3. Posey
Posey
Most people would probably be nervous or scared about meeting a stranger at the airport for a weekend getaway.
Not me. I’m excited to see the look on Mr. No-Drama-rama’s face when he realizes Jensen is Posey Jensen, and I don’t just stumble into drama, I thrive on it.
Give me all the nonsense, and I’ll give it right back.
When I get to the terminal, I head to the check-in.
He messaged me to say we’d meet up on the other side of security for a beer before boarding.
Just thinking about our exchanges makes me chuckle.
Rather than fessing up, I poured more half-truths down the chat lines.
Hair brown, eyes brown, average build, beer drinker (any alcohol, who am I kidding?), sports enthusiast (I enjoy men’s assets)—all true.
Not quite who he’ll be scanning the crowd for. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Once I’m checked in and on the other side of security, I sashay through the terminal with my short skirt and high heels.
Rather than my usual low-maintenance makeup application, I went full face.
There’s something about any man implying women are difficult and saddled with drama that gets my back up.
Lots of women aren’t like that at all. Sometimes I’m one of them, and sometimes I’m not.
I hate the idea of being slotted into some jerky guy’s preconceived notions of what a woman should and shouldn’t be.
Enjoy your weekend, asshole.
When I’m near the pub, I shoot a message into the chat app to let him know I’m here.
He messages back that he’s in a booth near the rear of the pub wearing a Northern University baseball cap.
My heels click across the faux wooden floor on my way to the scattered tables and booths.
In a far corner is a broad-shouldered man staring at his phone with a baseball cap concealing his face.
I bet he’s one of those types that lives in the gym and stares at himself in the mirror.
A hint of a grin twists my lips as I approach. I cannot wait to see his face.
“BF?” I ask when I’m standing beside his table.
He glances up, and my heart stops. Holy fucking shit. Heat rushes through my body, followed by a jolt of ice cold.
It’s Brent Faulkner. My mouth drops open. He’s not the one who has been obsessively staring at his body. I am.
“Jensen?” He frowns and sits straighter in the booth.
“Brent Faulkner?” I’d recognize those golden-brown eyes, that angular face, and the jet-black hair anywhere.
“Your name is Jensen?”
“Posey. Posey Jensen.” I slide into the booth across from him. “You have a girlfriend.”
“You’re supposed to be a dude.” His lips twist in distaste. “I said no drama. Does this situation seem drama-free to you?”
I cross my arms and slump into the booth. Of course my thirst-trap secret crush would turn out to be Mr. No-Drama-rama judgmental jerk face. It annoys me to no end that I can’t stop scanning his features and comparing them to the hundreds of photos I’ve drooled over.
“Okay, so technically I never told you I was a dude. You assumed, I guess, based on my name.”
“I would have been less shocked if Jensen Ackles showed up here.”
“Yeah, sure. You and Jensen, slaying demons in Bermuda.” I roll my eyes. “Total bros weekend.”
A hint of a smile curls his lips, and he glances away while sweeping a hand over his face. When he meets my gaze again, all trace of humor is gone. “Am I going to regret this, Jensen?”
“Regret inviting me? Probably.” I lean across the table toward him and try to decide whether his attitude is a turnoff or a turn-on in person.
The fact that he’s chiseled like a Greek god is definitely softening my rock-hard resolve to make his weekend hell.
“To assume all women are filled with drama and trouble is—quite frankly—not a good look.”
“You misled me. You invited the drama.”
“You have a girlfriend. Why are you on a campus chat looking for some rando date to your friend’s wedding? She’s supposed to be going with you.”
His gaze narrows. “How the hell do you know all that?”
My cheeks heat, and I break eye contact. “I follow her.” I follow him, too, but he clearly doesn’t realize that. She has thousands of followers. He has millions. I’ve never liked or commented on any posts. But I have viewed and read them all. So. Many. Times.
“Why would you follow Val? Do you know her? Everything she’s posted since we met is about…” He cocks his head at something in my expression. “Ahh.” He sits back in his seat and drums his hands on the top of the table. “Do I need to call security? Are you some kind of stalker?”
“Stalker?” I gasp.
“You follow my ex-girlfriend on social media. You knew she was coming with me. You responded to my chat in the group.”
“Yes. Your initials of BF along with your stupid Captain America avatar gave your identity away.”
“Captain America is not stupid.”
“Grown men don’t use superhero avatars in a campus-wide chat group.”
“All my friends do.”
I raise my eyebrows and say nothing.
A hint of a smile peeks out of one corner of his lips. “Did you know it was me?”
“Of course I didn’t know I was meeting Brent Faulkner at the airport.”
“Really?” He gestures to my outfit.
“Really.” My cheeks are on fire again. “I dressed like this because you seemed like a misogynistic asshole, and I was prepared to put you in your place all weekend.”
He lets out a startled laugh. “You were prepared to spend a weekend in Bermuda with a misogynistic asshole? Seriously? That’s kinda fucked up.”
“Those with drama need not apply? I applied anyway.” I give him a saccharine smile, and then I realize the waitress is hovering a few feet from our table.
“Can I—can I get either of you a drink?” she asks.
“You paying?” I stare at Brent.
“No,” he scoffs.
“All inclusive.”
