by J. M. Paul
“You sure?” His brows pinch together.
“Positive.”
“Hey, man. It’s about time you showed up.” Trey slaps Connor on the back. When he sees me, his smile grows wider. “Hey, Lunar.”
“Lunar?” Connor discreetly drops my hand. “Why do you call her Lunar?” Connor asks Trey.
“Because she’s pale and always daydreaming,” Trey says simply, like it’s supposed to make perfect sense.
I shrug when Connor’s confused gaze turns to me.
“Get your asses in there, kids. We’re doing shots before the game starts.” Trey saunters back into the suite, leaving me and Connor in the hallway.
Connor swooshes his arm toward the door and says, “After you.”
We enter into a mad chaos of twenty-somethings laughing, talking, and drinking. Music filters in from the field where the players are warming up.
Shots are soon passed around, and I decline with a bunch of boos from the group. I make my way out to the seats connected to the suite. It’s right on the fifty-yard line, which must cost a fortune for whoever owns this space.
I’ve been sitting alone for a while, enjoying the bird’s-eye view from up here, where I can study people without feeling like a creep.
“Hiya, Noles.” Cami plops down in the seat next to me and hands me a bottle of water. “You’re being unusually quiet. Connor said you kind of freaked before the game. What’s up?”
I swallow before I focus on her. “I saw Nicholas, outside at the tailgate, right after we chugged drinks.”
My shoulders loosen after I’ve told someone who will understand. I didn’t realize how much stress it had been causing me to hold it in.
Her forehead wrinkles as her eyes almost bug out of her head. “No way.”
“Yes way.” I nod.
“What does this mean? Did he say anything to you? Is he back? Where did he go? Where has he been?” Her questions fly out so fast, it sounds like one run-on sentence.
“I’ve no idea, CC. He shut me down before I could take a step in his direction.” I scratch my head. “He looked rough, hardened, almost nothing like the Nicholas I knew.” I sigh and lower my head. “But at least I know he’s okay.”
“I guess there’s that.” Cami wraps an arm around me and rests her head on my shoulder. “But it doesn’t make things any easier.”
“No, it sure as hell doesn’t,” I agree.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and go straight to Messages.
Unknown Number: Forget me, Jelly.
I blink, and it becomes hard for me to breathe. At the use of my nickname, there’s no doubt the message is from Nicholas. He changed his number and I’ve been unable to contact him.
“The look on your face, Noles …” Cami squeezes my leg. “Is that him?”
I can’t speak around the lump in my throat, so I turn the phone so that she can read what he sent me.
She exhales a rush of air. When her gaze meets mine, there’s sympathy and a large dose of pissed off burning at the edges.
“Forget him?” she says, exasperated. “How in the hell are you supposed to forget him? He’s your—” She cuts herself off, grabs my phone, and shoves it in her pocket. “You know what? Screw him. It’s Thanksgiving. We’re at a football game with friends, and we’re going to have fun. We’ll forget all about that asshole all right.”
She drags me back into the suite and over to the bar. Making two drinks that are way stronger on the liquor than mixer, she hands me one and holds hers up to make a toast.
“What are we toasting to?” Trey asks when he walks over. His eyes are glassy and his grin sloppy.
“To forgetting asshole men.” She lifts a brow.
We seem to be toasting to that a lot lately.
He points at himself with wide eyes.
I pat his hand and smirk. “It’s not you this time, but I still don’t know you that well.”
“Well”—he holds up his drink—“to asshole men who aren’t me and to asshole women who aren’t you. We all know one and wish they’d leave us the fuck alone.” With that, he downs his entire drink in one gulp.
Cami and I give each other a look at his words, shrug, and sip our drinks. I spit mine out in a spray.
“What the hell is this?” I examine the cup and determine Cami must not have used any kind of mixer.
Cami and Trey laugh hysterically as I wipe my tongue with the back of my hand and give Cami the evil eye.
