OLIVIA
SUNDAYS AND HANGOVERS are made for two things: junk food and naps.
All I want is a greasy cheeseburger the size of my head and a super- sized fry. Instead, I’m sitting in a Starbucks, slurping down an iced latte in the middle of December like I might perish without it, while eating one of those ridiculous healthy macros boxes, all because McDonald’s isn’t serving lunch for another fifteen minutes.
My best friend, Cara, arches one perfectly shaped brow in the direction of my drink. “It’s cold as fuckballs, Liv.”
I hum around my straw and tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweater. “Winter is coming.”
“Winter is here,” she replies, the Game of Thrones reference going where I thought it would—clear over her head. “And you’re drinking a fucking iced coffee.”
“Iced latte,” I correct, picking at my cheese and fruit protein box. I poke the hard-boiled egg. Seriously, what is this? I’m not into it. This is what I eat Monday to Friday, not Sunday morning after drinking half my body weight in beer the night before. Sighing, I snap the lid in place. I give up. I’m making Cara take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru on our way back to her place.
“I don’t care what’s in your drink, Ollie, just that it’s fucking frozen.”
I’m a tea drinker, decaffeinated. Cara says I’m a psychopath, but caffeine makes my stomach hurt and gives me the jitters. It’s borderline terrifying when I drink coffee. This morning though, I need it. I’m sure I’m not functioning all that properly. But I also hate hot coffee so my options
were limited when we ordered ten minutes ago. The barista looked at me like I had five heads and asked me to repeat my order.
“My head hurts.” I pout, giving her the puppy dog eyes.
Cara’s pout rivals mine. She pushes that bottom lip out as far as it’ll go and tilts her blonde head. “Aw, muffin. You partied too hard.”
“My feet are killing me.” I’m in major need of a foot soak, or a rub. In fact, I hook one leg around Cara’s ankle and scrub myself up and down her long calf.
She shakes me off. “I’m not rubbing your feet. Maybe Em will when we get back.”
I make a face. “I’m not asking your boyfriend to rub my feet.”
“Why?” She pops a grape in her mouth. “He’s got nice hands. Big.
Strong.” She pumps her brows. “Magic.”
“Things I don’t need to know.” I flick my straw wrapper at her.
Cara shifts backward, slinging one leg over the other. Her eyes slant as she studies me. “Can we talk about the elephant in the room?”
I sip my drink. My God, it’s spectacular. I may not sleep for days. “What elephant?”
“Elephant might be the wrong word. How about six-foot-four wall of s*xed-up muscle, reminiscent of a Marvel superhero, or a Grecian god?”
My gaze glides over the café. “Not seeing that either.”
She pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue, the corners of her mouth lifting. “Carter Beckett is the damn elephant, Liv.”
“Ah. That elephant.” I check the polish on my nails. “We already talked about him.” In fact, I just managed to get his irritating, narcissistic face off my mind.
“I was three mojitos and five tequila shots deep. I don’t remember a single word of that conversation.”
There wasn’t a whole lot of talking. It was mostly Cara putting me in a headlock and towing me as far away as possible from Carter Beckett, captain of the Vancouver Vipers, multimillionaire, and playboy extraordinaire. To her credit, she did attempt to lay out a handful of reasons I should absolutely stay away from him, but it was difficult to understand her through the slurring and the hors d’oeuvres she kept shoving in her mouth every time a server walked by.
“You told me to keep my distance, and I told you I’d already put it between us.” There was a moment, a very brief one with my hand in his, his
piercing emerald eyes holding me, that I might have…considered it. Maybe. To be determined. I blame the alcohol for mistakes nearly made.
Carter Beckett is the definition of s*xy. He’s arrogance dressed in expensive clothing, smooth, corded muscles, and a charming smile, and quite possibly the face of chlamydia; I can’t be certain. I’m sure he takes precautions, but the man gets around like a globe-trotter.
Cara props her chin on her fist. “I should’ve guessed he’d like you.”
“Like me? He doesn’t like me. He wants to sleep with me. And I can’t fault you for not guessing he’d want to. I’m literally the opposite of every woman he’s ever been pictured with.”
“You are not!” “Am too.”
Cara plays with her phone before showing me a photo of Carter and a leggy brunette, his arm around her waist while she sucks on his neck. Bonus points for somehow managing to walk down the street and avoid tumbling into traffic.
“See? You both have brown hair!”
I roll my eyes. “And she’s got an entire foot on me, Care. And, oh, look!” I tap on the girl’s attached Instagram page and level Cara with an unimpressed look. “She’s a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.”
I’m not about to pull the I’m different card, but the truth is exactly that: I’m not anything like the women this man is usually pictured with.
If what I see in the media is any indication, Carter prefers women who look like Cara: legs that go straight to heaven, long, lean torsos, silky straight hair. In fact, I’m convinced the only reason those two aren’t dating is because they’re too much alike—mouthy, ostentatious, and proud. Sounds like a good way to detonate a room.
“Okay, whatever.” She swipes a hand through the air, dismissing me. “So you’re petite.” She snickers at my unimpressed expression. “Okay, pint-sized. And okay, you’re not a model. But you’re a phys-ed teacher, so that’s kinda the same—”
“It is not remotely close to the same thing.”
