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“We didn’t hook up. But that’s her.” And truth? I’m relieved. I wasn’t sure she’d show.
Axe grunts. “Wouldn’t have pegged her for a bunny.”
Huh?
Harlow’s already walked over to the bar where O’Dwyer, another teammate, has been swiping on Tinder for the last half hour.
“She’s not.” This girl wasn’t working for a chance to stamp another name on her Slayers bingo card. She didn’t know which sport we played, got the team name wrong twice. She didn’t have the skintight clothing or fuck-me hair, and the way she looked at me when the guys cleared out and it was just the two of us talking? The wordsNot Interesteddon’t begin to cover it.
My ego flinches at the memory of her emphatic assurance that she wasn’t into me. At all. Not even a little bit.
I had to stop her after those pretty brown eyes ran over me in a slow appraisal and she stated that whole “body business” I had going wasn’t her thing.
Got it.Allsix times she’d said it.
And while a square kick to the ego is never fun—for the purpose of this trip to my hometown for my brother’s wedding? It works that Harlow isn’t into me.
At all.
Thing is, with the ultra-conservative outfit she’s rocking, I’m surprised when O’Dwyer pats the stool beside him.
Please.Like she’d ever sit down with that guy.
Time to go rescue my fake date.
“Dude, she just sat down.”
I swallow, not appreciating Axel’s cackle one bit. “I see that.”
But I don’t get it.
O’Dwyer’s the worst. Not only did he give up the puck that cost us our playoff spot this year, but the guy’s a douche. Meets and exceeds every stereotype about professional athletes there is. Acts like he’s God’s gift, and the way he treats women—
Harlow’s pretty smile falters. The skin between her brows pulls together like something isn’t quite right.
“No, fucking way,” Axel mutters.
“Yeah, I see it too.”
“She doesn’t know which player she hooked up with last night.” He turns to me, eyes narrowing. “How drunk was she?”
My shoulders slump. More than I thought. “And wedidn’thook up.”
* * *
Harlow
Okay,there’s no way this is the guy from last night.
When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was the bulk and the facial hair. Except that’s as far as recognition went. I figured maybe I’d been even more tipsy than I realized though, because his reaction to my approach wasfamiliar. His smile knowing. His welcome immediate, confident, and smooth… like we were old friends.
Butno wayis thisDateless.
Not even a barrel of bourbon would have been enough for me to agree to share acabwith this guy, let alone ten days in his hometown.
Time to get out. Climbing off my stool, I force a quick smile. “Well, it was nice talking with you.”
Whatever-his-name-is leans back, letting his eyes roll over me in a perusal so slow and obvious I wonder if it’s possible to catch an STD from a look alone.