“McHotties!” Connor signals for us to come join the fun. “Get over here. It’s Turkey Day, and the Lions are actually winning!”
Cami beams at Connor and runs over.
“Get your ass out here, Noles.” Cami pats the chair next to her and Connor.
Trey sweeps his arm in front of me and says, “Ladies first.”
I grab my water off the bar and head toward my seat.
Cami’s butt is firmly planted on Connor’s lap, her arms around his neck, and she’s whispering in his ear when I sit next to them. Connor flashes a guilty glance at me.
I avert my attention toward the game happening down on the field and curse this day that is Thanksgiving.
Black FriYAY
Half-dead on my feet, I push my grocery cart down the frozen food aisle in search of a miracle cure that might bring me back to the living side of things.
Never again will I listen to Cami and her stupid ideas—or Connor and Trey for that matter. All three of them are the devil reincarnated. When mixed together, they bring a special kind of burning hell that I dived headfirst into yesterday.
Stupid Thanksgiving with day-drinking that turned into all-night drinking.
There’s a reason I don’t indulge in alcohol often. I suck at recovery.
I open a freezer door, pull out a large frozen pepperoni pizza, and toss it in my cart. The pizza along with my frozen French fries, a case of water, and some Coke should do a number on the war zone that is my stomach and head.
Continuing to shuffle down the aisle, I stop in front of God’s gift to women—and no, it’s not a man.
Ice cream.
Come here, my precious.
“Wow. Someone’s hungry,” I hear a guy say behind me.
My back straightens.
God, is that you? I’m sorry I had bad thoughts about your Adam descendants. It’s just that I’m an independent Eve.
Turning away from gazing forlornly at the ice cream section, I see Connor watching me. He’s holding a bag of lemons and a bag of limes.
“Wow. Someone has a fetish. Or do you like to randomly hold bags full of balls that are bigger than your own?” I retort.
Dimples dent his cheeks. Eyes alight with humor, he saunters closer.
“I’d be more than happy to show or demonstrate what my fetishes are, Journal Girl.” It’s said in a low, gravelly tone, one that has a direct route from my chest to my panties. “Just say the word.”
“As unenticing as that sounds”—Liar! Complete liar, liar, panties on fire!—“you should be saving your balls and fixations for Cami. Remember her? My best friend since fourth grade? The one you like to romp around in the hay with?”
Connor’s face pinches, and he takes a step back, giving me a small amount of space to breathe easier.
“I was teasing.” He scratches the stubble on his chin.
“Yeah, well, it’s inappropriate.” I glare at him before I grab my cart and stomp my way toward checkout.
“Noel.” Connor’s feet work double-time to catch up with me. “I’m sorry. I thought this was our thing, what we do.”
I stop suddenly, and Connor runs into me.
“Oomph,” we both exhale.
I push dark strands of hair out of my eyes, so he can see my scowl.
“Our thing?” I snap.
“Yeah, ya know …” He shrugs.
“No, I don’t know, Connor. Enlighten me, please.” I give him a round of angry-chick blinking.
His brows crush together as he squirms on
his feet. “You’re Angry Journal Girl today.”
“That’s what happens when you give me too much alcohol and run into me the next morning.” I cross my arms and tap my foot against the tiles.
“Duly noted.” He smirks, and I want to slap it off his face. “Journal Girl doesn’t do hangovers.”
I sigh. “What do you want, Butterball?”
“Hey. I’m not wearing the turkey hat today.” Connor runs his hands through his thick dark brown hair. It’s longer on top and slightly shorter on the sides. The type of hair any woman would love to run her fingers through or grasp handfuls of late at night while screaming his name.
“Yeah, well, you call me Journal Girl, and I call you Butterball. That’s our thing. What were you referring to?” I tip my head.
“I … don’t really know.” Connor shifts the lemons and limes into his other arm. “There’s just … undeniable chemistry between us. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.” His tone goes softer on the last part.
There’s more than chemistry between us; there’s an entire chem lab and possibly a university dedicated to studying our attraction.
