Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(13)

With one hand on my arm, Emerson dragged me away. I      risked another look back at the bar, searching for him among the multitude of      heads bobbing up to the front of the counter for their drink order. I spotted      him. He was pouring more beer, holding the lever down. But he wasn’t looking at      what he was doing. He was looking at me.

He so      wants you.”

I glared at Emerson as I took a pull from my      longneck, forgetting that I wasn’t a fan of the taste. I was too annoyed. “I      can’t believe you embarrassed me like that.” As the words spilled out of me, I      deliberately trained my eyes on her to keep myself from glancing at him across      the room again.

“We had to get things moving. Nothing was going to      happen if you just ordered, paid, and moved on.”

I frowned, leaning one hip against the pool table.      I refused to admit she had a point. Or that maybe he would call me now. He had      put my number in his pocket, after all. Or was that just simple politeness? To      spare my feelings. Maybe he’d thrown it away already.

“God.” I lifted my fingers and rubbed at the center      of my forehead where a dull ache was forming.

She patted my back. “I know. It’s hard being a girl      who actually emerges from her dorm room and talks to sexy boys.”

The guy beside Emerson nudged her, bumping her hip.      “Hey, hot stuff, your shot.”

Turning, she lined up her pool stick and prepared      her shot, earning a lot of stares when she bent over, thrusting her bottom up in      the air to the appreciative gazes of nearby guys, specifically the two that had      invited us to play pool with them.

The ball plunged into the pocket with a whoosh.

“Nice!” Ryan—or Bryan?—high-fived her, clinging to      her fingers longer than necessary.

Emerson didn’t seem to mind. He was cute. I could      tell she thought so, too, by the way she arched her throat when she laughed.

Unfortunately, his friend seemed into me, and I      didn’t think he was cute. Or maybe he was. I just wasn’t into him. There was      only one guy here that caught my interest and I’d just humiliated myself in      front of him. I had actually muttered “whatever”      when he asked me whether I wanted him to have my number. Not exactly the      self-assured femme fatale I aspired to be. Really, I should just call it a night      and go home now.

“You sure you don’t want to play?” He offered me a      stick. I tried to view him with an open mind. After all, my phone number could      be wadded up in a trash can right now. Whether I liked it or not, I might have      to contemplate other alternatives in order to gain the experience I needed. A      foul taste coated my mouth. Easier said than done. For whatever reason, the      bartender was the only guy that I could consider kissing and touching without      feeling mildly revolted.

The guy in front of me wasn’t bad-looking. A little pudgy-soft in the middle. Probably too many      beers and late-night burritos. But youth was still on his side. He had nice      symmetrical features. I predicted he’d be sixty pounds overweight in ten years,      but right now he was okay.

“No, thanks. You guys already started anyway.”

He smiled, but looked disappointed.

For the next hour, I sat on a stool, watching as      Emerson and Ryan/Bryan grew friendlier, laughing, talking, touching at every      opportunity as they moved around the pool table. I made small talk with the      friend. He stayed close even as he played pool, chatting me up and drinking      steadily. Hopefully he wasn’t driving.

The crowd started to thin out around eleven.

“Bunch of big parties on frat row,” Scott—I had      since learned his name—explained when I wondered aloud where everyone had      disappeared to so early.

I nodded, but couldn’t help sneaking a glance down      the length of the room toward the bar. I couldn’t resist. With the crowd      dissipating, there was little to obstruct my view.

Only one bartender worked the counter, but it      wasn’t him. I didn’t see my bartender anywhere. Was he on a break? Or did he cut      out early? If he left early he could have talked to me. If he wanted to. Now I      was convinced the napkin with my number was balled up on the floor. Stupid tears      burned my eyes. I blinked them away furiously.

Taking a breath, I commanded myself to stop      obsessing. He wasn’t the end goal, after all. Hunter was. I could find someone      else to help give me the experience I was looking for.