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I’m up and sprinting to the bar before the first Portuguese curse can leave Nick’s mouth; I physically cannot listen to another round of arguing without another round of alcohol. They just keep recycling the same conversation.
Cass reveals he asked Ben to move in with us.
Nick is pissed.
Cass tries to explain why.
Nick is pissed.
Cass gets pissed because Nick is pissed.
Nick is more pissed.
Deep down, I don’t think Nick actually has a problem with it. Besides the whole calling-him-old-thing, him and Ben got along well. He–and I say this lovingly–just likes to bitch. And Cass–also, with so much love–likes to make him bitch.
It’s a dangerous fucking cycle, and being caught up in it?
Actual hell.
It’s a hot and sticky tussle to the counter, elbows hitting the wood as a sigh loosens my lips. I want to go home. I never wanted to leave home, actually. I didn’t even want to be in Sun Valley this weekend. With a meagre couple of weeks until junior year starts, I wanted to soak up every moment of fresh, country air I could.
Nick and Cass, however, had other ideas.
An obligatory house-warning night out, they claimed, never mind the fact we technically moved into our new place at the beginning of summer, when we transferred all our stuff from what was essentially a shitty, overcrowded frat house without the official title to a slightly less shitty place for the three of us.
Or, I guess, the four of us now.
Learn to say no, Jackson, I tell myself as I contemplate scaling the bar and pouring my own drink since that seems a better plan than waiting for the bartender—whose devout attention belongs to a group of giggling girls—to shift his focus my way. And after a lengthy wait, when my wish for a fresh drink is finally granted, the relief is short-lived.
A full glass barely graces my palm before a shoulder rams into my chest and sticky liquid sloshes over the rim, half the contents staining one of the only t-shirts not splattered in paint I own.
Typical.
“Fucking hell,” I swear beneath my breath, brows pulling together in a frown that all but dissipates the moment my gaze raises and lands on the culprit.
The strong scent of vanilla overwhelming the acrid tang of beer should’ve given it away before the blonde hair does. Or the eyes with the uncanny likeness to the paint that’s been frequenting my canvas—Spun Sugar, a pale cyan, a complete coincidence. Or the skin stained a sandy brown from the sun. Or the long legs I really, really try not to gawk at but, in my defense, the gem-adorned strappy heels encircling delicate ankles are hard to ignore.
It’s embarrassing, really, that without seeing them, I can recall those features almost perfectly. That I can recall the first time I saw them despite the fact they belong to a girl who’s name I don’t even know.
It was after the last game of sophomore year, a game we won, of course, because losing is not something Cass Morgan is accustomed to. We were celebrating in the local student haunt, as we often do—minus our star player because getting banned from establishmentsissomething Cass is accustomed to but plus the other biggest player on campus because where the women are, so is Nick. I was just sitting there, cringing at my too-loud teammates and trying to politely shuck off an overenthusiastic jersey chaser when suddenly, there she was.
Bright and smiling and so damn pretty it hurt my head.
Robbed me of my speech then too—I barely managed to conjure up a simple request for beer with that smile fixed on me.
Slack-jawed and blurry-eyed, Nick likes to say I was. Tongue hanging out like a dog catching sight of a treat. Wedding bells ringing around me.
The persistent teasing all summer was painful but even worse?
Suddenly, the blonde was everywhere.
It was like I saw her once and I couldn’t unsee her.
Every Greenies visit, she was working. The rare times I was in Sun Valley over the summer—I promised my sisters I'd be home and I’m a man of my word—she was always inexplicably in my vicinity too, all swishing hips and flicking hair and melodious laughter.
I’m not sure why I thought tonight would be any different.
Greenies’ most distracting waitress blinks blankly at the damp spot on my t-shirt, her throat bobbing with a quiet hiccup as she sways on unsteady feet. She’s stationary yet she stumbles over nothing, and I loop a steadying hand around her bicep before she falls on her ass.
