A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(43)

“Nothing.” Weston gives me a shit-eating grin. “It’s just, we’ve never seen you look so pretty.”

That’s not true; we wear suits on the bus to every away game.

Stephan checks out my outfit and finds it lacking with a tsk. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I scowl at them both. “Fuck off.” Nonetheless, I run a hand down the front of my shirt self-consciously. What the hell is wrong with a plain polo?

Instead of retreating, they take my hostility as an invitation to enter and shoulder their way into the bedroom, collapsing down on my king-size bed.

“I hope for young Abby’s sake you practice better manners on your date.” Stephan flops on his side, watching me with—hey, is that a twinkle in his eye?

“Get out,” I grumble, turning toward them and leaning against my dresser with my arms crossed.

They ignore me. Obviously.

“Where are you taking your lover this evening?” Weston asks with a smirk as he makes himself comfortable against my pillows. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

“None of your damn business.”

“Oh, come on now, don’t be like that.” Stephan snickers. “Give old Uncle Steve a little hint.”

My lips clamp shut.

Weston rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see. It’s already past dinner time, so I’m guessing it’s not dinner and a movie…”

“…and it’s too dark for the chap to take her yachting…”

“Ahoy, matey!”

“… and the last time I checked, they only allow douchebags at the bowling alley…”

“Hey, Molly and I like bowling!”

“Yeah, I know,” Stephan snarks, snapping his meaty fingers together. “I’ve got it. You’re going to the butt-packing district.”

They both laugh, and I stifle a groan at their stupidity, regarding them stoically with only the barest hint of amusement on my face.

“Planetarium?” Stephan asks.

Weston shakes head. “Naw, too boring.” He looks me up and down. “Roller skating?”

“Roller derby? Now that would be cool…”

“Roller blading?”

I hold up my hands to halt their conversation. They’re making me mental. “Stop.” My demand comes out rigid and commanding.

They finally shut their faces.

For a second.

“So? Where are you taking her?”





Abby

I twist the bare ring finger on my right hand before sticking my soapy hands under the water faucet, giving myself a once-over as I rinse them off.

My dark brown hair is down, falling casually in glossy waves over my shoulders, my wide blue eyes lined in black liner, a heavy application of onyx mascara, and dusted with gray shadow—all compliments of Jenna.

I have a bronzy glow, and my full lips are a “very kissable” shade of deep berry.

Donning a pair of scored boyfriend jeans, I’m comfortable in a soft, low-cut but slouchy gray cotton tee, a few thin, delicate gold necklaces, and my feet are elevated in nude cork wedges.

According to Jenna, I am irresistibly cute.

I give my hair another fluff after drying my hands and walk back into the quaint little studio that Caleb’s chosen for our date. Several couples and a few groups of friends sit around on stools, wine or beer glasses and canvases set on the tables in front of them. Soft music filters in from the ceiling, and there are paintings of every variety hanging on every square inch of wall, some of them amazing, some of them… not so much.

As I approach my date—can I say that again? My date!—the sight of him waiting there, waiting there for me, has me stopping briefly to admire him from behind, his broad back and sexy shoulders hunched over as he waits for my return. For once, he’s not wearing a baseball cap, and as I brush past him to climb on my stool, I trail my fingers through the hair at the base of his thick neck.

His mouth crooks into a pleased smile that reaches his hypnotic eyes. Forget the wine; I’ll just stare at Caleb all night.

As we’re choosing which painting we want to work on—a sunset landscape—the door to the studio opens and two more couples walk in, and I startle as I recognize them.

Next to me, Caleb begins coughing on the beer he’d been about to take a swig of, like it’s gone down the wrong pipe, and I pat him on the back gregariously. Sputtering, his beer glass clangs on the table as the new arrivals approach us.

“Chelsea! Molly! What are you guys doing here?” I ask, rising from my chair and hugging them in greeting. Caleb turns to glare hostilely at Weston and Stephan.

“Yeah, guys, what are you doing here?” His voice comes out in a clipped, angry tone, and his now thundering eyes are narrowed into murderous slits.

He’s so pissed.

The entire group moves past us, and I hear Caleb hissing under his breath, “You dickwads did this on purpose.”

“Yup.” I hear Stephan chuckle as he strolls by with his cocky gait.

The group moves to the service counter. They register, order drinks, then move across the room to the sink area to get their painting supplies. I run my palm over Caleb’s tense shoulders to soothe him, and his body retracts, relaxing instantly from my touch.

“Hey, it’s fine. Let’s just pretend they’re not here.” Resisting the urge to kiss him, I hop back on my stool and grab a paintbrush.