by Sara Ney
“I wasn’t actually going to wear leggings, just so you know.”
“Bullshit.” Hannah laughs. “Don’t lie.”
“Fine. I was planning on wearing the leggings.” But with a cute shirt—so it’s not like I planned on looking like a slob.
Sheesh.
“If you don’t hurry, we’re going to be late.”
I give her a blank stare. “The plan was to purposely get there late, remember.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I know being late is going to make you twitchy, but we’re trying to prove a point here.”
My best friend hates being late; promptness is a virtue written deep in the Book of Hannah. I’ve told her a million times she should probably reevaluate our friendship and find someone who isn’t perpetually tardy for the party every time her foot steps out the door like I am.
“What was the point we’re trying to make? Remind me.”
I sigh. I’ve gone over this with her a million times. “JB was late for our first date and didn’t apologize when he walked in.”
He might have sent his apologies via app message, but that wasn’t until hours later.
“If by some miracle this date goes better and I see him again, I don’t want to set a precedent that he can take me for granted. I have to prove a point.”
Hannah sighs. “Fair enough.”
“So you’re going to have to chillax.”
“Roger that. Chillaxing.” My roommate pauses. “Who is this guy I’m going out with again?”
I grab a jacket from my closet and shut the door. “JB’s roommate—his name is Abe.”
Once I had a name, I did what any decent friend and roommate would do: I stalked Abe online to make sure he wasn’t a creeper. Honestly, I’m already a bit jealous because Abraham Davis looks like a great guy—if one can tell that from a few pictures on the internet. Tons of wrestling photos of him on the mats. Many wins.
His eyes.
Something about those eyes of his made me sigh as I stared at his wrestling headshot; they’re deep and brown and kind.
Abe is honest and kind. Don’t ask me how I know; I just do.
Thick black hair that looks freshly cut.
Skin the color of light bronze.
He’s beautiful.
If I’m being truthful, I’m more attracted to him than I am to JB, but that fact hardly matters because he is not who my date is with.
I shake my head, trying to get Abe’s image out of my mind, superficially focusing on my outfit instead. Toss on my jacket and pull on my boots, knowing it won’t do me any good to dwell on the wrong handsome face, the one that has been consuming my thoughts since I googled him.
It’s going to be a long night.
Low and behold, JB is on time.
The guys are inside the restaurant when we walk in, Hannah giving her stride a bit of sashay. Hips swinging dramatically as she cases the joint, eyes roaming the entire restaurant.
It’s an actual restaurant.
Not a bar. Not a grill. Not a combination of the two.
You can’t get pitas here, or wraps, or soup and sandwiches—it’s a nice, sit-down establishment. One I hadn’t heard of before but that JB randomly pulled out of his ass as a suggestion.
I’m suitably impressed, and so is Hannah.
She lets out a low whistle when the hostess tells us our dates are waiting for us at the bar near the lobby.
“Nice place. He must really be dying to get into your granny panties.”
I nudge her in the ribcage. “Shut up. I’m not wearing granny panties.”
“Liar.” She laughs.
Yeah, she’s right—I totally am. “They’re your underwear, so I wouldn’t laugh so hard if I were you.”
“Shit. You’re right.”
The fact that we share underwear to begin with, let alone our comfortable, cotton panties would gross most people out. But after doing laundry and not knowing whose underwear was whose—because we shop together, too—we both gave up and now just grab whichever pair from the dryer.
“Pull down your shirt.” Hannah tugs at my collar, and I slap her hand away.
“Knock it off!”
“Show a little boob.”
“I have no boobs.” The shirt I threw on is black, cotton, and off the shoulder. Nothing too sexy, just a bit flirty, it’s a glorified t-shirt. “If I pull down my shirt, it will be down to my belly button—there is nowhere to go but down.”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t be such a tramp.” I give her the side-eye, glancing over her pretty, light pink sweater and jeans. Cute and conservative, funny considering she kept trying to sex me up before we left the apartment.
Hypocrite.
Then again, she’s not really in this to find a boyfriend.
“Chin up, tits out.” One last reminder from her and I paste on a smile, heading toward JB and his roommate, Abe.
Wow.
Abe Davis in photographs is nothing like Abe Davis in person.
Tall. Broad.
Dark.
Friendly.
His eyes are smiling—his mouth, too—and that smile is directed at me. Not Hannah.
Not the cute hostess behind us with the menus. Not the pretty little waitress throwing both guys a teasing glance as she saunters past us. I watch as she gives them both a once-over before passing and glancing over her shoulder.
“Skylar.” JB’s hand are shoved in his pockets, and he’s dressed himself up a bit. Not much, but it’s a vast improvement over the hoodie and track pants he wore on our first date. This time it’s a black half-zip, embroidered Iowa logo on the chest, dark jeans. Freshly washed hair—it’s still damp—and black tennis shoes.
Abe, on the other hand…
With a black leather jacket draped over his forearm, he’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt tucked into jeans with a belt and dress shoes.
I stare.
I stare, and I can’t help myself, because his eyes are incredible and they’re looking right at me, and I’m looking back and—
Stop it, Skylar. You are not here for him.
You are here with JB.
JB.
The guy barely knows what to do with himself, not at all at ease, clearly finding himself in unfamiliar territory.
“Hey guys.” I peel my eyes off of Abe Davis and force myself to smile at JB. “You’re on time.”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” JB laughs. “They have our table ready if we want to sit down. I’m fucking famished.”
Next to him, Abe loudly coughs into the palm of his hand.
“Sorry. I mean—I’m hungry.”
“Should we do introductions first?” I suggest. “Guys, this is my roommate, Hannah. Hannah, this is JB, and…Abe, is it?”
Abe transfers his jacket from one arm to the other, offering Hannah his free hand, pumping it once. “Good to meet you.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, not impressed. “Hi.”
“Should we sit? It will be easier to talk at the table,” Abe politely suggests.
We sit. We order drinks. We get menus.
An awkward silence ensues, and I rack my brain for a topic of conversation—but Abe beats me to it.
Words are coming out of his mouth, but I’m barely listening, fixated on his straight white teeth, the small cleft in his chin.
“…right, Jack?” He nudges his roommate into action.
“Right.”
“Who’s Jack? You?” Hannah asks.
I like that name, even though I don’t necessarily care for him. We’ve been here less than ten minutes and already I know this whole second date is for naught; I’m not going to fall in love with or date JB.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” I ask, feeling like a complete idiot.
“I was saying that being part of a team is great, but at some point, that can’t be all there is. And JB agreed with me.” His dark eyes bore into me as he explains himself, long lashes blinking every so
often, tiny indent at the corner of his mouth pressing into his skin.
Kind of want to press my finger there.
Abe blinks at me.
I blink back.
He seriously needs to stop watching me like this; it’s making me nervous, sweaty, and excited. It’s making me feel things I have no right to feel for someone I’ve only just met, someone who is not my date.
Butterflies. Flutters.
Feels.
“You know what?” Hannah stands abruptly. “I think I want something from the bar. All the drinks.” She moves around the table, bumping JB—he’s seated at the end of it—with her hip. “Come give me a hand.”
Come give me a hand? What the heck is she doing?
It takes JB a few seconds to rise; he’s confused and clueless—until Hannah grabs a fistful of his shirt and tugs. “Move it or lose it. I need a hand, and you look strong.”
Above their heads, she rolls her eyes then pointedly glances down at the back of Abe’s head. Wiggles her well-manicured eyebrows before leading my date to the bar. My gaze trails along after them.
What the…
We’re alone.
I’m alone, in a room full of people, with Abe.
Okay. No big deal.
I can handle this; I’m an adult!
“Is it just me, or was that weird?” I blurt out, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Is your roommate a drunk? How many drinks does she plan on ordering?” Abe wonders out loud with a laugh. “Furthermore, why couldn’t she have just ordered from the waitress when she came back?”
“Are you pre-law?”
He laughs, and it’s magic. “No. Not even close.”
I bite back a huge grin. “Well, I stopped trying to figure Hannah out years ago. She’s been my best friend since we were little and I’ve been confused by her every single minute of every day since we met.” I take a sip from my water, which is iced down and has a lemon it in. “What do you think of her?”
There’s a long pause. “Honestly? I don’t know yet. She hasn’t said much.”
She hasn’t, which is so unlike her. “I don’t know what her problem is—she’s usually the chatty one.”
“It’s fine. This setup is kind of…”
I try to guess what he’s thinking. “Not feeling it?”
“I didn’t say that.” Beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, I see the muscles of his shoulders contract, letting my eyes skim curiously down the front of him. Over the firm muscles of his pecs, nipples stiff.
He inadvertently flexes his arms, the thick biceps strong and—
Um.
No.
Skylar, focus.
But wow, those arms…
“So, are you on the LoveU app, too?”
His body goes still. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. I feel like I would have seen you.”
“Oh yeah?” he teases. “Would you have swiped right?”
Yes.
No.
I don’t know. I would have wanted to but probably would have been too scared. Or intimidated. Chickenshit, as my friends like to call me. Abe is terribly handsome, larger than life, and kind.
He seems like the kind of guy who could have any girl on campus if he set his mind to it; what would he want with a girl like me?
I might not be a great student, but I try hard-ish, sort of study (kind of), work hard, love my friends—but I am no brainiac or social butterfly. I don’t do parties, I’m not in a sorority. I don’t play a sport, not even intramurals. I don’t wear tons of makeup, or have extensions, or fake eyelashes. My lips aren’t plump and juicy, and nothing about me inspires sexual fantasies.
I’m just me. Regular me.
I was enough for JB to swipe on, the little voice inside my head interjects. Good-looking, athletic, not-too-bright Jack Bartlett.
He swiped on me, but he turned out to be some sort of fuck boy.
I don’t know Abe Davis, but every instinct tells me he’s nothing like his roommate—nothing at all.
“Would I have swiped on you?” I play with my straw. “The better question here is would you have swiped on me—that’s what I want to know, since you asked.” I push out a laugh; it sounds forced, even to my own ears, and I wonder if he can hear it too.
The vulnerability. It’s something I don’t want to project.
“In a heartbeat.” No hesitation, quick nod of the chin to go along with it.
Well then.
My face flushes bright pink, heating my neck as I wonder what that might mean—what would have happened if it had been Abe contacting me that night instead of Jack?
What date would this be? Number two? Three?
In a heartbeat.
In a heartbeat…
Those words do something to my heart and it swells, pleased. Three words. So simple. So damn nice to hear…
“Did you know last year JB raised the most amount of money for a campus fundraiser?”
“Um, no, I didn’t. Which one was it?”
“The Lambdas host an auction every spring, and last year Jack had the highest bid. The cause is reading programs for at-risk youth.”
I twirl my straw around my glass. “So what you’re telling me is girls went wild for the guy and bid stupid crazy amounts of money so he’d take them out?”
“Yeah.”
“What did they end up doing?”
He’s silent a few seconds. “Car wash.”
My head tilts to the side. “A car wash.” My voice has no inflection. “That makes no sense.”
“Er. A, um. Topless carwash.”
“What the hell is that?” I quickly cover my mouth with the palm of my hand. “Sorry.”
“JB washed a bunch of cars with no shirt on.”
“While they gawked at him.” Probably got him all soapy with buckets of water, too.
“There was probably some gawking, yes.” He looks a little sheepish now.
“Well.” I sound like a prude; I even feel my lips purse tightly. It’s the face my grandmother makes when she’s pissed at my mom. “Sounds like an elaborate ploy to get some guy you have the hots for to take his shirt off instead of just watching him in the gym like normal girls do when they’re creeping. There are cheaper ways to go about it.”
And I highly doubt JB auctioning himself off to a bunch of women was charitably motivated.
I can barely contain my eye roll.
Abe stares. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
That’s because men and women think differently, hailing from completely different planets according to the author of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.
“He likes to draw.”
“Who does?”
“Jack.”
“I like to color—does that count?”
Abe laughs. “Like those adult coloring books for relaxation and shit?”
It really does sound nerdy.
Embarrassed, I giggle. “Hey pal, don’t knock it. I’ve invested a lot of time and money in markers.”
“No judging.” He pauses. “Know what I do to relax that’s weird? I have one of those slime containers and I sit and play with it at my desk when no one is looking.”
“Stop it, you do not. What color is it?”
“Do you watch those ‘oddly satisfying’ videos online, too?”
Another laugh. “Sometimes. Do you?”
“Duh—doesn’t everyone?”
“No!” He cackles. “No they do not. Because it’s lame!”
“We are the furthest thing from lame, Abraham.”
He goes still for the second time since we’ve been alone. “Good guess.”
“Not really. I stalked you online before I agreed to this double date.”
He’s quiet again, tearing at a tiny, pink sugar packet. “Find out anything interesting about me?”
“Not really.” I laugh. “Tons of wrestling stuff. Some pictures from high school.”
“And you decided I wasn’t a murder
er.”
“Statistically, I’m more likely to get murdered on a date than by a stranger in my own home.” I’m stating facts, but it makes us both laugh. “So technically, you still have time to kill me. Or Hannah, I mean. Her. Not me.”
Abe’s white smile is blinding against his darker skin and my eyes linger on his mouth; mine curves too, mimicking his expression. Dopey, kind of.
Smitten.
God, he is so cute, his eyes the perfect shade of brown, and if he was my date, I’d reach out and run my palm along the clean cut of his hair. I wonder if it’s as coarse as it looks, wonder what it would feel like beneath my fingertips.
Oh god, this is bad.
He breaks the spell. “Right. Hannah.”
“Hannah.”
He raises a brow. “Jack.”
Hannah and Jack: the reason we’re sitting here now.
And speak of the devil…
“We’re back!” Hannah sing-songs, carrying two glasses, setting one in front of me as she plops down, filling the empty chair across from me.
JB has a drink, too; it looks like a cocktail, amber colored and full of ice. He takes a swig, and I try to admire the column of his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. It’s a nice throat, clean shaven and thick. Athletic.
Meaty, one might say, if one were into that sort of thing.
Lord, listen to me, describing him like I’ve just popped out of a historical novel.
His lips are wet when he’s done, and I do my best to imagine kissing his mouth. Full bottom lip, a bit pouty. Strong jawline. Masculine chin I imagine gets dark from beard stubble shortly after it’s been shaved.
JB’s hair is still wet and badly in need of a trim, but it works for him. He’s an athlete and looks like one—a bit rough around the edges, scarred and bruised. Disheveled and unkempt.
Scruffy in a way most girls love these days, just not…me.
I don’t love it. He is not my type.
When JB raises his glass for another chug of whatever he’s drinking, I can’t help notice Abe elbowing him in the gut.
JB sets the glass down.
Hmm. That’s weird, right?
My head tilts to the side, thoughtful.
Vigilant.
“JB here used to be the captain of the wrestling team,” Abe informs the table, like he’s suddenly become the factotum of all things JB.