A possessive vibe.
But that’s silly. He couldn’t be possessive. We can barely tolerate each other.
I know, I know: he came up to my room to check on me. He’s escorting me to cocktail hour. He’s holding my stuff. He’s touching my back in a way that makes me shiver.
But he’s not being possessive. He’s playing mind games with me, because that’s what nemeses do. And that’s all we are. Hot nemeses.
I mean, regular nemeses. Not hot. Fine looking nemeses.Absolutelyfine looking.
We’re both fine.
“Hey, I saw your mom at the grocery store the other day.”
Coop makes a choking sound. Worried, I pat his back. “I’m fine,” he says, making my cheeks burn hot.
Fine will never mean what it used to mean, I think.
Coop clears his throat and says to Braden, “Nah. You must be mistaken.”
“That’s what I thought at first. I know your mom. But then?—”
“You’re wrong, bro,” Coop says so firmly, it ends the discussion. “We gotta go in. I’ll see you inside.”
I expect to see offense all over Braden’s face, but instead, his eyebrows tug together and he gives an understanding smile. “Okay. I’ll see you in there, Coop. Glad you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
“What was that about?” I ask Coop when he opens the ballroom door for me.
“Nothing.”
He grins broadly, with eyes crinkling in a way that almost seems purposeful. Calculated. It’s like someone told him once that his smile didn’t reach his eyes, so he designed one that would make sure no one could ever say it again.
And now I know how to tell when Coop is lying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
COOPER
Well, I’m drunk.
Not on alcohol, mind you. I’m an elite athlete at an event where I’m trying to impress my boss. I’m not dumb enough to get hammered.
No, I’m drunk on Liesel Fischer.
Drunk isn’t even the right word, because you have to drink something to get drunk, and Liesel doesn’t give me almost anything. But her playful scowls and verbal jabs are just enough to make me crave more.
Crave. That’s right. I’m not drunk, I’mhungry. She’s salty and occasionally sweet—the best combination—and I’m starving for more. It’s like that week of Thanksgiving when you only eat enough to survive so you can gorge yourself on Thanksgiving dinner and enjoy every morsel.
I’ve only eaten long enough to survive for a long time.
I want to feast.
That’s not sexual, by the way. Yeah, she’s a total smoke-show in that dress, but I’m around attractive women plenty.
It’sher. Her essence. Her sense of humor. Hermind.
Unfortunately, the stupid cocktail hour has pulled us from each other too often, with various affiliate owners and GMs vying for my attention, no matter how hard I try to shrug them off.
