Page 16 of The One Night Dash
Her eyes lock on mine, steady, unflinching. She leans closer, voice dropping until it’s almost a whisper meant only for me. “You …” Her lips part, hesitating. “You and her—” She breaks off, shaking her head again, as if even the thought tastes wrong.
I hold out my pointer finger. “If you make some lewd motion that involves a pointer finger and a circle …” I stop, daring her to make an O with hers.
She bats my finger away and laughs. And goddamn, I like the sound of her laugh. It’s not polite or restrained or fake; it bursts out of her, bright and unguarded, like she forgot for half a second who she’s laughing with. And that’s what gets me—not the sound alone, but the fact that I always liked Noelle. She’s authentic, unfiltered, doesn’t even hide quirks, would wave me off when I asked a question during lit class because she was that in the moment with every damn thing they made us read. I catch a slight buzz off the fact I made her laugh when she was having a shit day.
I lean back, grinning slow, letting the moment stretch. “Careful,” I murmur. “You keep doing that, I’m gonna start thinking you actually like me.”
“Are you actually going to the wedding?”
Right now, I wish the answer was yes, but I shake my head. “I RSVP’ed no, got a call, both Lauren and Louie on the line asking if I was sure I couldn’t make it.”
“What?” Her voice squeaks. “That’s … that’s …”
“Lauren.” I chuckle. “As you know, she tries to bully everyone to get her way. He’s so whipped he offered to pay travel expenses from our Utah game so I wouldn’t miss it.”
“They know your schedule?” She looks shook … again.
“They own a box at the arena.” I laugh.
She makes a face, a little pained, a little angry, and then … dejected.
“You’ve never seen her at a?—”
“No.” She squares her shoulders and sits straighter. “I mean, it’s not like we stayed close.”
“Close enough she invited you to her wedding.” I hate seeing her fighting emotions she shouldn’t have to, and I really don’t wanna see her sad or worse—cry over Lauren, so I tell her, “Don’t go.”
“But I?—”
“Fuck her. Don’t go. Get all the girls to come to the game in Utah. Post the fuck out of pictures of you all having the time of your lives.” I stop. “Wait, are they going?”
She shakes her head. “Not invited.” She blinks a few times. “Unless they just told me that.”
“Nah, Koa would have mentioned it.”
She shrugs. “I RSVP’ed yes—I have to go. Plus, I have—or had—the perfect dress.”
I wag my brows. “You wanna show her what peaking after high school looks like, don’t you?”
“I totally peaked in high school. This”—she waves her hand up and down herself—“is not me at my second peak. That’s still yet to come.”
The waitress sets down our plates, burgers stacked tall, and a basket of golden fries.
I shove the entire basket of fries across the table. “All you,” I tell her, leaning back in the booth. “I’m not doing carbs right now.”
Her brows shoot up, that wicked little spark flickering in her eyes. “Oh, so what—you’re trying to make sureIdon’t fit in that dress?”
I bark out a laugh, sharp and sudden. “If that’s your angle, it’s a terrible one. Because I can imagine you looking good in and out of that dress.”
Her cheeks flare, but she doesn’t miss a beat, snatching a fry and pointing it at me. “Line crosser.”
“Yep.” I snag the fry and put it in my mouth, slow, loving that she’s fixated on my mouth. Why? My talents aren’t only on the ice, if you know what I mean, and it’s been forever since I dared take a taste.
“You said no carbs.”
“Exceptions,” I say around the bite, smirking. “Look too damn good not to want a taste.”
Her lips part like she’s got a comeback locked and loaded, but the waitress swings by to refill our waters and the moment fizzles. She drops her fry back in the basket, cheeks still pink, and mutters something about needing to check if her phone’s ready.
