Chapter Thirteen Scarlett / Evan
SCARLETT
Since Wren started dating one of the most annoying men on the planet, I’ve been both invited to and forced against my will to parties at Miles’s house.
I can’t really complain because Miles is good to her.
So good to her. After they started fake-dating as a plan to keep Wren’s figure-skating team afloat and get Miles back on the ice after losing his best friend, they found a lot more comfort in each other than they were expecting.
It was beautiful and frustrating watching the entire thing unfold, but now they’re happier than ever, and I love seeing my best friend’s face light up whenever she’s around him.
Even now she’s making googly eyes at him from across the room. I grimace over the lid of my beer can and try not to let Wren or Kennedy see me, or else they’ll lecture me about how beautiful love and romance is. Trust me, I get it. I can see the appeal. I’m just not fully sold on it yet.
Miles takes these game nights very seriously.
He and Kennedy plan the entire thing in advance, setting up different games and teams with a carousel-style program, so we all get to play against each other.
Most of Miles’s hockey team are here and some of their friends, so his house is packed with people, music, food, and games.
Tonight is supposed to be a distraction from everything else going on, but I can’t stop thinking about the presentation Evan and I are going to give after Thanksgiving break and the fact that he’s offering to help with my list. Accepting the help from him was weird enough the first time, but actually having to spend time with him outside of anything related to class is going to be even weirder.
Kennedy twirls to stand in front of me and Wren, a determined look in her eyes as she places a hand on each of our shoulders. “We need to win tonight,” she says, and I swear the woman’s eye twitches.
“We always win,” I say, laughing.
“I know, but tonight, we really need to.”
Wren and I share a look. “Why? What’s going on?” Wren asks.
Kennedy glances behind her, as if she’s looking for someone. “Harry’s here and I can’t let him beat me again.”
I suppress a grin.
Harry Butler is a goalie for the NU Bears. He came here on a full-ride scholarship from Sydney, and according to Miles he’s the best goalie their team have had in years. He’s a grade below all of us and he’s been following Miles around since the day he got here.
At the party where Wren met Miles for the first time, Harry may have crushed us all in a game of Just Dance.
I have never claimed to be a good dancer, and Kennedy and I somehow got the blame for losing the game that landed Wren and Miles their first date.
Kennedy still hasn’t let Harry live it down, and since then they’ve been as thick as thieves, always sneaking off together on late-night drives and having movie nights in our apartment.
“You know, you’re the only one who is keeping up this feud between you two,” I tell Kennedy.
“That’s a bit rich coming from you.” I glare at her. She glares back for all of five seconds before her dimples pop out and she forgets all about it. “And it’s different with Harry. He’s my best friend. It’s our banter.”
“Ouch,” Wren mumbles and I pretend to hold a hand to my wounded heart.
“Second best friend,” Kennedy connects. “You two are tied, obviously.”
I give her a proud smile, before it quickly turns into a frown when I look at The Whiteboard that we let Miles borrow to write up the games and the scores. Kennedy must catch my expression because she jumps in front of me, standing on her tiptoes to look at our team name on the board.
She whips her head back to us. “Arm wrestling? Seriously? Who thought that would be a good idea?”
I snort. “You did.”
“Right . . . Well, Wren’s the athlete. She should go first.”
Wren’s eyes widen in alarm. “Absolutely not. I’ll go last.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
A loud buzzer sounds somewhere in the house before Miles’s voice rings out from the speakers of the karaoke machine Wren gifted him for his birthday. He announces what each team should be doing, before hopping off the coffee table.
The arm-wrestling station is set up inside the den, a small coffee table marked with red and blue tape for where we should rest our elbows.
It all looks so professional that I give Kennedy a thumbs-up before rolling up my sleeves.
And because it’s flu season, and Evan is clearly very particular about germs, they’ve set up a hand-washing station in the downstairs restroom for anyone participating in the arm-wrestling.
After scrubbing my hands clean, I take my seat, waiting for my opponent.
I swear I can smell him before I see him.
He smells like spiced bergamot, all fresh and woody.
Evan looks pleased when he sees me, his long shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie loose around his neck like always.
