A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(57)

And apparently it was the funniest goddamn thing anyone has ever heard, because they were falling all over themselves laughing.

Then they laughed at me because I wasn’t. Laughing, that is.

Assholes.

I remove the hat from my head and give my hair a shake, running my fingers through it and tussling it before pulling the cap on backwards.

We’re standing in the shared driveway between the Kappa O and Omega houses, waving good-bye to my parents as they back down the drive, when Blaze turns to me and claps a hand down on my shoulder, saying, “I need a drink. Wanna hit the bars?”

I huff. “What the hell do you need a drink for? I’m the one who had to deal with your bullshit without losing my shit.”

Shelby laughs. “He’s got you there, Blaze. You and Cubby were really obnoxious.”

Cubby fans himself with his hand and bats his eyes. “Aw, I’m flattered.”

Blaze scoffs. “Whatever. Are you guys coming or not? We’ll go somewhere else, maybe to O’Malley’s. Lone Rangers is getting played out.”

I turn to Abby, who stands next to me, biting her pinky finger and looking up at me with wide eyes. “Up to you,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t care either way.”

Actually, I do care. I could give two shits about going downtown and spending my Sunday night in a crowded bar. I’d much rather spend some time alone with Abby since we haven’t had any. Every time we try to do something, we’re either ambushed or rudely interrupted.

And being alone in my room so she could take a pee during a house party doesn’t count. And dry humping in the bedroom of a rented cabin hardly counts, either.

Not really.

Shelby is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, grabbing Abby by the arm and whining, “Please! Please! You have to come with us!”

Once again, Abby caves. “Um, I mean. I don’t usually go to the bars on Sunday night, but… I guess it’s okay to make an exception?”

Shelby claps with glee, looking Abby up and down. “Yay! Why don’t you run home and change quick and we’ll meet you out in a half hour. Mkay?”

Abby looks down at the front of her feminine gray sweater. I can read her mind as she furrows her brow and glances back up at me with bright red cheeks and her lips part in a surprised ‘O.’ What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with what you’re wearing, I want to say. Shelby is kind of being a bitch.

“Maybe we should just stay home,” I suggest with a hopeful voice.

“No! No. That’s okay. I’ll just go home, and, uh… change. Then we’ll go.”

“Are you sure?” I ask her.

“Really, it’s fine.”

“She said it’s fine, Showtime. Why are you being weird about it? Get your shit together and let’s go.” Weston smacks me hard on the ass and shouts, “HeYaw!”

And just like that, we’re back at Abby’s house and I’m leaning against her kitchen counter, waiting for her to change—yes, change—even though I told her countless times on the walk over that she looks great and not to kowtow to Shelby.

It’s the most words I’ve said to her all afternoon.

“First of all, what’s kowtowing?” she’d asking, laughing at me. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Whatever it is, I’m not doing it. I’m just… changing out of my sweater.”

Abby emerges from her bedroom a few minutes later, looking cuter than she did when she went in. My breath hitches, because man, is she adorable or what?

Propping a hand on one denim-clad hip and chewing slowly on salted caramel I found on the counter and popped into my mouth, I take her in from head to toe, not missing a single detail. Having changed out of her boot-cut jeans and into dark skinny jeans, Abby stands in the doorway of the kitchen, fingering the thin silver belt threaded through the belt loops and knotted on the end. It hangs jauntily off to the side, emphasizing her slim waist and long legs. The hem of her tight white V-neck tee is neatly tucked into the waistband, and naturally, my eyes land on her boobs.

I mean, shit. I did just mention it was a tight shirt, right? Hey, I might be a socially awkward bastard, but I’m still a guy, and I haven’t gotten laid in…

Never mind. That’s not anyone’s damn business.

She is still wearing her hair down and has the silky strands pulled over one shoulder.

Abby is classy, understated, and sexy.

And smart.

And clever.

And sweet. Well, except in the instance where she was climbing out the second story window of a seedy fraternity house, then getting pissed at me for helping her not die—but that’s hardly my point…

My parents loved her. I know this because my mom hasn’t stopped text-bombing me to drill in the point.

Mom: Abby is a doll.

Mom: Make sure you act like a gentleman. Hold her doors open. And tell her how nice she looks. She’s so pretty.

Mom: Talk. Don’t just mumble.

Me: Mom. Stop.

Mom: Don’t just talk about hockey. Ask her about herself.

Mom: Take her out in public. I know how much you like your bedroom, sweetie, but please don’t just stay home with the poor girl. She needs sunlight.

Me: Please stop.

Mom: What is she doing for spring break? When are you bringing her home? Dad wants to know.