One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(35)

Ty’s face looks ready to split, he’s grinning so wide. “What was that you said, Grant?”

“I said ‘nice gut.’ Eat another bag of chips.”

Ty’s grin doesn’t falter as he slaps his stomach in response. There’s nothing resembling a gut there. I take a sip of my drink as I survey each of them with curiosity. None of the guys have an ounce of flab on them, anywhere. Their bodies are all very different—Ty being on the shorter side and thick, Grant tall and lanky, Connor that perfect balance of height and build—but all are equally in shape. I’d imagine it’s due to the grueling workout schedule Reagan’s dad has them on.

“What’s everyone drinking?”

I hate that my heart skips a beat at the sound of that voice. I hate it because I’m usually also hit with the memory of his mouth on mine. It lingers like a sugary aftertaste, one I can’t seem to rid myself of—even with Connor sitting next to me. Tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear, I glance discreetly over my shoulder to find Ashton, his eyes scanning the crowd slowly, one hand absently scratching the skin above his belt. His shirt is lifted just high enough and his jeans are hanging just low enough that I can see the V-shape of his pelvis beginning. My breath hitches, recalling those same ridges in my room less than two weeks ago. Only he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on him then.

“You okay, Irish?”

As soon as I hear the name, I know I’ve been caught staring. Again. With a furtive glance over at Connor, I’m relieved to see that he’s occupied with Grant. I tilt my head back up to find Ashton’s knowing smirk.

“I’m fine,” I say, sliding my straw into my mouth, taking an extra-long sip of my drink. The Jack in it is potent, which is good because it means that warm tingle will start flowing through me quicker. And I’m going to need all the warm tingle that I can get tonight if Ashton’s going to be here. I’m also going to turn into an alcoholic if this keeps up.

“Hey, why did we start calling you Irish, anyway?” Ty asks as Ashton’s beautiful frame glides into the seat beside me. He sits with his legs bent and spread out, unconcerned that he’s encroaching on my space, that his knee leans against mine.

Good question. One I don’t necessarily have the answer for. I’m about to swallow my mouthful of drink and explain that “Cleary” is an Irish name, but Ashton butts in before I can get the words out to announce in a loud voice that the entire table and likely the surrounding ones can’t miss, “Because she told us that she wants to f**k an Irishman.”

Caramel-colored liquid explodes from my mouth, spraying all over the table, catching Reagan and Grant on the shirt as I start to choke. And I pray that I’ll choke to death. And if that doesn’t work, then I pray that someone slipped Drano into my glass so I can start convulsing and be done with this horror.

My prayers aren’t answered, though, and soon I’m left with nothing but burning cheeks as I listen to Ty bellow with thunderous laughter, turning half of the bar our way. Even Grant and Reagan can’t keep a straight face as they wipe my drink off themselves. I can’t meet Connor’s eyes. He hasn’t said a word. What if he believes it?

With teeth gritted so tightly that I think they may crack, I turn toward Ashton, intent on stabbing him with my glare. He’s not even looking at me, though. He’s busy reading the menu. And smiling, clearly proud of himself.

I don’t know what I expected from him tonight, but a comment like that wasn’t it. If I don’t leave right now, Connor will witness me turn into a female version of Tarzan and leap onto his best friend’s back. Through a clenched jaw and to no one in particular, I say, “Be back in as sec.” My chair makes a loud screeching sound as I push it back and escape to the restroom.

Once there and safely locked inside my stall, I lean my forehead against the cool door, thumping against it a few times. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? How am I going to deal with him? I’m used to being teased by my sister and Trent and Dan and . . . well, all of them, really. They get a kick out of making me blush because I’ve always been so uncomfortable when it comes to this stuff. Why, then, does it make my blood boil when Ashton does it?

Maybe he wants me to lose my cool in front of Connor. If the note is true and he’s jealous of his best friend, then convincing Connor that I’m a nut job would effectively scare him away. No . . . that just seems like too much work for a guy who has a girlfriend and one-night stands waiting in the wings. Dammit! I’m thinking too much about this. I’m analyzing and overanalyzing, moving on to obsessing. This is why I’ve avoided guys up until now. They make you crazy.

And this is also why I need to stop thinking about Ashton and focus on “slow and easy” Connor.

My eyes sting as I dig my phone out of my purse to I text my sister:

Ashton is an ass.

Her response comes almost immediately:

A giant ass.

I quickly text back, playing the game we’ve played since we were young—still childish, only now more colorful:

A giant leprous ass

A giant leprous ass that plays his penis like a banjo

I giggle with the visual in my head as I type:

A giant leprous ass who plays his penis like a banjo while singing “Old McDonald.”

The responding text is a picture—one of Ashton leaning over in the tattoo artist’s chair, the man with the ink gun at work. Ashton’s face is twisted into a hideous, exaggerated wince.