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Casey hoots her appreciation. Even Phoebe’s smiling, and when I see it on her face—a real, genuine smile, her expression even streaked through with hints of actual gratitude—my heart does something that’s hard to describe.
Again, it’s not something I have time to dwell on. It’s a tight fit, but I slide myself through the window, and suddenly I’m standing in Phoebe Sinclair’s bathroom.
I look to my left. Their shower.
Suddenly, I forget why I’m even here. All I can think of for a moment is Phoebe naked behind that curtain, rivulets of hot water meandering down her perfectly toned body, her perky tits, her nipples rosy red and firm despite the hot steam of the shower.
I shake my head to snap myself out of it and adjust the situation that’s rapidly forming in my pants.
I’ve learned my lesson enough to make sure I don’t glance in the direction of Phoebe’s room when I leave the bathroom to walk down the stairs and let the girls in. Whatever she gets up to in there definitely isn’t something I need to think about right now if I don’t want a tent forming in my pants.
Casey flings her arms around me when I open the door and she bursts inside. “My hero!” she cries.
Phoebe—surprise, surprise—is more restrained in her thanks. But she actually does offer some. She thanks me with a smile, even though I can tell she hates doing so. That only makes it sweeter, and makes my own real smile stretch wider across my face.
I slap my hands together triumphantly. “Well, that’s enough damsel saving for me tonight. Oh, where’d I put my coffee?”
“Here you go.” Casey hands it to me.
I take a sip, but when the liquid passes my mouth, I grimace. It’s grown lukewarm.
Casey balks in sympathy, seeing my face. “Oh, no. It went cold.”
I nod, letting out a sigh of disappointment. “Yeah. But it’s fine. It still has the caffeine, and that’s what I need it for.”
“No way,” Casey reacts quickly. “We can’t let you leave with cold coffee after you helped us like that. Can we, Phoebe?”
Phoebe blinks back blankly. “Uh … yes? I think we can.”
Casey brow lowers in admonishment at her friend. “No. We can’t.”
Phoebe sighs. “You’re right. Come on, Hunter. I have some good coffee grounds. I’ll make you a pot to take with you. I have a spare thermos.”
I don’t need to be convinced. I know that Phoebe shells out for the good stuff. She’s always been a coffee nut, from a young age.
Shit, I don’t know if I’d even have a taste for coffee if it weren’t for Phoebe. I had my first sip thanks to her.
It wasn’t my best moment.
It was in eighth grade. Phoebe had already started drinking coffee, before anyone else our age, becauseof coursePhoebe Sinclair started drinking coffee in eighth grade before anyone else her age. One week during class, she made a particularly cutting comment about how immature I was. That weekend, when I went to Starbucks with some friends to get some iced teas and chill out, she was there.
Drinking coffee, of course. And reading. Looking pretty sophisticated.
For some reason, I wanted to look sophisticated to her, too.
So, I ordered a coffee. A black coffee. No sugar, no anything.
Me and my friends took a seat near her, and when I could tell she was sneaking a glance at me, I took my first sip of my very sophisticated black coffee—and immediately spat it out on the table in front of me.
Hardly my most sophisticated moment.
Now I actually like drinking it black.
Who knows, if it weren’t for Phoebe, maybe I would’ve ended up one of those coffee drinkers who loads every cup up with sugar and cream. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Shane, our new goalie, is exactly that type.
The aroma of high-quality coffee tickles my nose pleasantly as it starts to brew. I chat with Casey while waiting for it to finish, Phoebe hanging out on the other side of the kitchen near the coffee maker, as if it requires her constant attention.
I think she just wants to put space between us.