“The only chemistry you should be concerned with is what brews between you and Cami.” I peer to the side and eye a box of animal cookies.
“Cami thinks there’s more than there really is. We’re just friends, Noel.”
He steps closer, and I push against his chest to make him back away.
“Your nonchalance about sex is not at all attractive—”
A crash of glass breaking from a couple of aisles over interrupts me.
A few seconds later, someone’s on the overhead speaker. “Cleanup in aisle four. Repeat, cleanup needed in aisle four.”
I watch a tomato-faced lady usher her crying toddler toward the exit.
When I turn my attention back to Connor, he looks thoughtful.
“I hate this cliché, but don’t be so quick to judge a book by its cover, Journal Girl. You of all people should know that.” He stands taller.
“From where I’m standing, your ‘cover’”—I air quote—“seems to hold a hell of a lot more than friendship with Cami when the mood strikes you. Or do you screw anything that moves and then dangle them along until you decide you’re done?” I purse my lips.
His head jerks back at my harsh words. “That’s crude.”
I shrug, start to push my cart again, and call over my shoulder, “Yesterday, you said you liked my smart mouth, so deal with it.”
Connor jogs toward me and grabs my bicep to halt my progress. I frown at his hand gripping me, and he removes it.
“Wait.” He rubs at his face. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”
“Not my problem.” I glower.
I’m not sure why I’m so angry. It could be that Connor’s involved with my best friend, and despite that fact, I’m still attracted to him. Or maybe I’m still troubled by seeing Nicholas and being rejected by him and that Thanksgiving is still a horrible holiday—one that’s ruined me and will cast a shadow over this season and my life forever. Or maybe it’s that my skull feels like it’s splitting in two or that I’m hangry. My stomach’s churning, and there’s a perfectly good thawing pizza to enjoy if this jerk-hole would move and let me get on with my business. A girl needs her pigfest of carbs after a night of drinking.
“I want to see you again.” Connor brushes his thumb across my chin.
The contact startles me and sets the hair on my arms into a dance.
“Well, here I am.” I thrash my arms in the air in an exaggerated fashion of self-preservation. The move gives me an excuse to take a step back from Connor.
His hand falls to his side, his jade eyes intent on mine.
“How’s seeing me working out for you?” I shake my head as I talk.
“Noel, stop.”
Connor moves toward me again, but I smack my hands to his really hard chest, preventing him from moving forward.
“You stop, Connor. We can’t do this.” My fingers develop a mind of their own and take one gentle squeeze of his pecs before I quietly scold those deceiving digits and draw them back from the yummy firmness. They are now grounded to perching on my hips and only my hips.
“Stop what? We haven’t started anything.” His voice goes low, seductive, and it completely contradicts the words he said.
His gravelly tone does things to my head and makes me want to forget the reasons we can’t do whatever we want to each other, wherever we want.
I shoot him a disbelieving scowl. “Bullshit.”
“You’re the one who asked me out for coffee or something the night we met.” He cocks a brow.
“That was before I knew you were fucking my best friend,” I growl.
Connor’s eyes roam the grocery store. “Language, Journal Girl. Little humans are among us.”
I watch him, stone-faced, my foot tap-tap-tapping against the tiles.
“Okay, fine. You’re right, but you know we both want more.” His brow crinkles. “If nothing else, we need to discuss that.”
I release a long sigh. “There’s nothing to talk about, Connor. We just met. You’re a bartender who served me a cheeky drink and is sleeping with my bestie, and we kind of hung out while tailgating at a football game I was roped into attending.” I shrug my shoulder. “No biggie.”
“Now, I call bullshit.” He lowers his chin. “You know we’re a hell of a lot more to each other than that. We might have just met, but you can’t tell me you don’t feel this draw between us. I’ve never experienced such an intense attraction or interest in anyone—ever.”
The expression on Connor’s face tells me he’s just as shocked by that statement as I am.
