as our territory.
Drinks here are pretentious in the best way. They have cocktails with names like The Scandal and The Homewrecker. Juliet orders a gin and tonic with four limes like it’s a religious ritual. I stick with beer, always the same brand, and never look at the menu.
The place is co-owned by Étienne, who’s flamboyant and flirtatious and prone to wearing cravats or kilts depending on his mood, and his husband Olivier, who runs the bar with an iron fist and a permanent scowl. He knows everyone’s secrets and keeps them locked away for top-shelf bourbon and minimal bullshit.
