Page 2 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
“Because they’re full of...” I gesture vaguely at a group of guys who are clearly athletes, all broad shoulders and cocky grins, “...that.”
“Hockey players?”
“Hockey?” I question, glancing around. This time I’m keeping my eyes at my height level. I don’t need to see more ass cheeks, camel toes, boners, angular faces, sharp eyes, or anything inappropriate.
We end up at the kitchen where a guy our age is playing bartender and asks for our drink order. Maddie is on it as my eyes do a traitorous sweep of the room, automatically cataloging the various types of trouble on display. There’s the pretty boy trouble by the windows, the bad boy trouble near the stairs, and the—
Oh.
Oh.
That’s a problem.
Across the room, leaning against the wall with a beer in his hand and surrounded by what I can only assume are his teammates, is the kind of trouble that should screams fuck boy. He basically comes with an invisible warning label on his forehead. Tall with dark hair that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it, and a smile that’s currently directed at whatever story one of his friends is telling. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that fits him in a way that’s definitely not good for a sex-deprived smut lover.
As if sensing my stare, he looks up. Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and I feel that little flip in my stomach that I’ve been successfully avoiding for months.
He does a slow, deliberate once-over that starts at my face and travels down to my boots and back up again.
Oh, God.
I look away quickly, focusing on Maddie who’s squealing towards a group of her sorority sisters. Great. So much for moral support. Maddie is like my older sister. Much cooler, more popular, and ditches me at the sight of anything more exciting. Suddenly the mission she put me on is not as important as her friends.
I’m frozen, watching her socialize while I try really hard not to look across the room again.
I make my way to the kitchen island, figuring it’s the safest place to plant myself while I wait for a socially acceptable amount of time to pass before I can escape. The granite countertop is covered with an impressive array of alcohol. I take a sip of the drink Maddie handed me. Mmm, wine. Perfect.
“You look lost,” a voice says behind me.
I turn to find a guy with sandy hair and an earnest smile. He’s cute in a wholesome, could-take-home-to-meet-mom way, which normally would be exactly my type. Safe. Predictable.Unlikely to break my heart or lie about having a secret girlfriend in another state.
“Not lost,” I say with a polite smile. “Just strategically positioning myself near the alcohol.”
He laughs. “Smart strategy. I’m Brad, by the way.”
“Harper.”
“So Harper, are you sure you’re not lost because—”
“She’s calculating her escape route.”
The new voice is deeper, more confident, and when I turn toward it, I’m faced with the exact trouble I was trying to avoid. Up close, he’s even more ridiculous than he looked from across the room. There’s a small scar through his left eyebrow that gives him a slightly roguish look, and his eyes are this impossible shade of blue-green that reminds me of the ocean on a stormy day.
Brad takes the hint and melts back into the crowd with a mumbled excuse about finding the bathroom.
“That was rude,” I tell the newcomer, even though I’m secretly grateful for the rescue.
He shrugs, moving closer to lean against the counter beside me. He smells good. Yeah. Wow. Cliché much?
“You looked like you were about to fake a family emergency to get out of that conversation.”
I grip my cup tighter. “And you know this how?”
“Because you’ve been checking your phone every thirty seconds since you got here, and you’re holding that drink like it’s a security blanket.”
Damn. He’s observant.
“Maybe I just don’t like parties,” I say, taking a sip of wine to prove his security blanket theory wrong. It doesn’t work. I definitely grip the cup tighter.
