The Relationship Pact(27)

“Let’s not.”

“You go rock my dress and look hot and call me later. Love you. Bye.”

“Bye, Bells.”

Before I even hit the button, the doorbell rings.

My head whips toward the door as I end the call. I drop my phone in my purse and check the mirror one last time.

“You got this,” I whisper.

I take a deep breath and tug open the door.

It’s a damn good thing I hold onto the frame with the other hand.

Hollis is downright edible—a word I can never tell Bellamy after our conversation today. It’s safe to say I won’t even remember thinking it because I’m reasonably sure my brain just went dead.

He’s dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans that fit a set of muscled thighs like gloves. A black collared shirt is stretched across his broad shoulders.

His forearms are thick and heavily roped. On one wrist is a series of leather bracelets in a variety of styles.

He runs his hand through his hair, making the strands fall to one side. I know many guys will stand in front of the mirror forever to make their hair appear as though they don’t give a crap about it. But I really don’t think Hollis spent any time on it.

And that makes it so much hotter.

He stands on my doorstep, smelling like rich leather and chewing a large wad of pink bubble gum. He makes no secret of looking me up and down, letting his gaze sizzle my skin with each sweep.

I shiver as I force a swallow and try to remember how to speak English.

“Hey,” he says, the words kissed with a sweet, slow drawl that’s not quite Southern.

I clench the doorway even tighter. “Hi.”

“The gentleman in me wants to say that you look beautiful.” He smirks. “But the man in me wants to tell you that you look fucking hot.”

My cheeks flush. “Well, thank them both for me, okay?”

His smirk deepens.

“Let me get my purse, and we can go.”

I turn away from him and grab my stuff. I use the opportunity to get some fresh, un-Hollis-scented air and to let myself settle just a bit.

You’re friends. He’s a super-hot Boone. Go into it thinking that.

I turn as he blows a bubble. As it snaps, he winks.

Shit.

“What’s your last name?” I ask him as I step outside.

“Hudson. Why?”

I shut the door and lock it before dropping my keys into my purse.

“Just in case you kill me. That way, Bellamy knows who to look for,” I say.

He chuckles. “Hopefully, she’d call the cops.”

“You’d be lucky if she did that and didn’t come after you on her own. She’s a savage.”

A black Mustang sits at the end of the sidewalk. It has dark window tint and blacked-out rims.

It’s exactly what I would imagine Hollis driving.

“Is this your car?” I ask.

“No. I stole it.”

I look up at him to see him grinning.

“Yes, it’s my car. It was a graduation present of sorts.”

“It’s nice. It fits you.”

He seems to take this as it was intended—as a compliment. He smiles and opens the passenger’s side door.

“What’s your last name?” he asks.

“Mason.”

“Good last name,” he says.

What’s that even mean?

I climb into the car and halfway fall into the low-sitting seat. When I look up, he’s grabbing the window frame and looking down at me. The look in his eyes is full of mischief and innuendo, and I feel it fire through my veins.

“We’re just friends, right?” he asks.

I nod because I don’t trust my voice.

He nods too and closes the door.

“This is going to be a long night,” I whisper. “And much harder than I thought.”





Nine





Hollis





“I think this is where we're going,” I say as I pull into a driveway.

A large brick mansion towers in front of us.

I don’t know what I expected Lincoln Landry’s house to look like, but this exceeds any expectations I might’ve had.

The house is grand, the biggest fucking house I’ve ever seen, with clean black shutters and window boxes full of some sort of green plant that drapes over the sides of the boxes. Lawns extend along both sides of the structure that would be perfect for football games. To cap off the vision is a Tennessee Arrows team flag flying proudly from a flagpole near the front porch.

“Quite a place, huh?” I ask, shifting the car into park.

“Yeah. It is. Who lives here?”

“This guy used to play baseball for the Arrows,” I tell her. “That’s a professional baseball team. His name is—”

“Lincoln Landry.”

I raise a brow.

If this girl turns out to be a sports fan on top of being hot and funny and willing to spontaneously do shit like pretend to date a guy, then I’m done. I’m taking her home and calling it a night. I’ll be sure that the universe is pulling a trick on me, and that’s she’s really a dude. Or the host of some reality show. Or working for an ex-hookup and going to poison me.