Page 11 of Twisted Shot
Theo hands out the drinks, careful not to spill, and slips to the edge of the table. He sinks into the seat across from Mila, his skin still warm where she touched him.
She settles back into her spot without a word, expression unreadable.
Shit.Did he misread that? Did he press too close? He hadn’t meant to—it just happened. She recently broke up with someone, for fuck’ssake. She likely doesn’t appreciate him creeping on her. She must want space, not a stalker with a staring problem.
He wants to apologize, but the words snag on his tongue. What would he even say?
So instead, he wraps his hand around his glass and takes a long drink.
And another.
And keeps his eyes locked on the melting ice, not the soft curve of her mouth or the way her thigh is barely brushing his under the table.
CHAPTER 4
MILA
Mila’s skull is a full-blown construction site, with jackhammers pounding behind her eyes, drills whining through her temples, and the occasional wrecking ball swinging straight through her frontal lobe. Her limbs feel like they’ve been poured full of wet cement.
She groans and buries her face deeper into the pillow, silently begging whatever gods are listening to take her out quickly.
Something wet and sandpapery drags across her cheek.
She startles, one eye cracking open.
A small, squish-faced bulldog mutt stares back at her, tongue lolling, tail thumping against the mattress with the confidence of someone who knows he’s adorable. His underbite is heroic. His breath is a crime—equal parts gym socks and bacon.
“Gordie,” she croaks.
The dog gives her another enthusiastic lick, as if proud of himself for reviving her from the dead.
She blinks blearily against the soft sunlight bleeding through gauzy curtains and tries to make sense of the room she’s in. Pale walls. A bookshelf crammed with hardcovers. A framed photo of Natalie as ateenager in a sparkly leotard. A lavender throw blanket tangled around her legs.
Natalie’s guest room.
Right. Last night. Cider. Tequila. Poor decisions. And now a wake-up call from a dog named Gordie Howl.
Her head throbs in time with the buzzing of her phone somewhere in the blanket mess. She groans, pulling her legs out from under the covers, and tries to recall how much she drank. Definitely enough. Possibly too much.
Images float up in fragments. Jesse shirtless. Again. Tristan quoting Shakespeare in a faux British accent while shotgunning a beer. Carter trying to arm wrestle a stranger. Pavel dancing with a barstool. Theo looking awkward and tense, so clearly not used to attention. He’d blushed when she so much as looked at him. Avoided all eye contact after their trip to the bar.
She drags a hand down her face and grimaces. Her skin is sticky with sweat. Her phone buzzes relentlessly now, a steady pulse of bad news waiting to happen.
She strokes Gordie Howl absently. “What a night.”
Then, shouting.
Not from outside. Inside. Natalie.
Mila jolts upright, groaning as the motion sends pain ricocheting through her temples. She swings her legs off the bed and stumbles toward the sound, Gordie’s little paws skittering after her.
Downstairs, Natalie is pacing the kitchen like a caged lion, phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
“I swear to God, I will kill him,” she snaps.
Jake stands by the island, calm as ever, arms crossed like he’s done this before. “Nat, slow down. It’s bad, yes, but we don’t know how?—”
“Don’t tell me to slow down, Jake,” she hisses. “He’s going to be in so much shit if the team sees this. I can’t believe he’s been this stupid. Again.”
