Page 84 of Jaded

But then I’m engulfed again, and there’s another shot glass in my hand and more cheering. Cards flutter across the closest table, and half the guys want me to play cards and half want me to play stupid-red-cupssomething or other, and Charlie asks if I’m any good at chess, and I swear I’ve never been so popular.

“You’re all gonna give me a big ego,” I warn, trading my shot glass for a beer bottle. “I ain’t this fun, I promise.”

“You’re the new Cap!” Everton calls, and my stomach flips over in a combination of pleasure and . . . what? Dread? Guilt? Why do I feel like that?

“Who’s down for some cards?” Skyler calls.

“Nah, man, cups!” Everton rebuts.

“Both,” I say. “But I’m gonna go talk to Taylor first. Can’t have that antisocial attitude in my room, ya know?”

A wave of somber nods follows me out of the cluster and across the bar. Nat doesn’t turn as I slide onto the stool beside him, but I know he knows it’s me.

Don’t ask how.

“So, Mouse. Do you approve of the classic rock?” I ask. “Or you think we can get some real music in here?”

He sets his phone down, the screen still illuminated so I catch the nameSydneyat the top of the opened text thread. He legitimately is texting his daughter while everyone else is celebrating.

Makes my chest feel too tight. Why?

His gaze tilts sideways towards me. “Hey, Aspen.”

“Damn, you heard that, eh?” I half laugh, half wince. “My mom’s corny-ass nickname.”

“I think it’s cute.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “Fitting, with your woodsy nature hippie vibe.”

I snort. “Woodsy nature hippie. Totally me.”

“Totally.”

“So . . . the music?” I nudge my elbow against his. “You cool with the classic or you want something a little more fun?”

“You playing DJ now?” He turns towards me, and as always, the brunt of his full attention isintense, like a physical touch. And yet it makes me feel weightless, fizzy, free. Not the booze talking either. Twoshots and a sip of beer ain’t enough for that. Not when you’re six-two with a pro-athlete frame.

“Playing DJ is my favorite role at the party,” I admit.

“For real?”

“Of course.” I tap my bottle to his glass. “Introvert, remember? You wanna be the coolest guy at the party and partake in no conversation, you play DJ.”

“Fair.” He chews his lip in amusement or thought. “Except most parties don’t appreciate a full-metal playlist.”

“I have to make concessions, yeah.” I grin, lean over the bar to call out to the bartender. “I’ll give you ten bucks to plug my phone into your speaker?”

“Make it twenty, and you got it.” He holds out his hand, and I fork over a twenty and my cell,Party Playlistall queued up and ready to go.

He peaces out. I slide an elbow onto the bar to angle my body towards Nat. I might not be buzzing yet, but the booze is at least making me feel looser, less inhibited. Not that I feel inhibited around him. Not that I ever struggle to find the right words with him.

At a bar, in the locker room, on the ice . . . my words just flow. “So, are you in a band?”

“A band?” His brows arch in a perfect curve of disbelief. “Nah. Never had time for that shit, even in high school.”

“What do you do with the music you write, then?” I swig my beer like the super-cool cat that I am, slide it back onto the bartop. Again, so cool. “Sing it in the shower?”

“Well, yeah. I guess I do that.”

Hot.

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