The Play (Briar U, #3)(66)

Hunter is gone all of three seconds before another guy approaches me. He has a shaved head, an oversized hoodie, and very white teeth.

“Hey, beautiful. Want some company?”

I’m about to say no, but he’s already sidling up beside me.

“What happened to your friend?” White Teeth asks.

“He’s getting our drinks. So if you don’t mind—”

He leans in closer, and I instinctively lean back. I don’t like it when people infringe on my space cushion.

“What’s the matter?” White Teeth drawls.

“You’re in my space cushion,” I retort. “I’d appreciate it if you moved.”

He furrows his brow. “What do you need space for? We’re getting to know each other.”

To my sheer relief, Hunter returns with our drinks. He takes one look at the intruder and levels him with a hard glare. “No,” Hunter says coldly.

“No what?” White Teeth sounds annoyed.

Hunter widens his stance. “This ain’t happening. Get lost.”

I smile at Hunter’s menacing pose. Apparently he’s my new protector.

My very attractive protector.

Dammit, I need to stop thinking about how hot is. He doesn’t want a rebound with me. He already made that clear.

It would be so much easier if he agreed to it, though. I’m attracted to him, and, more importantly, I trust him. But I’m not making a play for my friend, especially when he explicitly stated he’s not into it.

The Space Cushion Encroacher stalks off in a huff, while Hunter stares after him in amusement. “That was easy.” Then, with an extravagant gesture, he presents me with a tall can of beer. It’s called Jack’s Abbey House Lager.

“It’s in a can,” I remark.

“Yeah, cans are making a big comeback in craft beer circles. You’re really living now, babe.”

“Ergh. I probably should’ve told you to grab me a vodka cran or something fruity. I’m not a fan of most beers.” I pause in thought. “Actually, I can’t think of a single beer I like. They all taste the same to me: bad.”

“Trust me, you’ll like this one. It goes down so smooth. Just try it.”

As Hunter watches expectantly, I take a big swallow of his magical beer.

“Well?” he demands.

My gaze drops to my suede boots. “It tastes exactly like the other one.”

“Are you joking right now? You think Abbey House and Bud Light taste the same? I’m so ashamed of you right now.”

“I told you, I’m not a beer girl.”

“You’re a disgrace.”

“You’re a disgrace.”

Hunter grins as I stick out my tongue at him. He sips his own can of pretentious beer, then says, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Mr. Muscles.”

“It’s fine. To be honest, it was nice to get out of the house. And it’s good practice, right?”

We do some people-watching as we savor our beers. Well, Hunter savors. I just hold my nose and swallow. We crack each other up by creating fake backstories for various bar patrons, and in no time at all I’ve forgotten all about being ditched by Roy. I have more fun with Hunter, anyway.

Around nine-thirty we leave the bar and head for the parking lot. As I’m zipping up my parka, one of my earrings nearly gets caught in the hood and I curse under my breath.

“I hate these stupid things,” I complain as I move the hoop aside. “They’re a menace.”

“You’re a menace.”

Yes, this is our thing now. It makes us snicker every time, which I suppose indicates that either our shared sense of humor is immature, or we are.

Hunter starts the Rover and reverses out of the parking spot. “I’m taking you home?” He glances over.

“Yep, thank you.” I buckle my seatbelt, laughing when I notice that my Bluetooth is the device that connects to his car.

“You didn’t un-sync!” he accuses. “You promised me you did.”

“I lied to you, Hunter.” Chortling, I load a playlist that includes a bunch of Whitney Houston ballads, which I know he doesn’t like.

“You’re evil,” he says as he drives us away from town.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you. Whitney is singing.”

Then, just because I can, I sing along to “Greatest Love of All” until Hunter threatens to leave me on the side of the dark, deserted road if I don’t shut up.

“Hey, could you turn off my butt heater?” he asks. “My ass is on fire.”

“Sure.” I’m holding my phone, so I go to plop it into the cup holder. But the Rover hits a pothole at that exact moment and the phone slips from my hand and tumbles to Hunter’s feet.

“Chrissake, Semi. Grab that before it gets stuck under the gas pedal.”

“Chill out. Hold on.” I lean toward him and stretch out my arm, but the moving car sends my phone skittering across the floor mat. “Dammit, I can’t reach it. Can you try to kick it toward my hand?”

“No. I’m fucking driving.”

“Just try.”

Groaning, he tries to poke the phone with his left foot, and the SUV swerves slightly.

“Okay, no, stop doing that,” I order. “Focus on driving. I’ll do it.”