Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(54)

Not that I remember her telling me all that.

I can’t tell you why I drop into the line when I see Willa four people ahead of me, biting those tempting full lips as she reads the menu.

Well, I can. But if I did, first I’d have to own the truth of what I’m up against. That since the hike, keeping Willa in the frenemy zone is harder than before. That my feelings for her have grown big and scary and serious. That my heart now does a twisty, unnerving summersault every time I look at Willa.

I’m looking at her now. Staring, honestly. Daydreaming about running my fingers through her crazy hair, a tangle of waves and tendrils, swirling chocolate brown and caramel streaks and raspberry ribbons, that catch the high noon sun. Watching a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed guy who’s not butt-ugly walk up to her and wrap an arm around her shoulders.

My heart drops to my stomach. It’s beyond stupid of me to have assumed that Willa wasn’t interested in anyone. But all I’ve seen is that she never gives any guys who eye her up a second look. She’s not boy crazy, she’s never out on dates, and given her many anti-male diatribes that she weaves in our evenings together working on the final, I assumed Willa more or less truly hated men, except for me basically, and maybe Tucker and Becks who seem to have grown on her during our project nights at my place.

This guy seems to be the exception. He grins down at her and gives her hair a noogie. Asshole.

I can’t tell you why I do it. Why I watch them when my heart corrodes in the acid of my jealousy. But I can’t look away.





17





Willa





Playlist: “Hot Knife,” Fiona Apple





“Willa Sutter. Look at you.”

If his irritating voice weren’t unforgettable, I’d have recognized him by his asshole move—giving me a noogie. Stepping out of his arm’s grip around my shoulder, I peer up at Luke Masters, a creep of a jock I stupidly slept with last year. He’s on the basketball team. We have a few events per year that bring the women’s and men’s athletics programs together, and since our hookup in which he ditched before I even woke up, and left the condom on the floor, I tolerated seeing him at those events and nothing more.

Until this past summer, when he and Rooney slept together. Rooney had no clue about our history since I’m me and I never told her Luke and I hooked up in the first place. It’s weird but that’s not even the worst part. After he pulled the same stunt on Rooney, he told everyone what—in his words—a freak between the sheets she is. Now, instead of tolerating him I downright hate his guts.

“Luke the Duke of Douchery.” I reach up and pinch his nipple, making him yelp and step back. “What brings you here, polluting the atmosphere with your existence?”

He rubs his nipple and looks me over. “Just saying hi to my favorite fellow star.”

“Ah.” Luke is…vain. He likes to be seen with the right people, to maintain a reputation of having the best connections, rubbing shoulders with people who he thinks make him look good.

I had an incredible game in the semifinals. A hat-trick and a mind-blowing assist to Rooney. I was on fire. I’ve been in the news, and I gave an interview that’s made the rounds. I’ve had nice publicity through the playoffs, and this last game took it to the next level. Like many men before him, Luke’s here to ride the wave of a woman’s blood, sweat, and tears, hoping he can coast on her momentum.

“How’d your last game go?” I ask, stepping forward as the person in front of me steps up too, and places her order. “Ohhh, wait, that’s right. You lost. Again.”

Luke’s face sours. “Damn, Willa. Have you always been this much of a bitch?”

There’s a shuffling sound a few people behind me, but I don’t look back to see what caused it. I’ve got a dick to emasculate. “Ever since you told everyone who’d listen about my friend and her sexuality, yes, Luke. Now—”

A warm body presses into my back, as the scent of a pine forest wraps around me. I turn back and have to glance up considerably to see Ryder. His jaw is tense, his eyes locked on Luke.

Luke glances from Ryder to me. “Who’s this guy?”

I’ve never been in this situation with Ryder, in which people don’t know how he communicates. I don’t want to speak for him, but he clearly won’t speak, either. The two are locked in a stare-down.

“This is Ryder Bergman, Luke. He doesn’t hear well and he doesn’t speak but he lip-reads like a beast. I’m guessing he saw you call me a bitch and decided that if you say that again, your face is going to meet his lumberjack fist.”

Ryder’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. He’s wearing my favorite flannel, the blue and green one that makes his eyes pop. I had to throw in the lumberjack part.

Luke’s eyes finally travel Ryder critically. “Deaf and mute. Sounds like the only kind of person who’d be your friend, Willa. He can’t hear all the stupid shit you say and he can’t tell you what a bitch you are for saying it.”

Ryder starts to launch past me, but I manage to step in his way, spinning and facing him. “Look at me, Ryder.”

Ryder’s jaw ticks, anger darkening his eyes.

“Ryder Bergman. Look. At. Me.”