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It’s tough not to admire all six-four-plus inches of cut, hot-as-fuck hockey player. It’s unfair that someone as dickish as him can look as good as he does in only a pair of white boxer briefs. And I can see his dick-print. My vagina approves, but the rest of me is disgusted. Mostly. Especially when I realize there are lipstick prints on his chest and… “Are you covered in glitter?” I glance down at my hand, which sparkles in the ambient light. He’s totally glittering. I shouldn’t be surprised. My brother is the most notorious fuckboy in the league, and Tristan is his wingman. “You reek like cheap perfume and regrets.”
For a second, his expression flashes with an emotion I don’t quite understand, but a cocky smirk soon takes its place. “You sound jealous.”
“Not hardly.” I roll my eyes. “Get over yourself, King Douche of Assholeville.”
His smile grows dark, and he takes a step backward. “Liar, liar, panties on fire. I hope you enjoyed the show.” He turns and disappears into his bedroom, the door closing behind him.
I thought screwing up my life was punishment enough, but it seems dealing with Tristan is going to be my new penance.
CHAPTER 2
RIX
The first thing I learn about Flip and Tristan is that wandering around shirtless is apparently commonplace. I’m sitting at the kitchen island the next morning, nursing a coffee and eating the chocolate chip cookies I brought with me because the only food in their fridge is old pizza and a sad, squishy tomato. Grocery shopping and cleaning are at the top of my to-do list.
Right after I get my stuff from my former apartment.
Tristan saunters into the kitchen. He’s fresh from the shower and wrapped in nothing but a towel. Water droplets dot his shoulders, and a rogue one tumbles gracefully over his defined pec, caressing each rolling ab on the way down. An image of Tristan fisting his massive erection pops into my head like a whack-a-mole. I shift my gaze back to my coffee cup, which is the only safe place for my eyes.
“So why are you here?”
It’s not possible to make me seem like more of a burden than Tristan does with that one sentence.
To my left, Flip runs his hand through his already messy mop of hair. I have no idea what time he got in last night, but he has an absurd number of hickeys on his neck, chest, and stomach. He’s wearing a pair of gray jogging pants that hang low on his hips. I assume the hickey trail continues, but I’m thankful I can only hypothesize.
“I might have accidentally quit my job,” I mumble. My first real adult job, and I blew up the opportunity after only three months. Embarrassment washes through me all over again.
“How do you accidentally quit your job?” Flip shoves his hand down the front of his joggers.
I look away, because no one needs to see that. My shoulders roll forward, and I lower my voice, as if that will make my actions yesterday less awful. “Fifteen minutes before the end of the day, my manager set four boxes filled with ten years of receipts on my desk. She told me they needed to be sorted and input by nine this morning. It’s the third time that’s happened in a month. I might have freaked out.”
“Huh. Well, that makes sense. Your manager sounds like a dick.”
“She was. Or still is.” As the newbie, I expected some shitty jobs, but less than twenty-four hours with four banker’s boxes is unreasonable. Especially when she did the same thing last week. And the week before that.
“We have waffles and some whole-grain bread in the freezer, if you want something other than cookies for breakfast.” Tristan gives my cookie box a pointed, slightly disapproving look.
“I’m fine. But thanks.” It’s bad enough that I’m crashing here and drinking their coffee. I don’t want to eat their food, too.
“Suit yourself.”
He grabs a mug and pours himself a coffee, then turns to me and Flip. “Either of you need a top up?”
“Sure, yeah.” Flip sets his cup on the counter.
Tristan gives him a look. “Dude. The fuck?”
Flip frowns. “What?”
“You’re covered in hickeys, and your sister is right here.” He points at me.
“So?”
“It’s fine,” I mutter. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Tristan fills Flip’s mug, still wearing his displeased-dad face, then looks to me.
“Please.” I push my mug toward him.
“What does rage-quitting have to do with you staying here?” he asks as he freshens my coffee.
I really wish I didn’t have to share the whys of my needing to stay in their loft. “My roommates are super into roleplay. They like to dress up in period costumes.” I had a boyfriend in university, before Rob, who was big into Dungeons & Dragons. Sometimes he would dress up as a wizard. It was quirky and adorable. I loved that he was this soccer-playing guy who nerded out with his friends off the field. And as an accountant, I consider myself also a bit of a nerd. But the situation in my apartment is not at all about being nerdy.
