Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
A strange warmth fills my tummy. This flirtation with Hunter is confusing. I liked kissing him, but I live with the guy now. And I also live with Fitz, who I’m still attracted to despite how badly I want to punch him in the dick.
Like I said, confusing.
“You could always come here if you want,” I offer.
A loud snicker echoes in my ear. “To the fiery pits of Lucifer? No fucking way.”
Jee-zus. Do all Briar hockey fans think Harvard is Dante’s Inferno, or is it just the weirdos in my life? Harvard is a perfectly respectable school with a perfectly respectable hockey team that just happened to beat Briar tonight. Get over it, people.
“We’re having peeps over, anyway,” he adds. “That’s the other reason I called, to give you a heads-up.”
“Okay, cool. I’m—”
“Finally!” a familiar voice booms from the far doorway. “Where’ve you been!”
I grin as Weston strides into the kitchen. When I gesture to my phone and hold up a finger to indicate I’ll be a minute, he shrugs and turns to his teammates. “Beer me.”
“I have to go,” I tell Hunter. “I’ll see you at home.”
Catching up with Weston is a blast. We hole up in a room off the main living area, which might’ve been a dining room at one point but is now a second living room with two overstuffed sofas, a couple of armchairs, and a massive glass coffee table. Weston’s on one end of the couch while I’m perched on the arm of it. The music’s not as loud in here, which means we don’t have to shout as we fill each other in on what’s happening with the classmates we’d lost touch with.
On the other side of the room, Brenna looks mighty cozy in McCarthy’s lap. It’s obvious he’s super into her. He’s got an arm slung around her and a hand resting on her thigh as they peer at something on her phone. I’ve glimpsed them kissing a few times since they sat down, and I’ve had to fight a smile each time.
There’s no way I’m not rubbing this in her face later.
“Your friend is a smoke show,” Weston tells me.
“Right? And she’s fun to be around too.” I find it hard to believe that Brenna and I met only yesterday. I feel like I’ve known her forever.
“Speaking of fun…” Winking, he leans toward the table and taps out a line of the white powder I was pretending not to notice.
I’ve been around cocaine more times than I’d like to admit. It’s the preferred party favor for prep school kids with time on their hands and cash to spare. I tried it once at a party in junior year, but it wasn’t my thing. I prefer the warm buzz of alcohol to that frenetic, wired sensation.
I’m not surprised to see Weston doing it, though—he always did enjoy his blow. So did most of the Roselawn hockey guys, for that matter. Dean once told me that coke and hockey players are synonymous, and now I’m wondering if any of the Briar guys dabble in it too. I hope not.
Weston snorts his line, then rubs his nose and shakes his head a few times as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. “Sure you don’t want?”
“Not my jam,” I remind him. I take a sip of my beer. “Don’t you ever worry about drug testing?” My brother got fucked his last season thanks to a random drug test that was sprung on him.
“Blow leaves your system after forty-eight hours, babe.” Weston rolls his eyes. “You’d have to be real dumb to get caught.” He plants a hand on my knee, but there’s nothing sexual about the gesture. “So how you liking Briar? Better than Brown?”
“Classes haven’t started yet, so I can’t say one way or the other. The campus is gorgeous, though.”
“You living in the dorms?”
“No, I moved in with a few of Dean’s friends. Actually, one of them is Hunter Davenport, your old Roselawn teammate.”
“No shit! You’re shacking up with Davenport?”
“Platonically.”
“No such thing.”
I’m about to argue when I feel a subtle shift of energy in the room. Jake Connelly has just entered, and let me just say, the man’s got presence. He strides in holding a bottle of Sam Adams, stopping in front of the armchair opposite our couch. The guy currently occupying the chair shoots up instantly. Connelly calmly takes his place.
His dark-green eyes flick in Brenna’s direction as he sips his beer.
Brenna is momentarily distracted from McCarthy. She takes in Jake’s dark jeans, black Under Armour shirt, and Red Sox cap. “Connelly,” she says curtly. “Good game.”
He gives her a contemplative look. There was no sarcasm in her tone, but I think he senses the difficulty with which she voiced the praise. “Thanks,” he drawls. Takes another sip of beer.
McCarthy tries to get her attention by whispering something against her neck, but her eyes remain on Jake. And his remain on her.