Page 43 of Hard to Score

He quirks an eyebrow. “The same way you found me.” My eyes flicker down to his lips and then back up to his eyes. “I lied.”

“About what? How you found me?”

“No.”

“Then what about?”

“I had two shots.”

“Thank you for clarifying.” I chuckle. “Why two?”

“The first one was because I’ve been trying to tell myself that this is a shit idea. I’ve talked myself out of it every which way because there’s too much history. You’re Bratty Brex and I’m Dreadful Drew but fuck, Brex, all I can think about is the taste of your kiss. The way I wanted it way back when you’d strut by in your bikini, so I decided I needed a shot.”

“I assure you, I didn’t have anything to strut back then.”

“I beg to differ,” he murmurs as his eyes dip down to where my nipples aren’t doing a very good job of hiding beneath my tank top.

“Wait? You wanted me? You could have fooled me by the way you hesitated during spin the bottle that night.”

“I was a fool.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Young and dumb and not prepared for what you hit me with that night.”

“Really?” I ask and hate how there is so much awe in the sound of my voice.

“Really.” Our eyes hold for a beat as our desire builds.

How is this even happening? How after all these years later, are we standing here like this, both wanting the same thing?

It’s crazy.

It’s surreal.

It’s perfect.

“You said two shots. What was the second one for?” I ask for some stupid reason, as if his intent in being here wasn’t already known.

“The second shot was because I was sitting in the bar across the street trying to work up the courage to come up here.”

His confession startles me.

“Why do you need courage?”

“Because there’s something about you, Brexton Kincade, that makes me nervous.”

“You? Nervous?” I spit the words out almost in relief as if knowing it will calm the racing of my pulse and ease my own anxiety.

“Mm-hmm.” He reaches out and tucks an errant piece of hair behind my ear, resting his hand on my shoulder when the task is done. My body hums beneath the warmth of it, begging to know what comes next but patient enough to wait to find out. “Before, we were young and that first kiss was—wow. Way too much for a sixteen-year-old to decipher . . . and now? Now there is so much more baggage and I don’t want to unpack it all. I just want you.”

I reach out, put my finger into his belt loop, and pull him into me. “You told me the past was the past, Drew.”

And it’s not like it was unexpected—his lips meeting mine, me yanking him into my apartment, then kicking the door shut behind us—but holy hell, it feels new and exciting while old and comfortable at the same time.

The one thing I hadn’t anticipated in all of this was the desperation that owns me. The need to touch him everywhere, the necessity of it, but not wanting my lips to leave his.

And I know he feels the same way because we don’t speak, we don’t ask, we just act. With hurried hands and shuffling feet, we leave a trail of clothes on the way to my bedroom—shoes, socks, shirts, pants—until we stand at the foot of my bed.

It’s only here that we slow down for a beat. It’s only now with heaving chests and bruised lips that we stop to look at each other for a moment.

This is Dreamy Drew before me, and he’s even better than my teenage heart could ever fathom him to be.