Page 23 of Arresting the Hockey Player
"Noah?" I shake my head. "Radio silent. I swear I thought he was interested, that he wanted more than a hookup. I spent hours hanging out with him. Am I that bad of a judge of character? Or is it that guys don't find me appealing for anything more than a quick lay?"
It's only been a day. You shouldn't be this love-struck over one night with a guy.
"I swear. I'm done with guys. With dating. I'm never sleeping with a guy because he's hot again. Because you know what, the hottest guys are the worst! They know they're good-looking and can get any girl they want. And don't even get me started on hockey players and athletes. Ugh!" I toss my drink back, swallowing the contents of the glass, and reach for the bottle.
There are footsteps and movement, and I glance back, seeing a shadow cross the hallway.
Someone is lurking outside the kitchen. "Hello?" I shout, not the least bit ladylike. I swear I'm not inebriated. One drink doesn't do it for me, but the rising anger that's from all the pent-up frustration of today, waiting for Noah Reece to call me. And what? Why should I sit around and wait?
Why does he have me in such a tailspin?
I've never felt like this for any guy in my life.
Why him?
What makes Noah different?
I bring the wine bottle to my lips, tip my head back and drink.
"Sorry," Amber says again, but this time her apology is softer, and her bottom lip juts out.
"Wait. Why are you apologizing?" I ask, bewildered that she's said that now twice in one day. The first time, I nearly forgot about it, but I can't stop wondering what she's referring to.
Noah Reece turns the corner of the hallway, where he's presumably been hiding, and steps into the daylight.
"How much of that did you hear?" I glare at him, pulling back the liquor bottle for a moment, awaiting his answer.
"Just the part where you thought I'm hot," Noah says.
I huff. "You wish. You think you're hot. You didn't call or text," I say as if that explains my behavior. I take another swig from the wine bottle.
Noah closes the gap between us, and Amber takes a step backward, hurrying out of the kitchen.
"Traitor," I mutter as she leaves me alone with Noah.
"How much of that did you have to drink?" he asks, nodding at the bottle of wine.
"You can pry it from my cold, dead fingers."
He raises an eyebrow. "Isn't that a tad dramatic?" Noah asks.
"Bad day, and I'm not liking who I'm becoming," I admit. "Sue me." I take another swig of the wine, letting the taste glide down my throat. It isn't cheap, certainly not like the stuff that we buy.
Noah watches me with bewilderment. "I like you plenty," he says.
I laugh darkly, the bitterness biting me. "Yeah, enough to sleep with me. Not enough to text or call me the next morning." I grimace, hating the anger in my tone, the sound of my own voice making me more irritated. "Sorry," I say, quick to apologize.
"I told you I put my career first. You said you were okay with it."
I can admit when I'm being a bit of a bitch. I exhale a heavy breath and finally relinquish the bottle of wine, offering it to him. That's my way of silently apologizing.
Noah takes it, brings the bottle to his lips, and drinks. "Bad night," he confesses.
"Ouch," I say and stumble one step backward into the cabinets. I rub the back of my neck, his words tearing me apart. "I didn't realize our date was that bad for you. I guess that's why you—"
"Stop right there," he demands, glaring at me. "You don't get a pity party because I didn't call you. I was busy. And the bad night is what happened after I left your place."
A shudder courses through me, and I feel guilty for the accusation. "Oh." My eyes widen as I glance up from the bottle of wine to him. "Did something happen on your way home?" I study him, his face, his tense jaw. He doesn't look like anyone tried mugging him, but it could have been at gunpoint.