I find it hard to believe that this gorgeous guy has never felt a desire like the one he claims to feel for me. From the two days I’ve known him, he’s not in want of female attention or companionship.
Something Cami said to me on Thanksgiving eve scratches at the edges of my thoughts.
“I kind of get the feeling Connor has commitment issues.”
I watch him as he studies me.
Yeah, he has issues all right.
The words he spewed are probably his usual lines of bullcrap that he feeds to all the girls swarming like bees. I refuse to be one of them. And the prick is involved with my best friend—committed or not—and I feel a protective instinct to guard and defend what’s mine.
“You’re an asshole,” I hiss.
His head jolts back at my vile outburst, and his eyes go wide.
I step toward him. “You cornered your Netflix-and-chill’s bestie in a grocery store to proposition her. To throw your lies at her feet to see which ones she’d pick up. You know what, jerkface?” I jab my pointer finger against his collarbone. “I’m not some stupid hussy you can swoon with your handsome face and pretty words. Unlike you, what’s between my legs doesn’t rule my life or my intentions. So, Butterball, get the hell out of my way and leave me alone.”
I spin on one foot and shove my cart a little too forcefully toward the checkout line. The pink-haired lady ringing me up cautiously watches me as I toss my items on the conveyor belt and huff and snarl angrily at myself—or at Connor’s narcissism. He can take his arrogance and hotness and stuff it up his stupid turkey hat.
“Is that all?” Pink Hair warily eyes me. She acts like I’m going to bite.
Maybe I will.
“No. Add these to it as well.” Connor places the bags of lemons and limes on the counter.
“I’m not paying for your crap,” I growl at him but refuse to make eye contact. “Just my stuff. This douche bag has to pay for his own.”
“Noel, chill out. The least I can do is pay for your food since I’m the reason you’re so cranky.” He’s keeping his distance from me.
Smart guy.
“You know what?” I address Pink Hair. “I forgot he was paying, and I realize I’ve forgotten a few things.” I reach over to the lined candy bars, grab several different kinds, and t
oss them down to be rung up.
Pink Hair smirks at me and then gives Connor the evil eye.
Ah, Pink Hair has also been boy-burned. We’re now united in guy-hater sisterhood.
“Anything else?” Pinky looks at me when she’s finished ringing everything up.
I squint one eye and study the ceiling, trying to come up with something else—something that is very expensive and awkward to send with Connor.
“I think that’s enough for today.” I shrug.
While Connor pays the bill, I load the bags into my cart. I toss the bag containing the fruit at Connor and make my way to the exit after stowing the cart.
“Noel, hold up!” Connor yells as I speed-walk to my Jeep Wrangler.
I hunch my head down and walk with force.
“For shit’s sake. Who are you, Forrest Gump?” he asks.
That stops me in my tracks, and I turn to glare at him. “Are you insulting me? Especially after what you just pulled in there?” I point back at the store.
“No, no.” Connor huffs and then looks sheepish. “Forrest was a fast runner.”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and dig my keys out of my coat pocket. It’s gotten bitterly cold since yesterday, and the less time I spend outside, the happier my cheeks and fingers will be.
“I’m sorry.” He moves the handles of the plastic bag up his arm and shoves his hands in his jean pockets. “I didn’t mean to piss you off or give you the wrong impression of me or my purposes toward you.”
Connor’s laser eyes study me, his brows suddenly scrunching together, and I know it’s past time I get away from him.
“It’s fine. Whatever. Just be good to her.” I hold eye contact for a few seconds, and I know he understands I’m talking about Cami.
He nods, and I turn to open the door to my Jeep.
“There’s a Black FriYAY party at the bar tonight. You should come. Drink specials, live music, the works,” Connor says.
I let out a humorless laugh and throw my bags across the seat.
“Yeah, sure.” The sarcasm in my voice drips heavy in the chilled air.
“Cami’s performing, and it’s a pretty big night. There’s supposed to be some people from the music industry attending. She could use the support,” he says as I’m about to climb into the Jeep.
