Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(24)

His voice cracks as he lets out a loud bark, bending at the waist, really milking this for all it’s worth. I feel like such an asshole.

My eyes narrow into slits. “I hate you right now.”

“What the hell did I do!” Kip can barely catch his breath. “I never said my freaking parents weren’t alive, you just assumed they were. Oh my god, this is too good. It’s too good.”

“But…”

None of this makes any sense.

“Wow. You just made my day, I swear—goddamn you’re cute.”

“But…why would they buy you such a nice house? Why not a dump closer to campus? Who does that?”

When Kip presents me with his back, his shoulders give one last shake, hands busying themselves on the countertop by ripping open a packet of sugar and ignoring my question. “Let’s not get into it.”

Okay, so he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Fine.

“Someday, though? If we’re gonna be friends, Kip, we should be able to talk.”

“Jesus,” he mutters with a snort. “This is why I play rugby and stay away from girls.”

“Why? Because you don’t like having friends?”

“Yes.” He turns to face me. “No, because girls make everything complicated.”

Complicated?

“Are you being serious right now? I didn’t say I wanted to marry you! I said I wanted to be friends. That wasn’t a proposal—settle down, big guy.”

God, why are guys like this? It reminds me of the time my friend Sarah invited this guy Dave to a baseball game; when she offered him one of her spare tickets, he said he couldn’t go because he wasn’t ready for a relationship.

Idiot.

We had a good laugh about it afterward, but the point is: sometimes guys are way more drama than girls are.

It seems like Kip might be one of those guys.

It takes everything I have not to keep rolling my eyes at the grown man-child standing in front of me, but I manage. He’s being so ridiculous right now.

“Fine. You want to be my hairy godmother, be my hairy godmother.” I sniff. “And if you don’t want to be friends, we won’t be friends. Gotcha. That we can do.”

Kip tips his head back and talks at the ceiling. “Now you sound butt-hurt.”

“Me? Butt-hurt? Please.” As if. “I’m just clarifying.”

There is no hiding that stupid smirk on his dumb face. “Don’t worry—I get it.”

I lean back in his kitchen chair and cross my arms. “What exactly is it you think you get?”

One of his giant paws waves in the air. “I get how girls are. You want a relationship, I’m a good-looking, single guy, I have this house…”

“Oh my god—stop before you make me laugh.”

“Whatever, Teddy. You know it’s true.”

“Are you insane? You sound crazy.”

“You see all this”—he gestures those hands up and down his upper torso—“and I become a prime target.”

I push myself up, rising from the table. “You are delusional.”

He snickers. “Then why are you getting so defensive?”

Why is he so infuriating all of a sudden? “I would strangle you right now if I could reach your throat without a stepstool.” As luck would have it, there aren’t any to be found.

Kip laughs, and I’m sure his Adam’s apple is bobbing somewhere in his stupid, bearded neck.

“You’re telling me you don’t want to date me? After seeing my house?”

“What part of anything I said this morning would make you leap to that conclusion?” I swear, guys are morons.

“When you said you wanted to be friends, you said friends—it was kind of hard to miss the inflection in your tone.”

“Oh my god. I can’t with you right now. I’m leaving.” Everything I brought with me last night is folded neat as a pin in a tote bag, ready to go. “Thanks for the hospitality. It’s been swell.”

I throw him a two-finger peace sign for good measure, starting toward the door, pulling my jacket on along the way.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I don’t bother turning toward him. “What,” I clip out, agitated.

“You have no idea where you are.”

“Pfft. I can map it on my phone.” Duh.

“All right. Go ahead.” He slurps from his mug, loudly and obnoxiously—on purpose, no doubt.

“I’ll just do it now, if you don’t mind, since it looks a tad chilly outside.”

“A balmy forty-three degrees,” he clarifies with a bright smile, whiskers covering most of his white teeth.

Forty-three degrees?

Lord, shoot me now.

I fiddle with my phone, typing in the address to my apartment and wait for our location to populate. Glance at the screen, then up at Kip, confused.

“Three miles! What the hell! Three miles? Seriously, why do you live so far away? Are you insane?”

“Some of us have cars,” the bastard replies. One of his broad shoulders goes up then comes back down nonchalantly, mouth smug. “You still up for that walk? Or do you want me to drive you?”

“I hate you right now.”