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Ben casts us a forlorn look as he slides from the booth, his fabricated protests futile—no matter how hard he tries to convince Red he’s of age, he still ends up trailing towards Greenies’ exit, tossing a scowl and a middle finger in Nick’s direction on his way out.
It’s as I’m watching him leave that, for the umpteenth time, my gaze snags on something else. Tanned forearms propped against the counter and a mouth that makes no attempt at hiding its amusement. When sparkling eyes meet mine, that smile thins to a smirk, lips forming a silent apology that doesn’t seem all that sincere.
I last a record-breaking five seconds before all that blue becomes overwhelming, and God, I hope the blush searing my cheeks isn’t quite as visible as it feels.
“I like that girl,” Frankie muses, watching Red as she retreats with our sheepishly mumbled orders. “Feisty.”
An honest to Godgrowlrumbles in Nick’s chest. Ripping his gaze from his newest—and, I suspect, first—infatuation, he glares at my teammate, the sweet sentiment he doesn’t say clear as day;shut the fuck up.
I can’t help but snort; doesn’t like the girl, my ass.
Slumping, Nick hits me with a warning look. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
“Wasn't gonna.” Copying my friend, I lean back and cross my arms before adding in a voice low enough for only him to hear, “you got a ring picked out yet?”
Golden eyes narrow. “Hypocrite.”
“Coward.”
“Hey, pot?” Sarcasm weighs down Nick’s drawl as his beer bottle tilts toward the spot my gaze can’t help but stray. “It’s kettle, you’re black.”
* * *
The downside of drinking with people you dislike, besides the sudden urge to plug your ears and sing‘la la la la la la’on repeat?
You always get a lot drunker than you intended.
Self-preservation, I guess; easier to drown out the inanity when you’re halfway to a hangover.
I don’t realize quite how past my limit I’ve gone, though, until a full bladder sends me to my feet and I find myself swaying through the diner, bumping into more people than I care to admit. I make quick work of going to the bathroom—leaving Nick alone with my teammates for too long feels like a recipe for a bloody disaster. In my haste, I round a corner too quickly and run smack bang into someone. Instinct has me reaching out to steady whoever I almost bowled over, an apology on my tongue.
The smell of vanilla hitting me like a slap to the face has a different word escaping me. “Shit.”
“You know,” a lilting voice cuts through the tipsy haze, “for an athlete, you’re pretty clumsy, Jackson.”
She remembers my name.
My hands drop with my gaze, finding shelter in my pockets as they fist, palms buzzing with the memory of warm, soft skin beneath them. “Sorry.”
Silence follows my mumbled apology, and I’m wondering just how awkward it would be if I turned and ran without another word when an amused question breaks it. “Do you have something against my eyes?”
I frown at the dirty tiled floor. “What?”
“My eyes,” Luna repeats slowly, and I glance up just in time to catch her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip, teeth finding purchase in the plump pink. “Something repulsive about them? Remind you of an ex? Or do you just hate blue?”
Repulsive.
I almost laugh.
Definitely not a word I would use.
Dizzying, maybe. Overwhelming, definitely. Magnetic? Stunning, but not in the beautiful sense, although they are that. In the way that dazes a person and robs them of words and thoughts and the ability to do anything but marvel.
There’s a hundred better descriptors yet all I manage is a croaked, “no.”
“You think you could manage to look me in them every once in a while?”
The teasing question catches me off-guard, has my wide-eyed gaze meeting one full of roguish mirth. “There you go,” Luna croons softly. “Much better.”
