Page 3 of Lovesick
My cheeks flame with what I’m guessing is a pretty apparent blush, and I redirect my attention to my glass. I swish the drink in my hand, watching miniature whirlpools form as glaciers of ice cubes buoy to the surface.
“Out of everyone in the bar, why me?” I inquire.
God, even hissmellis intoxicating. Notes of leather dance in the air, underpinned by currents of bergamot that hotwire my hormones and prepare my lady bits for some kind of ruinous reckoning. There will be no reckoning, okay? None.
“Because it seems you’re the only girl in this sports bar who couldn’t give two shits about the game,” he replies, nodding to the retina-scorching, flat-screen television hanging above our heads, which broadcasts a rerun of the Minnesota Mustangs’ game from last season. “The Mustangs are one of the best teams in the league.”
Great. He’s a hockey kiss-ass, just like everyone else in this town. I never saw the appeal of hockey—it’s just a sport where guys on skates have to huck a puck into the opposing goal. There’s nothing impressive about it. And since I’ve been exposed—thank you, Dad—to washed-up athletes with God complexes who generally stink of ball sweat and lies, it goes without saying that I’ve developed a warranted hatred for the hockey player species.
Just then, hoots and hollers erupt from every direction, and a divorcé with an obvious toupée slams his drink down with so much force that the entire counter jars from the impact. He’s halfway out of his seat, yelling colorful profanities at the ref who can’t hear him and inciting the restless mob congregating around him.
Why did I have to move to the biggest hockey town in Minnesota? Why? I’m a good person, I don’t deserve this.
“It’s not the game I don’t like. It’s the obnoxious players,” I explain.
The blond with enviable cheekbones ponders me for a second, and then a full-throated chuckle rumbles through his chest.
“You seem pretty sure in your assessment.”
“I’ve spent enough time with guys like that to know that they’re all the same,” I gripe, prickling with impatience and a newfound intolerance for men who’re so horny that they’d stick their dick into an electrical outlet just to feel warmth.
Either this dude is a masochist or he’s concerningly oblivious. He doesn’t retreat with his tail between his legs like he’s supposed to—no, I’ve somehow spurred him to continue his precarious tread on “Do Not Pass Go.”
He sucks his teeth. “Maybe you should try being with a man for a change.”
I humor him, a vixenish grin stealing purchase over my lips, no better in hiding my amusement than my hooded gaze that scans him in a lazy perusal. “Those are some pretty big words.”
“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I have the faculties to back them up.”
Oh, I’ve noticed.
“You’re wasting your time,” I warn him, and maybe it’s his unparalleled persistence or the fact that I’ve never had a man-made orgasm in my twenty-one years of life, but my out-of-service area downstairs begins to smolder with lust. Lust that could so easily be satiated by this stranger’s head between my thighs as he worships the very ground I walk on.
“A waste of my time would be walking away from you.”
He’s got some wit, I’ll give him that. No guy has ever worked this hard to get my attention before.
“If you think I’m gonna drop my panties for you because you’re some pretty rich boy, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
Selective hearing is a disease, people.
“Pretty annoying,” I scoff, praying that he doesn’t clock the way I squeeze my legs together.
“Give me the night and I can change your mind,” he promises in an irresistible timbre, bridging the distance between us with his mountainous body. His lips look soft and moisturized—a considerable feat since most men are allergic to hygiene products.
Would a little taste be so bad? It’s not like I’ll ever see this man again. Come on, Merit. You wanted an excuse to wind down before school, and the world is offering you one on a silver platter. Irelyn’s right, isn’t she? You never do anything for yourself. You never venture out of your comfort zone because you’re too afraid of hurting Mommy and Daddy. When will you stop enabling them? When will you start living your life?
I shouldn’t be doing this.
That’s the thrill of it.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I whip it out to deal with the ill-timed distraction.
My nosy neighbor chuckles. “Is this when your friend calls to bail you out?”
Jesus, this is embarrassing.
