Page 13 of Getting Lucky Number Seven

My spirits sagged, taking my confidence along with them.

“Don’t worry.” Beck held out a cup to me. “The good thing about parties is there’s always another opportunity waiting around the corner. But let’s get you loosened up a bit before we try again.”

I took a generous gulp from the cup. Coke with a hint of coconut—much yummier than beer. Then I eyed the cup in his hand. “What about driving later?”

“It’s just Coke. Don’t worry about me, I’m the responsible one tonight. You’re the one who doesn’t worry about things, remember?” Beck stepped aside for a couple weaving through the crowd and then took my elbow and pulled me away from the steady stream of traffic headed toward the drink table.

“Here’s a tip,” he said. “When a guy comes up to you, ask him questions. Keep reflecting the conversation back to him. People love talking about themselves. Asking about their major might be overdone, but it’ll get the conversation going. Music. Hobbies. Things like that. And then, if the guy seems into the conversation, move a little closer—it’s loud in here, so you’ve got the perfect excuse.” He set his cup on a nearby ledge. “Try it out on me.”

“Do I have to? I’ll feel stupid. Plus, I already know you.”

Beck crossed his arms and looked down at me, all intimidation. I tipped back my drink, stalling for time, but he patiently waited, still staring me down when I finally lowered the cup from my lips.

“Fine, Coach. But just to be clear, I’m not going to drop and give you twenty if I mess up.” Going off the flirting I’d seen Whitney and Kristen do, I flipped my hair and shot him what I hoped was a sexy grin but felt like it might land me more on the possibly-a-psycho scale. “Beck, was it? So, like, what do you do for fun?”

His lips twitched and as I waited for his response, I was already trying to figure out what I should say next. But then his ridiculously blue eyes focused on me and only me, my breath caught, and suddenly my main thought was,Pretend flirting or not, no matter what you do, donotcomment on his eyes or the way they’re currently sending a shiver of electricity up your spine.

Chapter Eight

Beck

Telling myself I shouldn’t be staring at Lyla’s boobs wasn’t working as well as it should’ve, the same way it hadn’t when she’d first gotten in my car tonight. And when I tried to look away from them, there were her shapely legs peeking out of those tiny shorts to distract me. When she said she was going for a new look, I figured it’d be a trim that I’d get in trouble for not noticing, and maybe a new outfit. I had to hand it to her, though, she’d really gone all out.

The feisty redhead in front of me looked completely opposite of the girl who usually sat cross-legged on my couch, her skirt spread out like a blanket as she commentated on every unbelievable part of the movie that she “just didn’t buy.” But the train-wreck conversation I’d witnessed a minute ago proved that girl was still in there. Which was why I needed tonotsay, “Girls like you,” the way my instincts automatically told me to. That was a line for a very different type of girl.

So instead I went for a less bold response that’d help her work on her social skills. “I play hockey. I’m on the college team, actually.”

She licked her lips—another feature of hers I most definitely shouldn’t stare at—and then she shook her head, almost as if she’d been somewhere else for a moment. “Cool. I’ve never been to a hockey game.”

“You should come to one. Watch me play.” It was typical conversation, just like we’d talked about, but I wondered why she’d never come to a game. It’d be nice to have her there cheering me on, but judging from the way she constantly flinched during fight scenes in movies, she’d probably think it was too violent.

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said with another hair flip.

Now she was getting it, although she needed to learn another move—we’d go into that later. Right now she needed a confidence boost. “So, Lyla, what’s your major?”

She tilted her head and sighed.

“Let’s try a little less attitude. We don’t want the guys thinking you’re stuck-up.”

“Jerk,” she muttered, shoving my chest, and I laughed.

“Come on, you talk to me all the time, and you’re perfectly normal. Funny and passionate, with no trouble putting me in my place.” I took a sip of my soda, looking at her over the rim so she’d know she might as well answer, because I wouldn’t budge until she did.

She ran her hand through her hair, the new bright-hued bangs immediately falling back over one eye. “The ‘normal’ part is debatable, and it doesn’t count because it’s you, and I’m not trying to impress you. When I talk to a cute guy, my brain says be cool, but my mouth says screw you, brain, and then stupid things come out. I don’t think I can practice it away.”

“Not with that attitude, you can’t,” I said. A girl carrying a tray full of Jell-O shots walked by, and I snagged two. “Here. You’re drinking too slow.”

After Lyla took care of the shots, making a sour face after each one, we picked up with the typical party small talk, and I went back into instructor mode.

“Now, act like you didn’t hear what I said, put your hand on my massive bicep” —I flashed her a teasing smile, hoping it’d help put her at ease—“then lean in and say, ‘Huh?’ And make sure you sound as ditzy as possible.”

The wheels were turning as she psyched herself up to make the move, which was funny considering we were only practicing. Finally, she put her hand on my arm, leaned in so close her warmth soaked into me and I could smell the cherry Jell-O shots on her breath as she said, “Huh?” Then she bit her lip. It was a nervous tick she had, but in this instance, it totally worked for her.

“See,” I said, finding myself staring into her eyes and thinking that they were bigger and brighter than usual. My heart gave one hard pump that sent a burst of adrenaline through my veins. I cleared my throat, trying to get my thoughts back on track. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Lyla stepped back, and an unanticipated twinge of disappointment over the space suddenly between us twisted my chest. My dry spell must be messing with my head.

A couple of girls wearing even less than Lyla walked by, giggling and wobbling enough it was clear they were already past tipsy.

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