11. Noelle #2
The table quiets, their laughter fading into the kind of silence that respects the weight of what he’s saying.
He glances at me, then back at them, his voice low but certain.
“Now we’re in the same city, running in the same circles.
My family’s good—set up, secure. And the girl?
” His eyes catch a hold of mine again. “She thinks I’m not her type.
But I’m here to prove her wrong. And I’m in it for however long it takes. ”
The guys let out a collective oof ,a mix of sympathy and awe, and I swear one of them mutters “respect” under his breath.
Heat climbs my neck, my pulse racing, but also, what the hell is going on?
I lean in, talking directly to the guys. “The problem with this”—I throw my thumb over my shoulder at Dash—“he’s a pro athlete; he doesn’t have the time to?—”
“Me being here proves I’m willing to carve it out, no matter the cost.” He leans in now and throws his thumb in my direction. “Coach D is gonna feed me to the wolves. I’ll get fined, yet here I am.”
“Then you’re an idiot,” I snap as I turn fully toward him. “This over a spilled cup of coffee? To help out the sad girl? Be a hero?” I drop my voice to a whisper so only he can hear me. “Or words you read and have mistaken me for a?—”
“For the woman I can’t stop wanting,” he cuts me off, leaning in so close my pulse stutters.
His voice is a low growl meant only for me.
“And let me tell you, whatever that book hero of yours did to your FMC?” I swear I could swoon over his abbreviation of the female main character, but now is not the time.
“He probably carried her bags, kissed her hand, maybe made her blush on a kitchen counter.” His lips curve into a wicked smile.
“Cute. But me? I’ll ruin you for every paperback boyfriend on your shelves. ”
Heat flashes through me so hard it’s blinding. My breath catches, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass to keep from shaking.
He leans back just enough to meet my eyes, amusement dancing there, cocky as hell but dead serious underneath. “So, yeah, Noelle, Emmett’s not my competition. I’m what he?—”
“I would never let a man come between me and my dream.” I don’t give him the satisfaction of silence. I tilt my head, meet his stare, and smile slow. “And you’ll never replace my book boyfriends, Dash. Not in a million years.”
His grin deepens, like I just handed him a challenge instead of a shut-down. “Damn.”
“What does damn mean?” I demand that he answer.
“Who is Emmett?” someone at the table asks, but neither of us looks away. We’re locked in.
“You think I wanna change anything about you? Ruin your dreams?” He chuckles. It’s deep and throaty. “I’m going to be your biggest cheerleader. The man behind, on top of, inside of the next best sel?—”
I gasp when I realize I have just placed my entire hand over his face to shut his mouth, and then I quickly pull it away when he nips at my palm.
My phone vibrates in my clutch and, right now, I all but pray it’s Lauren needing something—anything—to pull me away from this uncomfortable situation that’s kind of also got my squirming beneath those blue eyes.
When I see it’s a text from Briar, I look up as I try to hide my screen.
Too late.
“Go ahead; check to see that she’s okay before I ask the obvious.” He leans back smugly as I open the message.
It’s a video of her in her dorm room, with her friend, both saying, “Boys are so gross.”
Then Briar saying, “They wanted a foursome.”
“What the hell did she just say?” he asks, grabbing for the phone.
I snatch my arm back and hold it to my chest. “She’s fine and in her dorm room.”
I glance at the men at the table, all watching us, seemingly enthralled, actually. Their forks hover midair, their wineglasses untouched, like they’ve forgotten there’s cake in front of them.
“Statistically,” Vik pipes up, pushing his glasses up his nose, “you’re playing against impossible odds. Women who self-identify as book romantics? Ninety-seven percent say their fictional boyfriends are irreplaceable.”
Vik smirks. “But there’s always that three percent …”
Carlton groans. “Don’t encourage him, Vik. This man does not need data on his side.”
Adam leans in, eyes wide like he’s narrating a TED Talk. “This is the most fascinating live demonstration of the ‘enemies to lovers’ trope I’ve ever witnessed.”
Heat floods my face, and I scold him, “He’s not my enemy, not yet, anyway. And I’m not the heroine in a book, Adam.”
“Never an enemy.” Dash winks.
I roll my eyes and slip my phone back from my clutch, thumb hovering over the heart, and tap it before sending a text.
Me
There are good ones out there, B. Guys who laugh too loud, who are smarter than they look, who don’t need the spotlight to matter. You’ll find yours.
I stare at the screen, then add
Me
Until then, read. Boys are best in books anyway.
She hearts my message and sends a picture of a book stack on her desk, but it’s blurry, and I can’t see what they are!
I tuck my phone away and fully turn in time for the toasts.
They all blur together, but Louie and Lauren are grinning at the punchlines, champagne glasses clinking in perfect unison. I clap, I smile, I sip, I feel Dash’s eyes on me, and I drink some more .
The first dance follows, and Dash stands and pulls my chair out.
Together, with the Island of Misfit Toys, we make our way to surround the dance floor where the newlyweds begin swaying under a spotlight to “A Thousand Years.”
Then, right as we all start clapping politely, the music screeches into a remix of Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling.”
“What in the hell is going on here?” Dash laughs as the bridal party storms the floor.
It’s like a flash mob, everyone snapping into a routine. Step, clap, grapevine, body roll, and repeat.
“How long do you think they worked on this?” Dash asks.
I laugh. “I’m guessing as soon as the engagement was announced.”
The guests eat it up, phones high, everyone cheering.
“It’s kind of cute,” I admit, against my better judgment.
“Hemingway is watching this from somewhere and demanding a refund,” Dash mutters.
The song ends to roaring applause, and then the DJ’s voice booms over the speakers, “All right, everyone, let’s get out here and join the newlyweds!”
The opening notes of“Lucky”by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat float sweet and soft through the speakers.
Before I can plot an escape, Dash offers his hand. “Come on.”
“Dash—”
He hauls me onto the dance floor, his grin pure mischief. “This is gonna happen, Pembrooke. And no matter how much you beg, I am not putting out tonight. I’m not a first date kind of guy.”
“You are nuts.”
“Accurate.” He slides his hand to my waist as he pulls me into the sway of the music.
I give in far too easily. My palms find his shoulders—solid, warm, impossibly muscular. Every inch of him feels solid, strong, and warm. He feels … c omfy .
I try to remind myself this is Dash Sterling, hockey god, professional flirt, heartbreaker-in-waiting. But my body doesn’t seem to care.
His thumb moves in small circles at my side, barely there but enough to send shivers racing down my spine. His cologne is nice, something expensive, I assume, but not overpowering. My cheek brushes against the rough edge of his jaw as the music continues, and I let myself lean in.
I should want this to end. I should want the song to wrap up so I can escape back to the safety of the corner table. Farther even, to outrun all the things he has said that any woman would want to believe. But I don’t want to, not even a little .
The song drifts to a close, applause rising around us. Dash doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he lowers his head, brushing his lips against the top of my head. It’s featherlight, a whisper , but I feel it to my toes.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough, sexy …
I’m so screwed.