4. Gonna Be a No
OLIVIA
Sundays and hangovers are made for two things: junk food and naps.
All I want is a greasy cheeseburger the size of my head and a super-sized fry.
Instead, I’m sitting in a Starbucks, slurping down an iced latte in the middle of December like I might perish without it, while eating one of those ridiculous healthy macros boxes, all because McDonald’s isn’t serving lunch for another fifteen minutes.
My best friend, Cara, arches one perfectly shaped brow in the direction of my drink. “It’s cold as fuckballs, Liv.”
I hum around my straw and tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweater. “Winter is coming.”
“Winter is here ,” she replies, the Game of Thrones reference going where I thought it would—clear over her head. “And you’re drinking a fucking iced coffee.”
“Iced latte,” I correct, picking at my cheese and fruit protein box.
I poke the hard-boiled egg. Seriously, what is this?
I’m not into it. This is what I eat Monday to Friday, not Sunday morning after drinking half my body weight in beer the night before.
Sighing, I snap the lid in place. I give up.
I’m making Cara take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru on our way back to her place.
“I don’t care what’s in your drink, Ollie, just that it’s fucking frozen .”
I’m a tea drinker, decaffeinated. Cara says I’m a psychopath, but caffeine makes my stomach hurt and gives me the jitters.
It’s borderline terrifying when I drink coffee.
This morning though, I need it. I’m sure I’m not functioning all that properly.
But I also hate hot coffee so my options were limited when we ordered ten minutes ago.
The barista looked at me like I had five heads and asked me to repeat my order.
“My head hurts.” I pout, giving her the puppy dog eyes.
Cara’s pout rivals mine. She pushes that bottom lip out as far as it’ll go and tilts her blonde head. “Aw, muffin. You partied too hard.”
“My feet are killing me.” I’m in major need of a foot soak, or a rub. In fact, I hook one leg around Cara’s ankle and scrub myself up and down her long calf.
She shakes me off. “I’m not rubbing your feet. Maybe Em will when we get back.”
I make a face. “I’m not asking your boyfriend to rub my feet.”
“Why?” She pops a grape in her mouth. “He’s got nice hands. Big. Strong.” She pumps her brows. “ Magic .”
“Things I don’t need to know.” I flick my straw wrapper at her.
Cara shifts backward, slinging one leg over the other. Her eyes slant as she studies me. “Can we talk about the elephant in the room?”
I sip my drink. My God, it’s spectacular. I may not sleep for days. “What elephant?”
“Elephant might be the wrong word. How about six-foot-four wall of sexed-up muscle, reminiscent of a Marvel superhero, or a Grecian god?”
My gaze glides over the café. “Not seeing that either.”
She pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue, the corners of her mouth lifting. “Carter Beckett is the damn elephant, Liv.”
“Ah. That elephant.” I check the polish on my nails. “We already talked about him.” In fact, I just managed to get his irritating, narcissistic face off my mind.
“I was three mojitos and five tequila shots deep. I don’t remember a single word of that conversation.”
There wasn’t a whole lot of talking. It was mostly Cara putting me in a headlock and towing me as far away as possible from Carter Beckett, captain of the Vancouver Vipers, multimillionaire, and playboy extraordinaire.
To her credit, she did attempt to lay out a handful of reasons I should absolutely stay away from him, but it was difficult to understand her through the slurring and the hors d’oeuvres she kept shoving in her mouth every time a server walked by.
“You told me to keep my distance, and I told you I’d already put it between us.” There was a moment, a very brief one with my hand in his, his piercing emerald eyes holding me, that I might have… considered it. Maybe . To be determined. I blame the alcohol for mistakes nearly made.
Carter Beckett is the definition of sexy. He’s arrogance dressed in expensive clothing, smooth, corded muscles, and a charming smile, and quite possibly the face of chlamydia; I can’t be certain. I’m sure he takes precautions, but the man gets around like a globe-trotter.
Cara props her chin on her fist. “I should’ve guessed he’d like you.”
“Like me? He doesn’t like me. He wants to sleep with me. And I can’t fault you for not guessing he’d want to. I’m literally the opposite of every woman he’s ever been pictured with.”
“You are not!”
“Am too.”
Cara plays with her phone before showing me a photo of Carter and a leggy brunette, his arm around her waist while she sucks on his neck. Bonus points for somehow managing to walk down the street and avoid tumbling into traffic.
“See? You both have brown hair!”
