Page 26 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
Definitely not.
The reply comes back almost instantly—a smirking emoji that somehow manages to convey exactly the expression I know is on his face right now.
“See?” Maddie says, peering over my shoulder. “He wants you there.”
I wave her off, setting my phone face-down on the table. “And I still said no. You go have fun. I’m staying in to start my new book.”
Three hours later, I’m curled on our couch in my most comfortable pajamas—soft cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that’s older than my driver’s license—half-watching some romantic comedy about a woman who inherits a bakery and falls in love with the grumpy contractor who’s supposed to renovate it while also reading a dark spicy romance.
My phone buzzes from the coffee table where I’ve been steadfastly ignoring it.
Another message from Liam.
Skip the party. Come hang at my place.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, then type back.
Is this a booty call?
His response is immediate.
Maybe.
I blush. At least he’s honest.
Couldn’t find anyone at the party?
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.
Don’t want anyone else.
My stomach does this weird fluttering thing that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. It’s just the leftover pizza I had for dinner. Definitely not butterflies caused by four simple words from a guy I’m supposed to be forgetting about.
I stare at my phone for what feels like an eternity, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is a terrible idea. This goes against every rule I’ve made for myself about not getting involved with players, about keeping things simple, aboutprotecting my heart from guys who collect broken promises like trophies.
But my fingers are already typing.
Fine.
The second I hit send, I’m moving. Lightning-fast shower to wash off the day’s studying, lotion that smells like vanilla and makes my skin soft, the kind of casual makeup that looks effortless but actually takes twenty minutes to perfect. Jeans that fit exactly right and a fitted top that’s sexy without trying too hard.
I’m just slipping on my jacket when my phone buzzes.
Outside.
My heart is thudding so hard I’m surprised the entire building isn’t shaking as I head for the door. Liam’s truck is idling in front of the building, windows down, music playing low enough that I can’t quite make out the song.
He grins when he sees me, that devastating smile that should come with a warning label, and I feel that familiar flutter of attraction mixed with the knowledge that I’m about to make another spectacularly bad decision.
“Hey, Trouble,” he says as I climb into the passenger seat.
“I hate that nickname.”
“No, you don’t.”
And damn it, he’s right. I don’t hate it at all.
The drive to his apartment is filled with the kind of charged silence that makes the air feel electric. Every red light feels like an eternity, every glance he shoots my way makes my pulse spike higher. By the time we’re walking through his building’s lobby, I can barely think straight.
