Page 76 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I push away from her. “Back off, puck bunnies.”
“Come on, just one picture!”
“I said back off.” I step further away, disgusted.
Juliet grabs my arm, looking angry.
“Don’t use that term.”
“What term?”
She narrows her eyes and shakes a finger at me.
“Puck bunny. No one ever has shit to say about hockey players getting laid left and right. But the world is really eager to call any woman who so much as looks at one of you funny a puck bunny. It’s fucked up and sexist.”
Honestly, I had no idea that Juliet held that in. I practically swallow my tongue. “Right. Sorry.”
She nods, satisfied. “They’re just fans. Misguided, but fans.”
Eventually, the rookies get too sloppy, and the veterans corral them toward the exits. Ivy vanishes with a random guy, and Juliet looks worried until I tell her I saw them leave together.
“I’m ready to go,” Juliet finally says, leaning against me.
I practically bolt for the exit. “Let’s go.”
She makes sure The Coven gets into Ubers safely before we leave. She’s always taking care of everyone else first.
We ride home together in the back of an Uber. Juliet’s tipsy and leans against me, her head on my shoulder. I don’t take advantage. I just let her rest against me and try not to think too hard about the warm feeling spreading through my chest.
“You smell good,” she mumbles against my shirt.
“Thanks.”
“Like danger and... wood?”
“It’s called cologne, Firecracker.”
“Mmm. I like it.”
She curls up against me. I want to kiss her again, but I think she’s falling asleep on top of me. When we get home, I help Juliet out of the Uber and up the elevator. She giggles; she’s had too much to drink for me to get handsy, but that doesn’t stop her from turning and kissing me at the door. Her mouth is heaven. Soft, warm, and sweet. For a second, I forget everything and kiss her back.
The world slows down, the moment narrowing. It’s just the two of us right here, right now, and she tastes delicious. She parts her lips and I dip her back a bit, growling as I sweep my tongue against hers.
Then I remember she’s drunk and gently stop her.
“Juliet.”
“What?”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m tipsy. There’s a difference.”
I help her out of those ridiculous heels and walk her to her room. “Come on. Bedtime.”
She strips down without hesitation, her skirt hitting the floor, her bra landing on my shoe. I immediately look away, focusing on turning down her sheets.
“You’re no fun,” she complains, but she’s smiling.
