Page 11 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
“See you at practice tomorrow, lovebird,” I call as he climbs into his truck.
“Keep dreaming about my love life, Cole,” he shoots back. “I know it’s more exciting than yours.”
He’s right, but I flip him off and head to my own car, already thinking about the film study I need to do before my afternoonclasses. But as I’m pulling out of the parking lot, I catch sight of Liam in my rearview mirror, sitting in his truck with the engine running, staring down at his phone.
Yeah, he’s lovestruck.
4
The Blind Date Setup
Harper
Isitcross-leggedatour excuse for a dining table. The coffee maker gurgles in the background, filling the air with that rich, caffeinated promise that maybe I’ll be able to focus on my Constitutional Law assignment today.
Spoiler alert: I cannot focus on my Constitutional Law assignment today.
I’ve been staring at the same paragraph about due process for twenty minutes, but instead of absorbing information about the Fourteenth Amendment, my brain keeps replaying the way Liam’s felt against me. The way he looked at me in the truck like I was something worth paying attention to. The way his laugh caught in his throat when I kissed him like I meant it.
Which I did.
Which is a huge problem.
A massive one.
I type a sentence about constitutional protections, backspace, type it again. My fingers seem to have developed a mind of their own, because somehow “legal precedent” becomes “Liam precedent” and I have to resist the urge to bang my head against the table.
“Not happening, Harper,” I mutter to myself, deleting the Freudian slip. “You said no more bad boys with commitment issues. You made rules for a reason.”
And I did make rules. Good rules. Smart rules. Rules that exist because my last relationship was a perfect lesson in why I shouldn’t trust guys who are too charming for their own good. Bobby was hot, sexy, all smooth talk and grand gestures right up until I found out he’d been making those same grand gestures with his coworker for the better part of six months.
That’s why I have a very specific type now: stable, predictable, emotionally available men who don’t make my pulse race or my common sense flee the country. Hockey players who look like walking sex ads and kiss like they’re trying to ruin me for other men are the exact opposite of my type.
I’m saved from spiraling further by Maddie breezing through the front door like a caffeinated tornado. She’s still in her workoutclothes. Black leggings and a sports bra with her dark hair piled in a messy bun that somehow looks effortlessly chic.
“You look like you need a break,” she announces, setting two lattes on the table. The cups are from that expensive place downtown that I can’t afford but she buys from anyway because she has what she calls “rich parents guilt.”
“Shoot, I just made coffee,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warm cup and inhaling the steam. “But I appreciate this. I’ve been trying to write this paper for an hour, and I think my brain is broken.”
Maddie slides into the chair across from me, studying my face with the kind of intense scrutiny that makes me want to check if I have something in my teeth.
“Okay, what were you about to say?” she asks.
“What?”
“You had that look. Like you wanted to tell me something but you’re second-guessing yourself. What is it?”
I take a long sip of this delicious latte, buying time, but Maddie’s stare is relentless. She’s like a human lie detector when it comes to reading my moods.
“It’s nothing,” I say finally. “Just... maybe I had a little more fun at the party than I expected.”
Her eyes light up like Christmas morning. “Define ‘fun.’”
“The kind of fun you’re thinking.”
“You little shit,” she jokes in a high-pitched voice.
I hesitate, heat creeping up my neck. “One of the hockey players.”
