Page 4 of The Ruckup
I definitely was. Gavin’s been hard up for female companionship lately. I thought a little company might improve the sad-dog disposition he’s been sporting, and Maddie’s the only girl our age I knew of who would be in attendance. I suggested he might want to chat her up. Did I also withhold the threat my mother made? Maybe.
Then I saw her and decided if anyone got to seduce Miss Miller, it was going to be me.
“Hell yeah, I was.” I smooth a hand down my chest before dragging it over my hair, making sure the blond waves are at least a little under control. “But you missed your chance, so now I’m the one who’ll be under the bus.” I give Gavin a wink and begin backing away. “And maybe under Miss Miller.”
Gavin angles a brow as his eyes drop to my shirt. “You sure you want to shoot your shot wearing a ‘Balls Deep in Christmas’ shirt?”
My feet stall out as my chin tucks so I can stare at the phrase I previously found hilarious. “Shit.”
Looking serious as hell, Gavin asks, “You want to trade?”
Is he fucking kidding?
“No, dick. Yours says ‘Wanna See My Sack?’ It’s fucking worse.”
Slamming my empty punch cup onto the kitchen counter, my eyes snap around the crowd, hoping Maddie’s not already judging my admittedly juvenile sense of humor. “I need to go raid my dad’s closet. Entertain yourself for a while.”
Instead of boldly striding into the great room, where the majority of my parents’ friends—and Maddie—are hanging out, like I was planning before Gavin pointed out my dumbass shirt, I duck into the dining room. Cutting a path along the edge of the space, I stick close to the walls, trying to move as stealthily as a man my size can. I’m not as big as Gavin—no one is—but my six-five frame is still bulky enough to grab attention everywhere I go.
And for once, I don’t want it.
Finding the door leading to the deck, I slip out into the night, hustling to the opposite end of the house. Grabbing the handle of the door I’m targeting, I twist, unsurprised to find it locked. Luckily, my mom keeps a key hidden. My dad is notorious for accidentally locking her out when she’s in the backyard, spending time in her she-shed.
Digging it out of the giant potted bird of paradise situated in the closest corner, I quickly unlock the knob before sneaking into my parents’ first-floor bedroom.
The space is quiet thanks to its positioning at the back corner of the house, keeping it tucked away from the noise of the party.
The party I would really like to get back to so I can shoot my shot with Maddie.
Unfortunately, it takes a few minutes of rummaging through my dad’s shirts before I find one that will fit me. My dad and I are the same height, but he’s not nearly as wide as I am, and I don’t want to look like I’m bursting at the seams. Then it takes a few more minutes to find one that won’t make me look like I raided my dad’s closet.
Eventually, I settle on a faded blue option, printed with a logo from some fictional surf shop. It’s not great, but it’s better than what I’ve got on, so I make the switch, pausing to check my reflection in the bathroom mirror before creeping out into the hall.
When I reach the doorway of the great room, it only takes me two seconds to find Maddie. She’s sitting alone, tucked into a relatively quiet corner. I lean to the left a little, trying to get a better look at the woman I haven’t seen in years, managing to get an eyeful of dark hair, golden skin, and breakneck curves.
Shit.
I should never have agreed to leave Maddie Miller alone.
To be fair, when my mom was dishing out threats of bodily harm if I went near the Millers’ daughter, it hadn’t yet occurred to me the Maddie Miller walking in tonight would be a grown-up version of the gangly eleven-year-old of my memories.
And holy hell has Maddie been busy growing up.
I resist the urge to check my hair again and instead cup one hand in front of my mouth, blowing out so I can make sure the scent of queso isn’t lingering on my breath.
I may not have gotten as much action as Gavin has over the years —I'm not sure anyone has—but I do okay. Okay enough I shouldn't be nervous about talking to a woman I technically already know. But here I am with sweaty palms, nerves twisting my guts as I make my way to where she sits.
Stopping in front of her, I give what I hope is a charming smile. "Maddie, right?"
For some fucking reason, my voice chooses those two words to forget how to function, and a crack breaks right down the center of her name, making me sound like a fucking teenage boy. And when her dark eyes meet mine, I don’t just sound like a teenage boy, I feel like one too—stupid, a little terrified, and determined to do the exact opposite of what my parents want.
Because she's fucking gorgeous.
Across the room I could tell Maddie was pretty. But this close? I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. How smooth her skin is. The thick shine of her hair.
So maybe I'm notentirelya teenage boy. Because as a teenage boy, I would've only noticed her tits.
I'm gonna call that progress.
