A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(19)

The moment I realized where we were headed tonight, I stood transfixed in the yard of the Omega house. While Molly, Jenna, and a few of our other friends busted through its door, I stayed there, debating. I so badly did not want to come. Even on a Friday night, I would have preferred to stay home and bury my head in a textbook rather than come here. Or finish season two of Game of Thrones.

Because I’m petrified.

It took every ounce of courage I had to put one high-heeled foot in front of the other, climb the stairs to the Omega house, and push through the heavy front door.

Every. Single. Ounce. Of. Courage.

I didn’t see him at first.

For the first half hour, he was completely missing in action. Then, I watched as Jenna whispered to Molly, who leaned over and whispered to her boyfriend Weston, who then walked off and disappeared into some back room. Suddenly, I became overly conscious of everyone whispering to everyone but me.

Conscious of the fact that I’m a little too sober.

Conscious of the fact that Caleb was somewhere in this house.

I take a deep breath and run a finger through my long hair, giving it a gentle toss so it rests over my left shoulder, then give the front of my pale blue shirt a tug. A lot tighter than I would normally wear, it was sticking to my chest before we even got here. Now that it’s covered in beer, it’s like a second skin. Adding to the fact, like a fool, I let Jenna talk me into a padded push-up bra—well, I look like the kind of girl who does the walk of shame on regular basis. Or stars in one of those Girls Who Show Their Boobs on Spring Break videos.

Groaning, I look back up and find Molly watching me with a smirk on her face. “Need another drink?” she asks smugly, extending another cup toward me. “Here, take this. Weston went to get me another one.”

I eye her above the brim of the cup and take a sip.

“I would take a bigger drink if I were you,” she says, eyeing the door behind me and leaning forward. “Weston told me about your little run-in with Caleb Lockhart.”

“What? How. I don’t get it…”

She waves her hand around aimlessly. “Blaze told him and he told me. Better watch out, he gossips like a flipping girl.”

“Who? Blaze or Weston?” I ask dryly, unamused.

“Both.” Molly laughs and reaches over to tip the cup toward my mouth, silently urging me to take another drink. “I don’t want to pry or anything, but…”

“But you’re going to anyway?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone else what Weston told me, so Jenna is still clueless enough to leave you alone. Besides the mini makeover. Better steer clear though, because once she hears you were on your hands and knees in his yard—” Molly shrugs causally and sighs “—you’re screwed.”

“Well, then I’m so excited to be standing here in this damp shirt with half the room knowing my business. I look like I’m about to enter a wet tee shirt contest, for crying out loud.”

Molly looks me up and down, then smiles wickedly. “You want my opinion?”

“No.”

“That damp shirt looks hot. I’m sorry, but he’s gonna lay those big angry eyes on you and not know where to look. I almost feel bad for the poor guy.” She giggles. “He’s so awkward.”

“Shut up, Molly,” I whine, taking yet another sip of beer. At this rate, I need all the courage—liquid or not—that I can get.

“Whoa, Nelly, bring it down a notch,” Molly lectures. “Pace yourself.” She looks up and across the room, her eyes going wide. “On second thought, drink up.”

My thoughts exactly.





CHAPTER 9

Caleb

“Pace yourself, bro, or we’re going to be dragging your Yeti-sized ass up the stairs before bar time,” Stephan Randolph, one of my teammates, complains, giving me a disgruntled sidelong glance. “What’s your problem tonight, anyway?

“There’s a girl here he’s trying to avoid,” Blaze responds helpfully into his vodka glass, nudging me with his elbow. He lifts his free hand and points across the room. “See? She’s in the tight blue shirt.”

I slap his hand and scowl. “Put your f*cking hand down.”

Stephan raises one drunken eyebrow and squints over in Abby’s direction. “Whoa, she’s pretty damn cute. What’s her name?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Huh. That’s a weird name. Terrible, in fact.” Stephan sways slightly, slapping me on the back and laughing directly into my ear. “I take it you haven’t introduced her to Showtime Junior yet?”

Flexing my free hand, I stuff it in the pocket of my jeans so I don’t accidentally put my fist through the shitdick’s face.

Blaze notices and steps in. “Whoa, Steve-O, watch it. Showtime here isn’t amused.”

I glance over to where Abby stands surrounded by her friends, so pretty and seemingly unfazed by all the bullshit surrounding her. See, here’s the thing: sometimes being in the spotlight—even on a smaller scale, like on a college campus—is exhausting. Guys pretend to be our friends. Some want to drink with us on those rare occasions we throw a rager. Strangers invite us to their parties, begging us to come to increase their social status. Girls stalk us in various ways, vying for our attention, just to say they dated us. Or flirted with us. Or screwed us. Or blew us.