Page 36 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

Why does his butt have to look so good in those freaking jeans? And his biceps in that shirt?

Kill me now.

“Yeah, and uh, vacuum beach for fuck you, bitch,” he adds, his hands in his pockets and the grocery sack still dangling from his wrist, hanging limply against his thigh.

My mouth quirks up on one side as I tear my attention from his killer body, trying to keep my amusement in check. “My mom was so mad at you guys.”

“Yeah, I know.” He glances at me over his shoulder and smirks. “She even called my mom and got me grounded for it. Didn’t help when you’d mouth it to us on the ice during our hockey games.”

“To be fair, I only mouthed it to you,” I point out. “Colt got olive juice.”

“Yeah, I know,” he returns, his eyes losing a bit of the happy crinkles framing them. “I got fuck you, bitch, and Colt got I love you. How’s that for fair?”

“You wanted olive juice too?” I question, convinced the guy’s full of shit as I cross my arms and raise my brow.

“I wanted a lot of things, Blake.” He sighs, his attention dropping to my mouth for a split second from across the room, then he clears his throat and turns back to the messy bookshelf, taking it in like it’s a foreign country.

“Like what?” I prod, unable to help myself. “What do you want?”

His shoulders lift into a shrug, and he faces me again. “Like wanting us to get over this bullshit feud.”

Feud. If that’s what he wants to call it, sure. Personally, I think it has more to do with his overbearing personality grating on me like sandpaper. But what do I know?

“From what I remember, you’re the one who started it,” I remind him. Actually, I’m positive. All it took was one stupid dress on my fifteenth birthday to turn our friendship into some kind of messed up bodyguard protection program. And it sucks. Royally.

His mouth lifts up in the corner as he looks at the used brown couch taking up the majority of the family room. “You’re probably right.”

I stare at his stupid biceps again and the way the material stretches over them. Like seriously. Does he shrink his clothes on purpose or does he need to start buying a bigger size?

Annoyed, I huff, “I’m still mad at you.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mutters, turning and facing me again. “What show are we watching?”

“We”––I wag my finger between us––“aren’t watching anything. You”––I step closer and jab my finger against his chest––“were just leaving.”

“It’s like you said. I still picture you as the cute little neighbor girl who liked to keep up with the boys. It’s time we change it.”

“And how do we change it?”

“By hanging out. Letting me get to know you. The new you,” he clarifies. “Who apparently likes to wear tiny clothes and no makeup.”

“Is there a problem with tiny clothes and no make up?” I cross my arms and cover my braless chest, daring him to say yes.

“Nope. I like the freckles.” He steps closer and boops my nose with his calloused finger, turning back toward the modest family room like he didn’t rock my world with a simple compliment. Next to the couch, there’s a fake house plant since Mia has a habit of killing live ones, and an orange and brown floral cushioned chair. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. Kate informed me it was a gift from Ash’s parents a few months ago, so we can’t get rid of it. But it’s still home. And I’m still not sure how I feel about him being in it.

Stomping toward him as he examines the tall, skinny bookshelf littered with old textbooks and a few romance novels, I remind him, “The freckles aren’t new.”

With a knowing smirk, he looks at me over his shoulder. “I know. That’s what I like about them. Come on.” He rounds the edge of the worn leather couch and collapses onto it, perusing the grocery sack like it holds goodies belonging in the Cave of Wonders.

“What do you have in there?” I ask.

He sets a brand new blu-ray case on the coffee table, and I laugh when the title comes into view. “Happy Gilmore?”

“It’s a classic,” he says without bothering to look up.

To be fair, he isn’t wrong, but I can’t help but poke the bear. “Can’t believe you used to think it was a hockey movie.”

“It is a hockey movie.”

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