Page 48 of Kitty Season
I fight the smile the image of Troye wrapping his junk brings, but lose all sense and reason when I spot Brady, looking so hotmy ovaries damn near burst. I don’t mean to push Lotte away like she’s yesterday’s new, but I do. “HOLY SHIT!”
Only the back of him is visible as he talks to Dad, but as far as backs go, fuck me. Those pants. That ass. The way that white shirt stretches across his back. My mojo is back big time, and it takes every ounce of strength in my body not to drool. Digging deep, I peel my eyes from the bubble butt, and scan the room for Troye.
I see Cory, Troye’s linesman hovering by the fireplace. Oh. He must have been the fourth door.
I hide my disappointment behind a plastered-on smile as Brady steps away from Dad and turns to face me. Just like I did with the flamingo, we consider each other for a moment, and it’s Brady that speaks first.
“Quinny, wow, you look—” Hungry eyes again roam my body, lingering over my cleavage the world’s prettiest and best push-up bra has endowed me with, then my exposed belly button and finally, the tiny, glittery blue shorts that sit below it.
“Cold,” Dad finishes. “She should put on a jacket, don’t you think, Basse?”
Brady shakes his head, but also says, “Yeah, it’s pretty nipply, I mean nippy out, cold, nippy.” My friends snicker. Dad looks like he may implode, and Mom? Mom saves the day.
“Flamingos!” she yells at the top of her voice. “Let’s all go see the flamingos. They’re pink, you know?”
Though I’ve never confirmedDad’s suspicions that his new center and I are … doing whatever it is we are doing, he does know Troye was supposed to be here. Hence the several dozen, Itold you so, glares he’s shot between me and his Rolex as we pass ten p.m.
With no updates from Troye himself, my plan is to have as much fun as I can with one eye on the door, and if he fails to show, cry my ass off, and get absolutely wasted in the hope I’ll forget this night, and Troye Becker, ever happened.
For now, since a sprinkle of hope remains, and sobriety is a must for whatever, and whomever, may go down later, I’m sticking to the non-alcoholic punch. Brady, who’s never strayed far from me, seems to be of the same thought. He’s been nursing the beer I handed him when he arrived.
The same couldn’t be said for the hockey crew, or Grace, Alex and Maddy, the girls from class. They arrived a few minutes after Lotte and the others did, and neither group has moved far from the other. From the view my hammock affords me, I’m watching the boys trying and failing to impress the girls. It’s highly entertaining, though less so now that my hammock mate, Lotte, has been carried into the pool house over the shoulder of her fiancé.
My solitude is short lived, seconds later Brady’s wandering my way somehow looking hotter than he did only minutes ago.
“Are you having fun?” he asks, leaning down so I can hear him above the dulcet tones of Pitbull—not my choice.
On brand, Mom hired a DJ for a party with twelve attendees. So far, the playlist has consisted entirely of the Despicable Me movie soundtracks.
“I am.” With those six pitiful words, our conversation tally for the evening just doubled. “Not as much as them, though.” I nod towards his teammates, the idiots that just dove fully clothed into the pool.
“They’re not used to having to work for attention. Those … hockey girls always fall at their feet.”
“Girls like me, you mean?”
Even through the hideous flashing lights mom’s strung everywhere she could, I see Brady’s fierce blush. “No, not like you. Not like you at all. You’re not like them. You’re not a?—”
“Bunny? It’s okay to say it. I am, Brady, and I own it.” Sitting up, I wriggle closer till I’m snuggled as close to his warmth as I can without dragging him in here with me. “There’s something about hockey boys I can’t resist. Why do you think I’m so twisted over two of them?”
For a devastatingly long time, Brady remains still and silent, meaning I’m forced to listen to the sounds of others’ fun while feeling so wholly miserable.
“Quinn, you shouldn’t?—”
“Why shouldn’t I? Look at me, Brades. I’m pining my birthday away over one who can’t be bothered to turn up, while sitting next to the other, who I know would do anything for me even though I pushed him away.”
“I would do anything for you, Quinny. You’re?—”
“Quinn!” Dad’s tensest, most Coach-like voice cuts through the night. “You have a guest.”
Pure impulse and anticipation sees me leap from the hammock, I take three steps then pause and look over my shoulder. Brady looks so defeated, so sad even though he’s smiling. “You’re with him, Quinn. Not me. Go.”
“But.”
“It’s okay. I promise.”
Heart in mouth, and without looking back, I reach out my hand and take hold of Brady’s. “Come with me. Please?”
Because Brady is who he is, he nods, and falls into step beside me, not an easy task for someone who holds such a height, and come to think of it, heart advantage.