“When we get there. Until we land, you pay your own way.”
I turn to the waitress. “Just water, thank you.” Could I afford my own beer? Sure. But I’m not in the mood to drink with him. Brent Faulkner is not the guy I built in my mind. Not even close.
He lets out a snort. “A pint of your house beer.”
We sit in silence for a beat after the waitress leaves.
“You and Val broke up?” Curiosity is not my friend.
“We did.” His jaw tics.
“Today?”
He gives me a withering glare.
I can’t help a grin. “She didn’t post about you today. But yesterday, you were a total thirst trap.” There was something about the way he mentioned Val’s social media account that made me think he wasn’t a fan of her posts. When he scowls at me, I realize my instinct is correct.
“We won’t be talking about her,” he says. He leans across the table. “You’re okay with objectifying me, but if I did the same to you, I bet you wouldn’t like it.”
“There’s a long history of women being objectified and their worth being dictated by the size of their boobs instead of their brains. Once that reality is a bit more balanced, I’ll be happy to have you objectify me.” I flutter my fake eyelashes at him.
“But not before that?” His gaze travels over my fitted T-shirt. “Your choice of outfit says otherwise.”
“These are my travel clothes. Most comfortable items I own.”
“Bullshit. You already admitted you dressed like that to make my weekend hell.”
I raise my eyebrows and close the distance across the table. “How would my choice of clothing do that?”
“Look but don’t touch, I’m assuming.”
He’s got me there. Now that I realize he’s Brent Faulkner, I’m reconsidering my no-touching stance. I shouldn’t, though. Turns out Brent Faulkner is an asshole. A smoking-hot body only gets anyone so far.
Before I can respond, the waitress returns with our drinks. Brent takes a large gulp of his beer and lets the silence sit between us.
“Whose wedding is it?”
“My best friend from high school, Trevor. He’s marrying a girl from Bermuda. Sebastian Swan’s cousin, if you’ve heard of him. You said you were into sports.”
I scrunch up my face.
“Another lie?” He swigs his beer. “I’m tempted to call this whole thing off.”
If he did, I’d get my own hotel room, make some new friends, and have a blast. I paid for my own flight, so it’s not like he can stop me.
But in life, sometimes you only get one chance at something, and I’ve spent enough time staring at his photos that I want to be sure I’m rejecting a jerk and not some guy who’s screwed up from a bad breakup.
“I scrunched up my face because of what happened last year to the girlfriend of Johnny McDade, the star quarterback. I don’t want to get into school or sport politics, but the whole situation with the football team was unacceptable.
Star athletes shouldn’t get special treatment when they’re shitty people. ”
His gaze sharpens. “I don’t disagree.”
“Does this mean we agree on something?” I cock my head.
“Basic human rights and integrity. I’d be very worried if we didn’t.”
My mind is ticking through the new pieces of information that have landed now that I realize who he is and why he’s going to the wedding. “If he’s one of your best friends from high school, you didn’t need a plus-one, did you?”
“Val and I have broken up before.” He clears his throat. “A few times, actually.”
This is news to me. All her posts are loved-up adoration for Brent, who wore the swimming world’s crown at the last Olympics. He’s on track to do it again in another two years.
“Is she coming to the wedding?” If so, I have walked into something hella awkward.
“Possibly?” He runs a finger down his frosted glass. “It would be like her to turn up. Other times when we’ve broken up, she’s been persistent, and I’ve been…”
“Indifferent?” The word rises to my tongue and shoots out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to catch up. While her socials are dedicated to him, he’s never posted about her. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I never noticed before, but it makes so much sense now.
He winces. “When you say it out loud it sounds—”
“Terrible?” I pick up my water. “A toast.”
His gaze narrows, but he raises his glass.
“To guys who lead with their dicks.” I take a big sip of my water and try not to sputter at the outrage on his face. “Oh, come on. If you’re not in love with her and you’ve got this massive break-up/make-up cycle going, the only thing working in your relationship is the sex. That’s it.”
A muscle in his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t contradict me.
“If she does show up, how do you want to play this? I’m assuming you went with a plus-one to act as a buffer between your dick and her vagina?”
He runs a hand down his face and groans. “Are you always this blunt?”
“Yes.” I smile. Not really, but his discomfort is amusing so I’m laying it on thicker than normal. Reading a room is my specialty. It’s how I collect friends. But it also means I’m capable of turning my skills in the opposite direction too. Annoy. Annoy. Annoy.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I need a buffer. Are you willing?”
Placing my body between his and his ex’s? It’s a hell yes. There’s just one thing that makes me a little reluctant. “Is she in love with you? It certainly seemed like it.”
“If she is, she’s never said it.” He shrugs.
I bite my lip. “If she turns up, and if I get the vibe she’s in love with you, I won’t be deliberately mean or cruel. That’s my line.”
“Fair enough.” He finishes the rest of his beer. “I just don’t want to be sucked back into Val’s orbit.”
I almost spit out my sip of water, and I sputter on a laugh. “I take it there’s been a lot of sucking in the past?”
“You went there.”
“Oh, I always go there.”
“You’re going to take some getting used to.” He gives me a wry smile.
“Good news, my newest buddy.” I grin. “You’ve got all weekend.”