All the Way (Hot Jocks #2)(24)

“College” is my friends’ way of referring to what happened to me during freshman year. It’s easier than saying “that time you were sexually assaulted.”

God, I hate that the word college is so tainted.

“Fine,” I say on a groan, “but you guys have to help me craft this text to him.”

Bailey scoots her chair closer to mine and rubs her hands together. “Yesss,” she hisses. “My specialty.”

With Bailey and Sara leaning over my shoulders, I craft a message that’s the perfect balance of serious and casual, asking him to meet up later to talk. Within seconds, those three bubbles pop up on the screen, and in a minute, I have a response that says he’ll stop by my place in a bit.

“Shit!” I spring to my feet. “He’s on his way. I’ve got to get home.”

“Perfect. Glad you guys are going to talk,” Sara says. “Let us know how it goes.”

After quick hugs and thank-yous, I rush to my car and book it back to my place. I’ve barely hung up my coat when the doorbell rings. Thank God I left the coffee shop in a hurry.

I swing open my front door to reveal a sweaty Owen rocking a pair of athletic joggers and a backward baseball hat.

“Sorry for the getup,” he says. “I just came from a team skate.”

I shrug and step aside. “I don’t mind. Come on in.”

Owen rubs the back of his neck with one hand as he looks down at his sneakers. “Nah, I better not. We need to call this deal off, Bec.”

My stomach lurches and I grip the doorknob to steady myself. “What? Why?”

For what might be the first time in our four years of friendship, it’s silent between the two of us. Dead air. But I’m not closing this door until Owen gives me some kind of explanation. I watch as his gaze shifts from his feet to the stairwell, back to his feet, and finally to me.

“It’s just that . . . I think what I’m used to is, well, a little less vanilla than you’re probably expecting. I would never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

I scrunch my nose. “Vanilla? What do you—”

“Listen, I gotta go.” He jabs his thumb in the direction of the stairwell. “I know you can do this without me fucking it all up and making the situation even worse. No hard feelings, okay?”

Without another word, he takes a step back, and for the second time in twelve hours, I’m preparing myself to watch him leave.

What the actual fuck?





9




* * *





The Cherry on Top





Owen



When I left Becca’s place last night after the benefit, part of me wanted to use one of the women from my contact list to erase Becca and all of her many issues from my brain. The rest of me knew that wouldn’t be possible because she’s officially lodged herself so far into my thoughts, nothing or no one could erase her.

So, I went home alone and spent a miserable night tossing and turning in bed, before finally giving up on sleep at five and going out for a long run. I half expected to find Becca on the same trail, given her love of running, but it was empty. Then later, just as the team skate was ending, she texted me.

It was one of the worst nights ever, and now? Now Becca is standing across from me, looking up at me with a hurt and confused expression because I told her we should call our deal off, and I feel a hundred times worse.

“What are you saying?” she asks, her small hand clutching the door frame. “Please talk to me.”

“Listen, fuck.” I scrub one hand through my hair and over the back of my neck, stalling for time. “I just don’t want to mess this up. And honestly, you don’t need me for this, Becca, you’re . . .”

“I’m what?” she asks, her tone growing sharp.

Beautiful. Sexy. Smart. Strong. But none of those words leave my lips. Because the words I’m stuck on are too good for me. Or rather, I’m too jaded for her. It’s the honest truth, but I don’t want to admit that now. Somewhere deep down, maybe I do want this to work.

I take a deep breath, trying to regain some control here. “Last night was . . . unexpected. Our chemistry was—”

“I know,” she says, a small smile on her lips. “I was there, remember?”

The urge to kiss her sweet mouth is a sharp kick of need. Those warm, soft lips moving against mine, the slide of her tongue inside my mouth—my body remembers it all and is eager for a repeat.

The door to the apartment beside hers opens and an elderly woman in a pink tracksuit saunters out, gazing at us curiously as though she could hear our conversation through the door and wanted a front-row seat to the drama.

“Hello, Mrs. Rodgers,” Becca says to the woman with a polite smile.

The woman looks between us, cautiously appraising everything—the distance between our bodies, the way my hands are stuffed into my pockets so I don’t do something stupid like reach out and touch Becca.

“Let’s go back inside and talk in private,” I say, even though moments ago I was ready to flee.

Becca nods, agreeing, and I follow her inside. “Can I get you a coffee? Or a water?” she asks, pausing beside the kitchen. She may not be very happy with me right now, but her good-girl manners win out.