I roll my eyes. “And she’s got an entire foot on me, Care. And, oh, look!” I tap on the girl’s attached Instagram page and level Cara with an unimpressed look. “She’s a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.”
I’m not about to pull the I’m different card, but the truth is exactly that: I’m not anything like the women this man is usually pictured with.
If what I see in the media is any indication, Carter prefers women who look like Cara: legs that go straight to heaven, long, lean torsos, silky straight hair.
In fact, I’m convinced the only reason those two aren’t dating is because they’re too much alike—mouthy, ostentatious, and proud.
Sounds like a good way to detonate a room.
“Okay, whatever.” She swipes a hand through the air, dismissing me. “So you’re petite.” She snickers at my unimpressed expression. “Okay, pint-sized. And okay, you’re not a model. But you’re a phys-ed teacher, so that’s kinda the same—”
“It is not remotely close to the same thing.”
“But you’re as gorgeous as they are.” The way she says it is fairly convincing, but then she’s always been my biggest cheerleader.
I reach across the table, booping her nose. “Thanks, but you’re bound by best friend rules. You have to say that.” A tired sigh leaves my lips as I look out of the coffee shop and at all the people, shopping bags hanging off their arms.
Cara loops her arm through mine as we stroll back through the mall.
I don’t know why I let her convince me to come shopping this morning.
I should stop sleeping at her house after I’ve been drinking.
She pounced on me before I could even remember my name, let alone where my backbone is located, and that’s how I wound up right here—shopping at the mall on a Sunday morning, and worst of all, without my hangover McDonald’s.
See: bad decisions fueled by alcohol.
“I’m hungry,” I grumble, pinning my arms across my chest as Cara’s thumbs fly across her phone screen. “For real food.”
“Perfect timing, babe.” She tucks her phone into her purse and stands. “Emmett’s up and he’s ordering pizza for lunch.”
Something inside me lights up like a slot machine. It might be my stomach. “With bacon?”
“ Extra bacon.”
* * *
Cara announces our arrival home the same way she announces her arrival anywhere: with flair .
She sweeps her arms out wide the moment we step inside, flinging all six of her shopping bags to the floor as she twirls. “We’re home, babe! Liv needs her feet rubbed!”
“I really don’t,” I call back, trying to kick my boots off.
I love Emmett but it would be a little weird to have my best friend’s boyfriend give me a foot massage.
As it is, I can’t manage to get my fucking sock on properly.
It’s dangling off my toes, and I’m hopping down the hallway on one foot toward the smell of pepperoni and bacon, trying to fix it.
I hate socks. I hate boots. I hate winter.
My face lifts, nose in the air as I inhale and rub my belly with my free hand. “Smells so good, Em. Come to mama.”
I manage to hook a finger in my sock, pulling it over my heel with an a-ha , but my landing is all wrong, soft wool on slippery, shiny marble turning out to be a terrible, awful idea as I go tumbling backward with a few choice curse words, arms flailing in search of anything within reach.
Which happens to be a strong pair of arms. Extra muscly.
Corded. Oooh, these forearms are fine as hell.
They wrap around my waist, catching me before my ass can hit the ground, and warmth spreads outward from my belly as they right me on my feet.
I stare down at the exceptionally large hand covering my torso, keeping me sturdy, and a shiver of anticipation dances down my spine at the words whispered against my ear.
“Hi, mama.”
My hand slides slowly down his forearm, noting the stark contrast where my fingers curl around. Where I’m milky and soft, he’s exceptionally golden and firm.
Hot breath rolls down my neck, and I close my eyes as an enticing aroma swirls around me, hints of citrus mixed with the outdoors, like lime and musky cedarwood.
I know exactly whose arms wind around me, whose hands hold me close, whose lips linger by my jaw. I know all that, but it doesn’t stop me from what I do next.
With my body still locked in his arms, my head swivels in slow motion.
Super slow. Exorcist style, even. I’m not sure my jaw has ever dangled so low.
I could probably fit my whole fist in my mouth if I were inclined to try.
My brother dared me to when I was nine, and I did it just to prove him wrong.
When I spy those deep green eyes, that messy mop of chestnut waves, that infuriating, sexy, lopsided grin, I do the only logical thing: I shriek.
I shove Carter Beckett off me and rocket so fast across the kitchen that my legs split. Emmett darts forward, hoisting me up via an arm around my waist while he howls with laughter, and my groin hurts so badly I just want to sink to the floor and cry in peace—with my pizza, obviously.