Deleted scene #2
Ryan Decker leans against the counter with a beer in one hand, dark hair pushed back, tattoos crawling down one forearm like a warning he has never cared enough to explain.
There is something rougher about Ryan than the rest of them, something less polished around the edges, like he walked into this house from a harder life and decided nobody was allowed to notice unless he made the joke first.
Briggs gasps. “Decker, I trusted you.”
“Mistake.”
“Cold. Wounding. Possibly illegal.”
“Most things you do should be illegal,” Rider says from the island, relaxed on a barstool with his long blond hair tucked behind one ear and the kind of calm face that makes people underestimate how much he is hearing.
Cade Mercer is there too, Captain, Center, perfectly controlled, standing near the sink with a bottle of water instead of beer and the detached expression of a man already responsible for too many idiots.
He gives Bliss a polite nod when Briggs makes introductions around the room, and Bliss nods back like she is not described Cade as expensively hot, emotionally constipated but has good bone structure.
“Bennett brought wedding girls,” Briggs announces, as if the entire kitchen has not already noticed us. “Show some respect.”
I glance around the room. “Does respect usually smell like beer pong and poor choices?”
Ryan lifts his beer. “Only on Saturdays.”
“It’s the last Saturday before classes,” Briggs says. “This is sacred.”
“This is sticky,” Charm says, lifting one heel off the floor and looking at the tile with concern. “Why is the kitchen sticky?”
Briggs points toward the ceiling. “Tradition.”
“That is not an answer,” Bliss says.
“It is in this house.”
I laugh despite myself, and that is when I feel him.
Not because he speaks, but because he radiates a vibe, I literally can’t name.
There is a difference between being watched and being assessed.
Men watch women in dresses all the time.
It’s usually boring. Predictable. A lazy slide of eyes, a pause at the usual places, a smirk they think is invitation when really it is a warning label.
I know that kind of attention. I know how to dismiss it before it reaches me.
This is not that.
My skin prickles before I turn my head, and when I do, Easton Wade is leaning against the far counter with one ankle crossed over the other, a beer loose in his hand, and his eyes on me like he has been waiting to see how long it would take me to notice.
Oh, well... This is unfortunate.
He is not the loudest man in the room. Briggs owns volume like an unpaid bill. Ryan owns threat. Rider owns ease. Cade owns command, even standing still. But Easton owns silence, and somehow that is worse.
He is all lean muscle and controlled posture, black T-shirt pulled across shoulders broad enough to make my mouth go dry before my brain can file an objection.
His blond hair is shorter than Rider’s, messy in a way that looks like he ran wet hands through it after a shower.
His face is stupid. Not pretty. Worse. Sharp jaw, straight nose, mouth set like he is not amused by much, and gray eyes pale enough to feel rude when they hold mine.
He looks like the kind of man who would not raise his voice unless he meant to end something.
I hate that I notice, but more I hate that he notices me noticing.
Briggs follows my line of sight and grins with the instant enthusiasm of a man who should never be allowed to discover information. “Ah. Wade. There you are. Back me up. Aura’s dress is a felony.”
Easton’s eyes do not leave mine. “Depends on the jurisdiction.”
My brow lifts. “That almost sounded intelligent.”
His mouth shifts, not quite a smile. “Try not to look too surprised.”
A tiny, dangerous spark moves under my ribs.
Briggs looks between us like someone has handed him free entertainment. “Oh, I love when pretty people are mean. This is healing something in me.”
“Nothing in you is healed,” Ryan says.
“Because none of you support my journey.”
Charm leans closer to me, her voice dropping low enough that Briggs can’t hear. “So, we’re still shutting down Bliss’s little Briggs matchmaking fantasy, correct?”
“Dead on arrival,” I murmur back.
Bliss, who has been watching Briggs with affection and me with suspicious hope, sighs like the universe has personally refused to follow her vision board.
“Beer?” Briggs asks, already reaching toward a cooler.
“No beer for me,” I say.
“Respectfully, this is Hockey House. That’s like asking a church not to have pews.”
“I don’t drink beer.”
“What do you drink?”
“Depends on who’s buying.”
Easton pushes off the counter without rushing, reaches into a cabinet, and pulls down a clean glass.
Not a red plastic cup but an actual glass.
That should not be attractive. Basic competence should not land that hard, but apparently the bar is on the floor and Easton has decided to step over it while making eye contact.
