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One side of my mouth quirks.
Fucking Asher.
I dip my head in acknowledgment. “Noted. I’ll try to do better in the future.”
His expression softens as he adds, “I appreciate that. In all honesty, I think we’ve both become complacent. Let’s make a pact from here on out to make a little more time for each other.”
I bite back the laughter that gurgles up in my throat. There is no way in hell I’m going to encourage this guy.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, can we get moving? I’m pretty sure those tacos aren’t going to eat themselves.”
The girls rise expectantly to their feet.
“Can we come, too?” the bustier one asks.
When my roommate glances at me with a raised brow, I roll my eyes. “I don’t care.”
They beam in unison, looking like carbon copies of each other with their blonde hair, big boobs, toothy smiles, and long, sun-kissed legs. I’d be hard pressed to tell them apart. My teammate throws an arm over each of their shoulders as we head to my truck before piling in. Since there’s about a dozen of us, the rest of the guys cram into Carson’s decked-out Tahoe. The girls chatter incessantly about the mixer their sorority is throwing next weekend. After about five minutes, Crosby glances at me from the passenger seat before folding his fingers in the shape of a gun, placing two digits against his temple, and pulling the trigger.
Sadly, I have to agree.
It’s a relief when we finally pull into the paved parking lot. I regret giving Asher the go ahead to let the girls tag along. I’m not going to be able to handle much more sorority talk, tacos or no tacos.
Asher is always surrounded by girls. The guy has more pussy than he knows what to do with. Most of the guys on the team are in the same position.
Hell, most of the time, I’m drowning in it myself.
As we head inside the brightly colored entrance, the group stops at the hostess station where a girl loiters behind a podium. Her head is bent as she stares at the phone in her palm like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.
When a handful of seconds crawl by without so much as an acknowledgment, Crosby shoots me an annoyed look. The guy wants his tacos, and he wants them now. I’ve seen him get hangry. It’s not a pretty sight. He’s like a baby who needs to be fed at regular intervals.
I clear my throat, but there’s nothing. Not even a flicker of her eyes.
Growing impatient, Crosby shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The guy is on the verge of losing it.
Before that can happen, Asher says, “Excuse me? We’d like a table.”
I expect the hostess to snap to attention with embarrassment and a profuse apology.
That doesn’t happen. When she finally glances up, one brow is raised as if we’re bothering her. Like she has no idea why a group of people might turn up at this restaurant around dinner time.
She takes a moment to glare at each of us in turn before her gaze narrows on Asher.
“Can I help you?” Boredom threads its way through her husky voice.
Asher blinks as if surprised by her prickly demeanor.
I’ll be the first to admit this isn’t the kind of reaction any of us are used to receiving. Most people go crazy when they come in contact with any of the Western Wildcats football players. We’re like minor celebrities around here. I’m not saying I get off on it, I’m just stating facts.
But this girl doesn’t seem to know who the hell we are. Or, if she does, she gives zero shits.
Undeterred by her lack of hospitality, Asher flashes his most charming smile. It’s one that has sent hundreds of girls falling onto their backs before spreading their legs wide. If he has a superpower, that would be it. And he enjoys flexing it around campus with regularity. Especially if there’s a hot girl in the vicinity.
My gaze bounces back to the female in question—the one who holds our dining options in her slender hands—to assess its impact.
Nada.
Hmmm. Well, that’s certainly interesting.
