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It takes effort to force my attention from him to my date for the evening. “Give me a minute and I’ll be right back.” Then I flick another glance at my ex-stepbrother. “Apparently, Ford has decided to be an inhospitable dick tonight.”
“He’s a dick every night,” Justin shoots back with a smirk.
Before I can agree, Ford’s fingers shackle my wrist. That’s all it takes for a sizzle of awareness to zip across my flesh and the delicate hair at the nape of my neck to rise. His eyes fasten onto mine, sifting through them for a heartbeat before shifting to the baseball player. He shoots him one last hostile glare before dragging me away. Ford moves through the crowd as if he’s Moses parting the Red Sea. People scatter out of his way, not wanting to get run over in the process. It takes less than a minute to reach the backdoor before he’s shoving me into the cool night air.
His nearness has my heart thrashing painfully against my ribcage.
Ever since we met the summer before freshman year of high school, his touch has affected me.
I freaking hate it.
Hate that he’s the only one capable of tying my insides up into painful little knots.
There was a time when I couldn’t get close enough.
Now the opposite is true.
I want as much distance as possible between us, which is no easy feat considering that we live next door to one another. Sometimes it feels like I can’t go anywhere on this campus without running into Ford.
Another point of contention?
The guy is too damn hot for his own good. His messy, coffee-colored hair is shaggy on top while being buzzed on the sides. His eyes are a honeyed gold color that sucks unsuspecting girls in, ensnaring them like a Venus fly trap.
Full disclosure, I’ve experienced it firsthand.
I’m not proud.
One miscalculated stumble and you’re tumbling down the rabbit hole, never to be heard from again.
His T-shirts cling to a sculpted chest like a second skin. When he returns from the athletic center, joggers hanging low on lean hips, showing off the chiseled V that disappears beneath the cottony material, girls lose their ever-loving minds.
What I’m trying to say is that the guy is catnip for the ladies on campus.
Although, I’m using that term loosely.
What they are is a bunch of hockey-loving hos.
Western has its fair share of puck bunnies.
Then again, all the male athletic teams have their groupies and fan clubs.
Hockey just so happens to have the most. Everyone wants to date or bang a hockey player.
What is it about a guy who knows how to use his stick that makes the girls on campus go a little stupid—all right, a lot—in the head?
Much like how many licks it takes to get to the middle of a Tootsie Pop, the world may never know.
Unable to take the intensity of his touch, I jerk my hand away. My fingers massage the skin of my wrist that now feels as if it’s been scalded. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find the imprint of his hand tattooed there for eternity.
With a scowl, I retreat a few steps, trying to put a safe amount of distance between us. One where his woodsy scent can’t slyly wrap around me and do funny things to my insides.
“What the hell is your problem?” Before he has a chance to respond, I fire off a second question. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
Instead of answering, he asks one of his own. “What the hell are you doing with that baseball playing douchebag?”
“That’s none of your business.”
His expression sharpens, becoming even more formidable. “Don’t fool yourself, sweetheart. You are my business. And that will never change.”
