The Score (Off-Campus #3)(74)

“Because Garrett stays at your dorm every other weekend and he heard you and Sean in the bone zone tons of times. He told me you were a screamer.”

She gasps. “He did not say that.”

“He totally did. Face it, babe, you’re a loud lay.” I chuckle at her stricken expression. “That’s not a bad thing. Vocal is good.” I think of her throaty moans and breathy Oh my Gods, and I’m semi-hard in a nanosecond. “Vocal is very good.”

“No, it’s embarrassing,” she mutters. Her cheeks are bright red.

“Hey, I’d way rather be in bed with a loud woman than a quiet one. Silent comers are the worst. I slept with this one chick who didn’t make a sound the entire time. Seriously, I had no idea if she was even enjoying herself, and then when it was over she turned to me and thanked me for the multiple orgasms.”

Allie lets out a hoot. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

“You…really don’t, huh? I’m starting to think you might be the most honest person I’ve ever met.”

“Another requirement in the Life of Dean. Say what you mean, mean what you say.”

“And do what you want.”

“And do what you want,” I echo.

“I think I really like the Life of Dean.”

I think I really like you, I almost blurt out.

Fortunately, I manage to tamp down the sentiment, because…what the hell? I like banging her. Allie is easy to talk to and fun to fuck—that’s all there is to it. And considering how adamant she is about this being nothing more than a fling, I know she agrees wholeheartedly with me on that.

But a few hours later, when I pull up in front of a three-story brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, Allie throws me a curveball.

“Do you want to come for dinner tomorrow?”

The invitation is alarming and unexpected.

And alarming.

Did I mention alarming?

My unease must be written all over my face, because Allie hurries on. “I won’t be insulted if you say no. Honestly, you can say no. I was just imagining you all alone in Manhattan for Thanksgiving while your family is scarfing down a tropical turkey in St. Bart’s, and it was such a lonely, depressing picture that I figured I’d extend the invite.”

“What…” I clear my throat. “What will you tell your dad?”

She shrugs. “I’ll say you’re a friend from school who didn’t have anywhere else to go. It won’t be a big deal, I promise. You guys will talk hockey, I’ll cook dinner, we’ll watch some football, and there’s a forty percent chance we all get food poisoning. Just a regular old Hayes family Thanksgiving.”

A laugh flies out. “Sounds like a blast.” I consider it. “Okay, I’m in. What time do you want me to show up?”

“Four should be good, but we probably won’t eat until five.”

I nod.

“Okay. Awesome.” She smiles ruefully. “Now help me get my suitcase out of the trunk, will you? I’m pretty sure I’ll break my back if I try to lift that thing myself.”





21




Dean


Allie’s father hates me on sight.

I’m sure if I mentioned it to Allie, she’d wave off my concerns and say things like “he’s just grumpy” or “oh, that’s just how he is with everyone”. But she’d be wrong.

Joe Hayes hates me from the moment he opens the door and sees me standing on the stoop. And hoo boy, don’t I feel overdressed. Allie told me to dress “nice”, so I’d chosen a white Tom Ford dress shirt and gray Armani trousers. No suit coat, but my black Ralph Lauren jacket gets an eyebrow flick from Allie’s dad, who’s in sweatpants and a flannel shirt.

“You AJ’s friend from school?” he barks.

I wrinkle my brow. “AJ?”

“My daughter. Allison Jane?” Mr. Hayes looks annoyed that he has to explain.

“Oh, ah, yes, sir. I know her as Allie, though.”

“And you didn’t know her nickname?” He makes a derisive sound. “Not much of a friend, are ya?” He mutters, “Come in” and turns around stiffly. Stiff in the literal sense, because his gait is visibly labored as he stumbles forward on a slender cane.

Allie had warned me that her father has MS. She also advised me not to bring it up in conversation, saying he doesn’t like talking about it and will most likely bite my head off if I mention it. So I don’t, but it’s clear even with my non-medical background that he’s in pain right now.

I follow Mr. Hayes through a surprisingly large main floor with gleaming hardwood and what looks like the original woodwork and doors from whenever this brownstone was built. Allie and her dad have the two lower floors, which I’m brusquely told contain four bedrooms and three baths. Either the family purchased the apartment before the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood became super exclusive, or pro-hockey scouts make way more money than I thought.

He leads me into a spacious living room with a bay window that overlooks a neatly tended garden and patio. “Do you garden?” I ask politely.

Allie’s dad scowls at me. “Woman upstairs takes care of the garden.”

Okay then.

“Dean. Hey.”