Chapter 8 Larissa #2
“That’s convenient. Lucky you. And you might get luckier if you don’t get all weird about it and start ruling things out before they can become options.”
“That’s already been taken care of,” I say, running my fingers through my hair.
“We’re going to the dinner and Jack’s thing from a baseline of friends.
It doesn’t matter as much tonight for his thing, but Mom has to think I’m taken so she stops trying to match me with random men.
We just need to sell it so that Mom thinks I’m forming a friendship with Hollis to see if more is there post-graduation since he doesn’t live here.
” I shrug and drop my hand. “So we’re friends. It’s completely platonic.”
She snorts. “Yeah. That’s gonna work.”
“What?”
“You really believe that you’re going to spend two evenings with Hollis and manage not to touch him. Or be begging for him to touch you? Come on, Riss.”
I swipe my lip gloss off the dresser with a little more force than necessary. “Yes, Bellamy. I do.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t okay me like that,” I say, coating my lips with another layer of gloss.
“Just because this mutually-beneficial situation makes it seem like I’m getting all willy-nilly with my take on dating last night, I’m not.
Two platonic nights with Hollis will keep my eyes focused on him.
There will be no looking at all the delicious athletic man specimens tomorrow night.
I’m still anti-athlete. I will be for eternity. ”
“I love how you always just go all-in. It’s eternity or bust!”
I laugh. “It’s called commitment, and I’m not the one who has a problem with that.”
“Ouch,” Bellamy says, knowing I’m talking about her and her refusal to even date a man seriously. “So what does Hollis do? What’s his deal?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know much about him, really. He was a good-looking single man standing by a bar when I needed him. I don’t know much else.”
“And I’m the one who’s going to end up murdered?”
“He’s not a murderer.”
“All you know is that he’s hot. There have been hot serial killers.”
I gasp. “What are you trying to do here? Get me to cancel?”
“Hardly,” she scoffs. “I was just pointing out a touch of hypocrisy on your part. I’d totally go with him.”
I set the gloss back on the dresser and try to ignore the hint of jealousy that settles in my stomach. I really don’t know what to do with it.
There’s no reason she couldn’t go with him—not that she was saying that. She wasn’t. She wouldn’t do that. But the idea of Bellamy going with Hollis tonight makes me feel a certain way that I don’t love.
“Okay, Bells. I gotta go. Hollis should be here soon,” I say, shaking my head and hoping the crazy thoughts leave.
“Have fun. Make sure your tracking is on so I can find you if you end up in a ditch.”
“You are a terrible friend,” I joke.
All she does is laugh.
“Talk to you later,” I say.
“Call me as soon as you get home. I want all the details.”
I grab my purse. “There will be no details that you’re interested in hearing.” I head into the hallway with a final look at myself and deposit my purse near the door.
“You’ll have no good details because you’re lame.”
“I’m not lame. I’m just trying to figure out my life over here and not just roll in the breeze.”
“When did you get all judgy?” she teases me. “You get a hot boyfriend, and all of a sudden, you’re a little judgy friend.”
I laugh. “I’m not judging you, and he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Let’s reconvene this conversation in a week.”
“Let’s not.”
“You go rock my dress and look hot and call me later. Love you. Bye.”
“Bye, Bells.”
Before I even hit the button, the doorbell rings.
My head whips toward the door as I end the call. I drop my phone in my purse and check the mirror one last time.
“You got this,” I whisper.
I take a deep breath and tug open the door.
It’s a damn good thing I hold onto the frame with the other hand.
Hollis is downright edible—a word I can never tell Bellamy after our conversation today. It’s safe to say I won’t even remember thinking it because I’m reasonably sure my brain just went dead.
He’s dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans that fit a set of muscled thighs like gloves. A black collared shirt is stretched across his broad shoulders.
His forearms are thick and heavily roped. On one wrist is a series of leather bracelets in a variety of styles.
He runs his hand through his hair, making the strands fall to one side. I know many guys will stand in front of the mirror forever to make their hair appear as though they don’t give a crap about it. But I really don’t think Hollis spent any time on it.
And that makes it so much hotter.
He stands on my doorstep, smelling like rich leather and chewing a large wad of pink bubble gum. He makes no secret of looking me up and down, letting his gaze sizzle my skin with each sweep.
I shiver as I force a swallow and try to remember how to speak English.
“Hey,” he says, the words kissed with a sweet, slow drawl that’s not quite Southern.
I clench the doorway even tighter. “Hi.”
“The gentleman in me wants to say that you look beautiful.” He smirks. “But the man in me wants to tell you that you look fucking hot.”
My cheeks flush. “Well, thank them both for me, okay?”
His smirk deepens.
“Let me get my purse, and we can go.”
I turn away from him and grab my stuff. I use the opportunity to get some fresh, un-Hollis-scented air and to let myself settle just a bit.
You’re friends. He’s a super-hot Boone. Go into it thinking that.
I turn as he blows a bubble. As it snaps, he winks.
Shit.
“What’s your last name?” I ask him as I step outside.
“Hudson. Why?”
I shut the door and lock it before dropping my keys into my purse.
“Just in case you kill me. That way, Bellamy knows who to look for,” I say.
He chuckles. “Hopefully, she’d call the cops.”
“You’d be lucky if she did that and didn’t come after you on her own. She’s a savage.”
A black Mustang sits at the end of the sidewalk. It has dark window tint and blacked-out rims.
It’s exactly what I would imagine Hollis driving.
“Is this your car?” I ask.
“No. I stole it.”
I look up at him to see him grinning.
“Yes, it’s my car. It was a graduation present of sorts.”
“It’s nice. It fits you.”
He seems to take this as it was intended—as a compliment. He smiles and opens the passenger’s side door.
“What’s your last name?” he asks.
“Mason.”
“Good last name,” he says.
What’s that even mean?
I climb into the car and halfway fall into the low-sitting seat. When I look up, he’s grabbing the window frame and looking down at me. The look in his eyes is full of mischief and innuendo, and I feel it fire through my veins.
“We’re just friends, right?” he asks.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
He nods too and closes the door.
“This is going to be a long night,” I whisper. “And much harder than I thought.”