The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing a sliver of skin that somehow makes me want to tilt my head to test how much I can see from here.
“Evan,” I greet, swallowing the sudden dryness in my throat.
“Scarlett.” His smile slowly descends across his face and a little piece of me dies inside.
I wish I didn’t know how good he looks when he really smiles.
With those dimples, and that— No. Nope. We’re not doing that.
He might’ve been so gracious in offering to help me with my list, but he’s Public Enemy No.
1 today. “Are you sure you’re up for this?
Given the whole out-of-breath-I-don’t-exercise-enough thing. ”
I scowl, annoyed that he even remembers that. “This is different.”
“Uh huh, sure,” he deadpans, before placing his elbow on the table and flexing his hand. “Let’s go then.”
I place my arm in position too, and for a second I’m slightly intimidated. His hand is huge. Like, could-probably-cover-my-entire-face kind of huge. My hands match the rest of my body, a regular size for my five-seven frame. I would’ve even considered my hands pretty big until right now.
Still, I don’t let my nerves show. My knee slides past his, as I get my elbow comfortable on the table, finally clasping his hand with mine. One of the guys from the hockey team is beside us with a timer and a whistle, and I lock eyes with Evan just as the whistle blows.
He brings on all his strength at once, his fingers practically crushing the bone in my hand. I’m momentarily frozen before I regain my strength, pushing back hard with all my strength until our hands are shaking together.
I glance up at him and his expression makes me falter. He’s so focused. So concentrated on winning. His eyes narrow with it, all serious and dedicated. He looks . . . good. Hot, even.
I slip for just a second before I’m pushing back again.
“Are you going to back down?” Evan grits out.
He squeezes my hand harder, and I bite back the pain. “No.”
“You really should. It would be a shame to hurt you, angel.”
A weird spark of desire ignites in my stomach. “Don’t go easy on me,” I say. “I like my pleasure mixed with pain.”
“Pleasure? What about this is pleasurable to you?”
“Everything. I really wouldn’t want to hurt your piano fingers.
” I can tell my words get to him because his grip loosens, just for a second, and it gives me just enough time and strength to push his hand all the way back down and slam it against the table.
The girls cheer behind me and I’m up out of my seat, as Evan blinks up at me in shock. “I win; you lose!”
I have the urge to stick my tongue out like an immature child, but I rein it in. Barely.
Evan stands from the table, rolling his sleeves back down and he holds out his hand for me to shake it. “Well played.”
I shake his hand firmly, gripping it extra tight. “I’d say the same, but you lost, so . . .”
I grin proudly, spinning back around to my friends. They run toward me like I just won gold at the Olympics, squeezing me in a tight, perfect hug.
“You fucking crushed that, babe,” Kennedy squeals, pulling apart from me to shake my shoulders. “Literally!”
“Thanks,” I say breathlessly.
We have a couple minutes before our next game, so I make my way over to the pool table at the other end of the room.
The balls are all set with the triangle thingy around them in the middle of the table and I lift it off carefully, putting it to the side.
I’m buzzing with the energy of just winning the game against Evan, the feeling surging through my veins and exploding in my throat.
I’m too busy studying the pool table that I almost don’t see Evan lurking behind me. “Are you following me now, Branson?”
“Just checking out the competition.” He picks up one of the pool cues, standing it upright on the ground. He nods to the table. “Do you know how to play?”
I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Of course I do. You just . . . hit the balls and cheer. It’s not hard.”
“Wow. You almost sound like an expert.” I roll my eyes, snatching the cue off him and lining it up on the table, leaning down and getting ready to hit whichever ball I feel like.
I take my shot and Evan lets out a frustrated breath when the blue ball bounces against the side.
“You’re holding it wrong. Let me show you. ”
I cast a look at him over my shoulder, kind of revelling in how irritated he looks.
His hands are shoved into his pockets, his head tilting slightly to the side, like he has no idea what to do.
I’ve seen him give me that look so many times over the last few months working on the project, and it’s never made me feel so .
. . torn up inside. It makes my chest tighten in a way it hasn’t done before, heat and annoyance swirling together in a foreign and perfect symphony.
I smile smugly, brushing whatever that was aside. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m—”