He pours something amber over ice, adds a splash from a bottle near the sink, and places it in my hand.
I stare at the drink, then at him. “Poison?”
“Not, not poison.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I don’t know your preference.”
“Smart men don’t admit ignorance out loud.”
“Secure men do.”
Annoying. Annoying, annoying man.
I take the glass because not taking it feels like losing. “What is this?”
“Bourbon, ginger ale and lime.”
I glance down at the drink. “That’s oddly specific.”
“You don’t seem like vodka cranberry.”
Briggs makes an impressed noise. “Damn, Wade. Mixology and preference profiling. Save some mystery for the rest of us.”
Easton finally looks away from me long enough to glance at him. “You’re the mystery, Briggs.”
Briggs brightens. “Thank you.”
“I meant medically.”
The kitchen laughs, and I take a sip to cover the fact that my mouth wants to do something stupid. The drink is good, ugh of course. It’s not too sweet, and warm enough to ease my nerves.
I set it down slowly. “You always make drinks for women you don’t know?”
Easton looks back at me. “Only when they look like they’re deciding whether to stab someone, get with someone or leave.”
I smile. “Those are not exclusive.”
“No,” he says. “I got that.”
It is not flirting the way I am used to.
There is no exaggerated charm, no obvious compliment, no slick little line designed to make me feel chosen by a man who would forget my name before morning if I let him.
Easton’s attention is too steady for that.
Too measured. He watches like he is interested in the answer, not the performance.
That is the first red flag and the second is that I like it.
“So, Aura,” Briggs says, dragging my attention away from Easton with all the subtlety of a cymbal crash. “How do we feel about goalies?”
I look at him over the rim of my glass. “As a concept?”
“As men.”
“Brave of you to separate those.”
Ryan chokes on his beer. Rider looks down, smiling into his cup. Cade gives Briggs the faintest look of sympathy, which somehow feels crueler than laughing.
Briggs points at me. “See, this is why Bliss brought you. She said you were mean in a way that would improve morale.”
Bliss’s eyes go wide. “I did not say that.”
“You said she was ‘spiritually confrontational.’”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is when you’re pretty,” Briggs says.
Charm shakes her head. “You are going to say something someday and hear a door lock in real time.”
“That has already happened to him,” Ryan says.
“Several times,” Rider adds.
I glance toward Easton because I can’t help myself, and he is still watching me, mouth relaxed now, eyes almost amused. Almost. Like he is letting the moment settle around him while he decides whether I am as untouchable as I am pretending to be.
I take another sip of the drink and hate him for making it well.
Briggs leans both hands on the island, grinning at me. “Okay, serious question.”
“I doubt that.”
“Rude. True perhaps, but rude.” He points at himself. “If I were to ask a very beautiful woman out, hypothetically, and she were to say no, hypothetically, because apparently golden retriever energy is a crime now, what could I do to become less rejectable?”
Charm’s eyes flash with alarm. Bliss freezes like her own setup has turned on her. I set my glass down and smile at Briggs with genuine affection because, honestly, he is impossible to hate. But the answer is still no.
“Briggs,” I say gently.
“Oh no,” he says. “That sounded like a eulogy.”
“You are adorable.”
“Fatal.”
“And kind.”
“Worse.”
“And probably a very nice man to date if a woman is looking for someone emotionally available, loudly supportive, and likely to bring soup when she sneezes.”
He presses a fist to his mouth. “I do make excellent soup runs.”
“But I am not that woman.”
Briggs sighs heavily, then nods with heartbreaking dignity. “Because you’re a pit bull with lip liner.”
I whip my head toward Bliss. “You told him?”
“I was trying to let him down easy.”
“I guessed you weren’t interested,” Briggs says defeated. “I have instincts.”
Ryan stares at him. “You ate a silica packet last year because you thought it was a mint.”
“It said do not eat, and I don’t like being controlled.”
Easton’s mouth finally curves into something real, small and quick and devastating enough that my pulse trips. I look away immediately because absolutely not.
No.
Men who smile rarely know exactly what they are doing.
The party swells around us. More people crowd into the kitchen. Someone opens a fresh case of beer. A girl in a tiny white top slips between Ryan and Rider, trying to catch one of their eyes, and Ryan steps aside without looking down while Rider politely moves his drink out of spilling range.