The Deal(57)

He scrutinizes my clothes before raising one eyebrow. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Yes.” I bristle. “Got a problem with that?”

He tilts his head to the side like he’s Tim f*cking Gunn judging an outfit on Project Runway. “I’m totally digging the jeans and boots, but the shirt has gotta go.”

I examine my loose blue-and-white striped sweater but I honestly don’t see the issue. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s too baggy. I thought we talked about how you need to show off your stripper tits.”

A strangled cough comes from behind him. “Stripper tits?” Allie echoes as she steps into the room.

“Ignore him,” I tell her. “He’s a chauvinist.”

“No, I’m a guy,” he corrects, then proceeds to flash his trademark grin. “I want to see some cleavage.”

“I like this sweater,” I protest.

Garrett glances at Allie. “Hi, I’m Garrett. What’s your name again?”

“Allie. Hannah’s roommate and BFF.”

“Great. Well, can you tell your roomie and BFF that she looks like a reject from a sailing show?”

She laughs, and then, to my horror—Benedict Arnold!—she agrees with him. “It wouldn’t hurt to wear something more form-fitting,” she says tactfully.

I scowl at her.

Garrett beams. “See? We’re all in agreement. Go big or go home, Wellsy.”

Allie looks from me to Garrett, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. But she’s wrong. We’re not into each other, and we’re certainly not dating. But I suppose it’s better she think that than know I’m going out with him to impress someone else.

Garrett strides to my closet like he owns it. When he pokes his dark head inside, Allie shoots me a grin. She seems highly entertained by all this.

He flips through the hangers to examine my wardrobe, then pulls out a sheer black top. “How about this?”

“No way. It’s see-through.”

“Then why do you own it?”

Good question.

He holds up another hanger, this time a red sweater with a gaping V-neck. “This one,” he says with a nod. “You look great in red.”

Allie’s eyebrows hit the ceiling, and I curse Garrett for putting all these unnecessary ideas in her head. But at the same time, my chest goes warm and gooey, because…he thinks I look great in red? As in, he’s actually noticed what I’ve worn in the past?

Garrett tosses me the shirt. “Okay, get changed. We want to be fashionably late, not * late.”

Allie snickers.

I glare at them both. “Can I please have some privacy?”

They’re either oblivious to my annoyance or they’re choosing to ignore it, because I hear them chatting easily in the living room. I suspect Allie is grilling him about our “date,” and I hope to God that Garrett sticks to the bet story. When his husky laughter floats into my bedroom, an involuntary shiver skitters up my spine.

What is happening to me? I’m losing sight of what I want. No, of who I want. Justin. Justin frickin’ Kohl. I shouldn’t be kissing Garrett—or Dean, for that matter—and getting distracted by the strange rush of heat he unleashes inside me.

It’s time to get my head on straight and remember why I agreed to this charade in the first place.

Starting right now.

*

Garrett

Beau Maxwell lives off campus with four of his teammates. Their house is only a few blocks from mine, but a helluva lot bigger, and it’s packed like a hockey arena on game night when Hannah and I walk inside. Deafening hip-hop blasts from the speaker system, and several warm, sweaty bodies jostle us as we venture deeper into the house. All I can smell is alcohol, sweat, and cologne.

I pat myself on the back for convincing Hannah to wear that red top, because holy f*cking hell, it looks amazing on her. The material is so thin it outlines every sweet curve of her chest, and that neckline…Sweet Jesus. Her tits are practically pouring out of it, like they’re trying to pop out and say hello. I don’t know if she’s wearing a pushup bra or if her breasts are really that big, but either way, they’re bouncing like crazy with every step she takes.

Several people wander over to say hello to me and there’s a shit ton of curious stares in Hannah’s direction. She fidgets at my side, clearly feeling out of place. My chest goes softer than butter when I glimpse the deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes.