by Elle Kennedy
And why am I thinking about Hollis right now?
I trail my fingers up Jake’s thigh and inch them toward his chest. His muscles are so defined I can feel the tantalizing ridges even with him wearing a shirt. I stroke him over his dark-blue button-down, a quick tease that brings heat to his eyes. When my fingers reach his collarbone, his Adam’s apple twitches as he gulps.
I smile faintly. “Everything all right?”
“Good. I’m good.” He clears his throat.
My hand reaches its destination—his insanely beautiful face. I rub his bottom lip with the pad of my thumb. His gaze grows impossibly hotter. Before I can blink, long fingers tangle in my hair and there’s a big hand cupping the back of my neck.
Jake brings my head forward and slants his lips over mine, and it’s the kind of kiss that’s been missing from my life for so long. One that starts off as a slow burn, a soft meeting of lips and the feather-light flick of the tongue. It’s like he’s laying the groundwork for something fierce. He’s building a fire, each teasing kiss serving as the kindling, until finally he unleashes a groan, drives the kiss deeper, and the fire engulfs us. His mouth is hot and hungry, but he doesn’t try to lick my face off or swallow me whole. It’s a controlled kiss, firm but greedy, thick with passion and the perfect amount of tongue.
I moan. I can’t help it. He chuckles against my lips before pulling back. “You’re a good kisser,” he rasps.
“Not so bad yourself.” And then we’re devouring each other’s mouths again, making out hardcore in this booth, and I don’t even flinch when I register the sound of catcalls over the music. Let everyone around us watch. Give them popcorn for all I care.
That girl in the bathroom last week, the one who praised Jake’s tongue, was right on the money. His tongue is incredible. Feels like heaven in my mouth. And his big, warm hand is now squeezing my thigh. I want to climb into his lap and maul him, but we’re at a bar, and we’re fully clothed. The fact that we’re in public is the only thing saving me from making a really stupid decision.
I pull away, breathing heavily. Jake’s gorgeous eyes peer back at me. A deep, dark green, like the jungle after a heavy rainfall. I can see why women go a little nutty for him.
I gulp down a hasty swig of cognac, then jerk when he takes the tumbler from my hand. Callused fingertips rub over my knuckles. I shiver.
“That was mine,” I accuse as he finishes my drink.
“We’ll order another round.”
“Probably not a good idea.” My voice sounds gravelly, so I clear my throat. Twice. “I should go.”
Jake nods. “Okay. Let me grab the check.”
I gesture to our empty glasses. “By the way, this counts as our date.”
He lets out a low, sexy laugh. “Dream on. This ain’t the date. This is still me being your fake boyfriend.”
“Oh really? Was that a fake make-out?”
“This isn’t the real date,” he says sternly. “But we should probably schedule that. When are you free?”
“Never.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Back-to-back nights? Is he nuts? I don’t even do that with the people I date for real. “Wow. You’re dying to see me again, huh?”
“Yes,” he admits, and my heart betrays me by skipping a beat. “So. Tomorrow?”
I cave like a house of cards. “Fine. But I’m not coming back to Boston. In one week I’ve spent enough time in this city to last me a lifetime.”
“I’ll pick somewhere closer to Hastings,” he assures me. “I’ll have Brooks’s car—should I come get you?”
“Absolutely not.” There’s no way I’m letting Jake show up on my father’s doorstep to pick me up for a date. “Unless you’re in the mood to get murdered.”
He chuckles knowingly. “I hoped you’d say no, but I’m a gentleman so I had to ask. I’ll pay your cab fare, though.”
“I don’t need your charity,” I mock.
“You just like being difficult, don’t ya?”
“Yup.” I rummage in my purse for my wallet.
“Want to make out some more before we go?” Jake’s tone is boyishly hopeful.
“Nope.”
His gaze turns devilish. “How about a blowjob?”
“Aw, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t have a penis.”
Jake’s laughter heats my blood. It’s deep and husky and I want to record it so I can hear it whenever I want. Which is beyond creepy and insanely unsettling. I’m starting to enjoy this guy’s company, and that worries me. A lot.
“You got in late last night.” My father’s disapproval greets me when I walk into the kitchen the next morning. “Out partying, I suppose?”
I stick my head in the fridge and roll my eyes at a tub of margarine, because I can’t do it to his face. “I got home around midnight, Dad. On a Friday night. And I had to catch an eleven o’clock train in order for me to get back here for midnight. So really, I was done ‘partying’—” I turn so he can see the air quotes. “—at eleven. On a Friday night.”
“You’re too old to be giving me sass.”
“And I’m too old to be reprimanded about my social life. We talked about this. You said you wouldn’t lecture.”
“No, you talked about it. And I didn’t say a damn thing.” He’s not afraid to openly roll his eyes. He brushes by me in his plaid pants, wool socks, and pullover sweater with the Briar hockey logo on it.
He stops at the coffee maker, the fancy one Aunt Sheryl got him for Christmas last year. I’m surprised that he’s using it. Dad doesn’t care if a product has all the bells and whistles, unless it’s state-of-the-art hockey equipment. Otherwise he doesn’t give a shit.
“Want a cup?” he offers.
“No, thanks.” I hop onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter. The legs are uneven, so it wobbles for a beat before finding its equilibrium. I open a mini yogurt and scarf it down, while Dad stands near the sink, waiting for his coffee to brew.
“You didn’t have to take the train,” he says gruffly. “You could’ve borrowed the Jeep.”
“Seriously? I’m allowed to drive the precious Jeep again? I thought I was banned after the mailbox incident.”
“You were. But that was, what? Two years ago? One would hope that you’ve smartened up since then and learned how to drive properly.”
“One would hope.” I swallow another spoonful of yogurt. “I don’t mind taking the train. It gives me time to get my course readings done and read all the game highlights. So this weekend is the charity game, right?”
Dad nods, but he doesn’t look thrilled about it. This year the Division I Hockey Committee decided that every team would participate in a charity exhibition the weekend before the conference finals, rather than immediately playing the final game after the semifinal round. The exhibitions are hosted by various cancer societies throughout the country, and all proceeds from ticket sales and concessions go to these charities. It’s obviously a great cause, but I know Dad and his players are anxious for the finals.
“And what about the finals? Are you guys ready?”
He gives another nod. Somehow he manages to cram so much confidence into one nod. “We will be.”
“The Crimson’ll be tough to beat.”
“Yes. They will be.” That’s my dad, a gifted conversationalist.
I scrape the last bit of yogurt out of the plastic container. “They’re good this year,” I remark. “They’re very, very good.”
Not just at playing hockey, either. Jake Connelly, for example, is highly skilled in other areas. Like kissing. And turning me on. And—
And I need to derail this train of thought, pronto. Because now my body is tingling, and I’m not allowed to be tingling in such close proximity to my father.
“You know, you’re allowed to say a nice thing or two about Harvard,” I tell him. “Just because you hate the coach doesn’t mean the players are terrible.”
“Some of them are good,” he acknowledges. “And
some of them are good but dirty.”
“Like Brooks Weston.”
He nods again. “Kid’s a goon, and Pedersen encourages it.” There’s venom in his voice when he says Pedersen’s name.
“What kind of player was he?” I ask curiously. “Pedersen, that is.”
Dad’s features grow taut, tension rippling from his broad frame. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you played with him at Yale. You were on the same team for at least a couple seasons, right?”
“Right.” Now his tone is guarded.
“So what kind of player was he?” I repeat. “A power forward? An enforcer? Did he play dirty?”
“Dirty as mud. I never respected his gameplay.”
“And now you don’t respect his coaching.”
“Nope.” Dad takes a long sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Are you saying you do?”
I think it over. “Yes and no. I mean, there’s dirty gameplay, and then there’s rough gameplay. A lot of coaches encourage their players to play rough,” I point out.
“Doesn’t make it right. It promotes violence.”
I have to laugh. “Hockey is one of the most violent sports there is! We’ve got guys skating around on ice with sharp blades on their feet, holding big sticks. They get slammed into the boards, they’re hit over and over again, they take pucks to the face…”
“Exactly. The sport is already violent enough,” Dad agrees. “So why make it even more so? Play clean and play honorably.” His jaw tightens. “Daryl Pedersen doesn’t know the meaning of clean or honor.”
He makes a valid point. And I suppose I can’t ascertain one way or the other about Pedersen’s level of dirtiness. I’ve only seen a couple of Harvard games this season, which makes it difficult to accurately gauge how dirty those boys play.
I know how dirty Jake kisses. Does that count?
“What do you have planned for today?” Dad asks, changing the subject.
“I need to finish up an article for my News Writing class, but I’ll probably do that later. I’m heading over to Summer’s house now.”
“On Saturday morning?”
“Yeah, she wants me to help her clean out her closet.”
“I don’t understand women,” Dad says.
“We are pretty fucking weird. I’ll give you that.”
“I’ve heard things about that girl Summer,” he adds, his trademark frown marring his face.
I frown back. “She’s a good friend of mine.”
“Her brother said she was crazy.”
“Well, yeah. I can’t deny that. She’s strange and melodramatic and hilarious. But you shouldn’t believe everything Dean says, anyway.”
“He said she burned down her school.”
I grin at him. “Considering Brown University is still standing, I think we can assume Dean exaggerated.” I slide off the stool. “I need to get dressed. I’ll see you later.”
An hour later, I’m lying on Summer’s bed scrolling through my phone. Needless to say, watching her try on every outfit in her closet and then model it for me got real old, real fast.
“Bee!” she complains. “Pay attention.”
I put the phone down and move into a sitting position. “No,” I announce. “Because this is insanity. You just tried on four different cashmere sweaters in the same shade of white. They were identical. And they all looked brand new!”
She starts to give me a whole speech about Prada versus Gucci versus Chanel until I hold up my hand to stop her, because I swear to God if she goes on about Chanel, I’m going to lose it. She’s obsessed with that fashion house and, unchecked, could talk about it for hours.
“I get it, they’re designer sweaters. But the whole point of spring cleaning is to get rid of stuff—and you haven’t thrown out a single thing.” I jab my finger at the meager pile of clothing at the foot of the bed. It’s the donation pile, and it consists of two T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and one cardigan.
“I have a hard time letting go of things,” she huffs, whipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.
“Don’t you have a walk-in closet at your place in Greenwich? And another one in Manhattan?”
“Yes. So?”
“So nobody needs that many closets, Summer! I get by with a handful of outfits that I rotate.”
“You only wear black,” she retorts. “Of course it’s easy to throw an outfit together when all you wear is black. You don’t give a shit about fashion—you put on a black shirt and black pants and black boots and red lipstick and you’re done. Well, black isn’t my color. It makes me look too BDSM. I need color, Brenna! My life is colorful. I’m a colorful person—”
“You’re a crazy person,” I counter.
“I am not crazy.”
“Yes, you are,” her boyfriend confirms as he waltzes into the room. Fitz’s full-sleeve tattoos ripple as he wraps his arms around Summer from behind, bending his head to plant a sweet kiss on her cheek.
“I hate you two,” I grumble. “You’re so disgustingly happy. Go be happy somewhere else.”
“Sorry, Bee, but we’re not going to hide our love from the world,” Summer says, and begins peppering kisses all over Fitz’s cheek, making loud smooch noises that make me want to vomit.
Well, not quite, but I pretend to gag because she is being ridiculous.
“What are you guys up to?” Fitz glances at me. “I didn’t even realize you were here.”
“You were sleeping when Bee got here,” Summer says. “We’re cleaning out my closet. I’m donating a bunch of stuff.”
He looks at the full closet and then the tiny pile on the bed. “Cool. Did you just get started?”
I snort. “We’ve been at it for more than an hour! In one hour she’s decided to give away a T-shirt.”
“It’s more than a T-shirt,” Summer protests.
Our voices lure Hollis in from the hall. He wanders into Summer’s room and flops down near the foot of her bed. He’s in sweatpants, a wife-beater, and when his bare feet knock over the meager donation pile, he doesn’t even notice.
“Sweet. Are you trying on clothes for us? When do we get to lingerie? Fitz, tell your girlfriend I require a lingerie fashion show as a reward for the emotional distress she’s caused me.”
“What are you babbling about now?” I ask him.
I’m at the head of the bed, so he has to crane his neck to meet my eyes. “Summer told me what you assholes did to me.”
I give him a blank look.
“My stalker?” he prompts. “I know you encouraged it.”
“She’s not stalking you,” Summer argues.
“Are you serious?” Hollis gapes at her. “She’s called me every single day since we went out for dinner.”
“You went out on Thursday,” Summer reminds him. “That was literally two days ago. Which means she’s called you twice. Chill the eff out.”
“Twice? I fucking wish! She calls at least three times a day.”
“Yeah, and you pick up every time,” Summer shoots back, “and talk to her for an hour, sometimes more.”
“I talk?” He rakes both hands through his hair. “She talks! That chick doesn’t shut up.”
“I assume we’re talking about Rupi?” I hedge, fighting laughter.
“Of course we’re talking about Rupi!” he roars. “She’s an insane person, you realize that, right? Are you sure she didn’t escape from a mental institution in Bali?”
“Bali?” I echo.
“She said that’s where her mom is from. She’s some movie star in Bali.”
“A Bollywood star.” Summer giggles. “That means India, not Bali.”
“Oh.” He thinks it over, then shakes his head. “Nope, that doesn’t make it better. She’s still nuts.”
“How did the dinner go?” I ask him.
He twists around to glare at me.
I blink politely. “Not well?”
His face is cloudy. “She talked the entire time, and she wouldn’t ev
en let me kiss her good night.”
“Wait, you’re saying you wanted to kiss her good night?” Fitz speaks up. He’s leaning on the edge of Summer’s desk. His girlfriend, meanwhile, is back inside her closet, flipping through hangers.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Colin,” Hollis says haughtily. “Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean I don’t want to make out with her.”
“Classy,” I tell him. “You’re a real romantic at heart.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Hey, the Hollis store is still open. Pop in whenever you want, Jensen.”
“Pass. Anyway, so no kiss, huh?”
“Nope!” He looks outraged. “She doesn’t kiss on the first date. She’s making me wait! Until date three.”
Fitz doubles over in laughter. “Hold on a sec,” he wheezes. “You’re going out with her again?”
I snicker. “Two more times?”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” Hollis moans. “Apparently I’m taking her to a movie on Tuesday.”
Fitz nods. “Nice. It’s half-price on Tuesdays. You should go see the new Marvel movie.”
“I don’t want to see the new Marvel movie, you jackass. I don’t want to go out with this girl. She’s too young and too annoying and—” He startles, then sticks his hand in the pocket of his sweatpants. He produces his phone and blanches at the screen. “Oh my God, it’s her.”
“You saved her in your phone?” I demand.
“She did. She grabbed my phone in the middle of dinner and created a contact for herself. She saved it as Rupi with the heart-eyes emoji. She’s in my phone with heart-eyes, for fuck’s sake.”
I roll onto my side and quake with silent laughter.
At the desk, Fitz is shaking his head in amusement. “You know you can change that, right?”
Hollis is too busy answering the call. He barely gets out a “hello” before excited chatter pours out of his phone.
Fitz and I exchange a grin. I have no idea what Rupi’s saying, but she’s talking a mile a minute, and the horrified expression on Hollis’s face is priceless. This is the most entertainment I’ve had in years.