One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(47)

Everyone’s here except . . . Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I discreetly survey the room, looking for that tall, dark form.

“He has a big test tomorrow,” Reagan murmurs with a knowing smirk. “He’s not coming.”

“Oh.” I leave it at that, though I can’t ignore the disappointment creeping through me. And then I silently scold myself. I’m here with Connor. Connor. Connor. How many times do I have to repeat that name before it sticks?

“Okay, Gidget!” Ty calls out. “Get over here. Connor and the virgin are goin’ down tonight!”

My face flushes as heads turn in my direction. “I’ve never played this game before!” I clarify in a loud voice, though Ty’s not wrong in any regard.

“Heads, we start,” Ty announces as a coin flies up into the air. They win the toss and a crowd quickly forms. Apparently, Beirut is a spectator sport. I soon find out it’s because you get to watch people get really drunk. Really fast.

Connor explains the basic rules—if your opponents sink a ball or you completely miss the table with your ball, you drink. Well, there are two problems with these rules for me. One: our opponents are outstandingly good, and two: I am outstandingly bad.

Even with Connor’s talent at sinking balls, it’s not long before Ty and Reagan are in the lead. And when alcohol-induced relaxation spreads through my limbs, my aim gets even worse, to the point that people step away from the table when it’s my turn, to avoid a ball to the groin.

“You really aren’t getting better at this with practice, are you?” Connor teases, pinching my waist.

I stick my tongue out in response, slyly studying Connor’s ripped arms and perfectly shaped backside in a rare pair of jeans as he assesses the table, a look of concentration on his face. Almost brooding, but not quite. It’s attractive. Enough so that I’m annoyed when it’s interrupted momentarily by a cute blond placing her arm on his bicep. “Hey, Connor.” Her smile is unmistakably flirtatious.

“Hey, Julia.” He flashes those winning dimples at her but then he’s immediately back to the game, studying the shot, obviously disinterested in her. Obvious enough for me and certainly for Julia, who appears crestfallen.

By the time we reach the last cup—Ty and Reagan winning—I’ve given up on following along. I just drink when Grant—the self-appointed referee—yells the order at me.

Connor lays a kiss on my cheek and murmurs, “You’re a trooper. I think you need to get outside for some air. Come on.” With an arm wrapped around my waist, partly for affection but also for support, I’m sure, Connor leads me up the stairs and through an exit to a quiet space.

“This is nice.” I inhale the cool, crisp air.

“Yeah, it’s getting hot and sweaty down there,” Connor murmurs, his hand pushing my hair off my face. “You having fun?”

I’m sure my grin speaks for itself but I answer anyway. “Yes, this is a lot of fun, Connor. Thanks for having me here.”

Planting a kiss on my forehead first, Connor then turns to lean against the wall next to me. “Of course. I’ve been dying to bring you. Especially now that we know your dad was a member.”

I smile wistfully as I lean my head back. “Was your dad a member?”

“Nah, he was part of Cap. Another big one.”

“Didn’t he want you to join that one?”

Slipping his fingers in between mine, Connor says, “He’s just happy that I ended up at Princeton.”

“Yeah.” Just like I’m sure my dad would be . . .

Connor appears deep in thought. “You know, I never appreciated how good I had it with my dad growing up until these last few years.” There’s a long pause and then he adds, “Until I met Ashton.”

I had been so distracted by Beirut and the girl hitting on Connor that I’d actually managed to stop thinking about Ashton for a while. Now he’s back and I feel uneasy. “What do you mean?”

Connor sighs, his face twisting as if he’s deciding how to answer. “I’ve been around Ash when his dad comes to see a race. He’s a different person. I don’t know how to explain it. The relationship is just . . . strained. That’s the impression I get, anyway.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “Well, haven’t you asked him?”

A snort answers my question before his words do. “We’re guys, Livie. We don’t talk about feelings. Ashton’s . . . Ashton. I know you think he’s a dick, but he’s a good guy when he wants to be. He’s had my back more times than I care to admit. You remember that story about me in the rowing boat? You know . . .”

“Ass up? Yes, I remember.” I giggle.

Dropping his head with a sheepish grin, Connor admits, “I think Coach would have kicked me off the team if it hadn’t been for Ashton. I don’t know what he said or did, but he bought my pardon somehow. I know I joke about Ash being a lousy captain but he’s actually a good one. A great one. The best we’ve had in my three years here. All the guys respect him. And it’s not just because he gets more action than all of us combined.”

That earns my eye roll. I’m hating the idea of Ashton with anyone—girlfriend or otherwise—more each day, and that comment created a stomach-wrenching visual.