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“Breathe,” he says in a low murmur.
Even that’s sexy. I’m choking to death, racked with guilt over what Bridget almost revealed, and I still have a corner of my brain devoted to fainting at the hotness of West. I’m a hopeless case.
Bridget crosses her arms, squared off against Krishna. “I’m not telling. ”
“Tell me. ”
“No. ”
“Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me—”
“Oh, all right. I was just going to say about this guy she met. ”
“There’s a guy?” Quinn asks.
I’m barely capable of inhaling. When I say, “There’s no guy,” I drool a little on the leather, and I have to wipe it off with the palm of my hand.
I can’t look at West.
“It’s too late to deny it,” Krishna says. “Bridget already spilled. Who’s the guy?”
I don’t see any way out of telling them. I sit up. “You remember Scott?” I ask Quinn.
“Rugby Scott?”
“Yeah. ”
“He asked you out?”
“No! No. It’s nothing. It’s just … I just mentioned to Bridget that I might try to find out his last name. From you. In case. ”
“So you can call him?”
“Maybe?”
“He was into you,” she says. “You should definitely call him. ”
“You think?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Who’s rugby Scott?” Krishna asks.
“He goes to Carson,” Quinn says. “You wouldn’t know him. And he’s really nice. And hot. Well done, Caroline. ”
“I haven’t done anything yet. ”
She chucks me on the shoulder. “Sure, but you should. Get back out there, you know?”
I duck my head. Sidelong, I glance at West.
He’s gone blank.
Krishna is looking at him, too, and I can’t make out whether he pushed West into that blank face on purpose or if he’s oblivious. That’s the thing with Krishna—I can never figure out if he’s an asshole or if he’s pretending to be an asshole.
Either way.
He drops to the couch beside Bridget, chugs the rest of his beer, and says, “Maybe we should find something else to watch. ”
