Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(9)

“Just trying to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

His shoulders hunch as he laughs, and they shake a little with the action. “Sure you don’t.”

Pretty sure I’m gaping, mouth wide open. “I don’t! And I wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone so—whatever!”

“Then you were doing a great job.” His mustache twitches. “Until your friends showed up.”

Okay. Now he has my full attention, and I jut out a hip. “What about my friends?”

“They’re cock-blockers.”

Huh? “No they’re not.”

“So you weren’t flirting with Smith Jackson, and tonight you weren’t flirting with Ben Thompson, and your dark-haired friend didn’t come up and steal them both away?”

Wait…what? How does he know all this? “Smith Jackson who?”

I have no idea which guy he’s talking about, but they’ve all been nice. And so what if they’ve all walked off with Mariah? I wasn’t interested in them anyway.

“Were you watching me last week too?”

He shrugs. “Yes.”

His honestly confuses me. Most guys would lie or make up a lame excuse. “Why?”

“I had nothing better to do.”

Well then. “And you don’t think that’s strange?”

“Nope—not when you’re bored.” The guy snorts through the hair growing under his Grecian nose. “It’s not like I’m interested in you.”

Wow. “Gee, thanks.”

“No offense.” He looks like he couldn’t care less if he’s insulted me.

“None taken?”

He laughs again. “You sure about that? Now you look kind of pissed.”

Not pissed—but slightly offended. And embarrassed. And confused.

“Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick, okay? But you can’t come into a house like this and act like a deer caught in headlights. That just makes you an easy target. And if you’re interested in someone, you can’t stand there when one of your idiot friends hits on him and do nothing about it.” His voice is a baritone and drones on, doling out more unsolicited advice. “You can’t let your friends walk all over you.”

What the hell is he talking about? “I don’t!”

A pair of chocolate brown eyes settle toward the ceiling. “You’re in total denial. Your dark-haired friend is a total asshole—the female equivalent of a douchebag.”

Is he talking about Mariah? “Okay, this conversation is over.”

“Whatever. Suit yourself.”

“I’m walking away now.” My feet stay rooted to the spot.

The guy smirks…I think—it’s hard to tell with all the hair covering his mouth, but a set of straight, pearly white teeth flash, causing me to blink upward.

And now I’m staring again.

“Go. Don’t let me stop you.” I swear, he keeps taking sips of his beer for dramatic flare, flawlessly timed pauses. “Have fun.”

Annoying.

“I will.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I will.” Why am I arguing with this guy? Jeez, Teddy, stop repeating yourself or he’ll think you’re a moron. Not true, I continue protesting to myself, because he already does. Thinks he’s so damn smart, watching everyone from the corner like a creeper. Judging.

Mariah is not a cock-blocker! She would never…

Besides, I scoff, it’s not like I wanted any of those guys to hit on me—we were just talking. I was standing at the keg, and they came up for beer, not to hit on me. And I certainly would never hit on a guy—not on purpose, anyway.

If Mariah, Cameron, and Tessa happened to come up at that exact same time and join the chat, and Mariah just happened to have better chemistry with someone, that has nothing at all to do with me.

She would never purposely…

I feel my brow tighten and furrow, glancing at my feet, at the open-toed, brown leather wedges buckled around my ankles. Cute. Pretty.

Sunk into the worn, stained carpet that’s been beat to hell from all the abuse, still standing in the spot I just declared I was walking away from.

My gaze wanders, settling on those stupid work boots.

Who wears that kind of footwear these days? Seriously? Lumberjacks, construction workers, and bad male rappers, that’s who, not twenty-something-year-old college guys at a house party. What is he even doing?

My lips purse with annoyance.

My eyes slide up his denim-clad legs, quickly passing over the slight bulge of his crotch—he doesn’t have a hard-on, but since I know he has a dick in his pants, naturally I want to look. Narrow waist. Belt. T-shirt half tucked at his hips.

Broad chest.

“Hey, look at you, leaving and shit. Good job following through.” With one hand clasped around his red cup, he smacks it with the other in a mock clap, holding it forward so it doesn’t spill.

My god, could he embarrass me any more?

“Your friends went that way.” He points, the mammoth paw at the end of his hairy arm raised and directed toward the back of the house.

“Thanks.”

“No prob—I’m here to help.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Helping?”