“But you’re as gorgeous as they are.” The way she says it is fairly convincing, but then she’s always been my biggest cheerleader.
I reach across the table, booping her nose. “Thanks, but you’re bound by best friend rules. You have to say that.” A tired sigh leaves my lips as I
look out of the coffee shop and at all the people, shopping bags hanging off their arms.
Cara loops her arm through mine as we stroll back through the mall. I don’t know why I let her convince me to come shopping this morning. I should stop sleeping at her house after I’ve been drinking. She pounced on me before I could even remember my name, let alone where my backbone is located, and that’s how I wound up right here—shopping at the mall on a Sunday morning, and worst of all, without my hangover McDonald’s.
See: bad decisions fueled by alcohol.
“I’m hungry,” I grumble, pinning my arms across my chest as Cara’s thumbs fly across her phone screen. “For real food.”
“Perfect timing, babe.” She tucks her phone into her purse and stands. “Emmett’s up and he’s ordering pizza for lunch.”
Something inside me lights up like a slot machine. It might be my stomach. “With bacon?”
“Extra bacon.”
Cara announces our arrival home the same way she announces her arrival anywhere: with flair.
She sweeps her arms out wide the moment we step inside, flinging all six of her shopping bags to the floor as she twirls. “We’re home, babe! Liv needs her feet rubbed!”
“I really don’t,” I call back, trying to kick my boots off. I love Emmett but it would be a little weird to have my best friend’s boyfriend give me a foot massage. As it is, I can’t manage to get my fucking sock on properly. It’s dangling off my toes, and I’m hopping down the hallway on one foot toward the smell of pepperoni and bacon, trying to fix it.
I hate socks. I hate boots. I hate winter.
My face lifts, nose in the air as I inhale and rub my belly with my free hand. “Smells so good, Em. Come to mama.”
I manage to hook a finger in my sock, pulling it over my heel with an a- ha, but my landing is all wrong, soft wool on slippery, shiny marble turning out to be a terrible, awful idea as I go tumbling backward with a few choice curse words, arms flailing in search of anything within reach.
Which happens to be a strong pair of arms. Extra muscly. Corded. Oooh, these forearms are fine as hell. They wrap around my waist, catching me before my ass can hit the ground, and warmth spreads outward from my belly as they right me on my feet. I stare down at the exceptionally large hand covering my torso, keeping me sturdy, and a shiver of anticipation dances down my spine at the words whispered against my ear.
“Hi, mama.”
My hand slides slowly down his forearm, noting the stark contrast where my fingers curl around. Where I’m milky and soft, he’s exceptionally golden and firm.
Hot breath rolls down my neck, and I close my eyes as an enticing aroma swirls around me, hints of citrus mixed with the outdoors, like lime and musky cedarwood.
I know exactly whose arms wind around me, whose hands hold me close, whose lips linger by my jaw. I know all that, but it doesn’t stop me from what I do next.
With my body still locked in his arms, my head swivels in slow motion. Super slow. Exorcist style, even. I’m not sure my jaw has ever dangled so low. I could probably fit my whole fist in my mouth if I were inclined to try. My brother dared me to when I was nine, and I did it just to prove him wrong.
When I spy those deep green eyes, that messy mop of chestnut waves, that infuriating, s*xy, lopsided grin, I do the only logical thing: I shriek.
I shove Carter Beckett off me and rocket so fast across the kitchen that my legs split. Emmett darts forward, hoisting me up via an arm around my waist while he howls with laughter, and my groin hurts so badly I just want to sink to the floor and cry in peace—with my pizza, obviously.
“I wish I’d recorded that,” Cara wheezes, swiping at the tears freefalling down her cheeks. “Carter, I bet that’s the first time you’ve sent a girl running for the hills like that. Holy fuck.” She gestures between me and Carter with a slice of pizza. “That was the fucking best.”
My skin crawls as I take a plate and go about my business, trying—and miserably failing—to pretend Carter Beckett isn’t hanging over my shoulder, watching me choose my slice.
The heat of his body sinks against mine as he hovers above me, his palm on the counter next to me, bracketing me in. “You gonna hurry up and pick, shorty? Big man’s hungry.”
“I’m determining which slice is the most bacon-y. Don’t rush me, big man.”
Amusement gleams in his eyes. His face dips, breath touching the exposed skin where my shoulder meets my neck as he murmurs, “I wouldn’t dream of rushing you. All I wanna do is take my time with you, Olivia.”
“Oh for God’s sake.” I twist toward Cara and Emmett, propping a fist on my hip. “Which one of you neglected to tell me he was coming for lunch?”
Cara throws her hands up. “I had no idea.”
Emmett guffaws. “Like fuck you didn’t. I texted y—” His words die behind the palm Cara slaps over his mouth.
The woman is a sucker for drama, and I can assume that’s the only reason she’s willingly put me and Carter in a room together again. That or she just really wants to see me knock him down a peg or two. Give the people what they want, I guess.
Carter’s watching me, waiting for me to react, so I take the biggest bite I can muster while staring him dead in the eye before I strut by him and sink down to the couch. As luck would have it, he flops down beside me a whole fifteen seconds later, flashing me a grin.
His deep dimples are absolutely adorable. I fucking hate them. He nudges my shoulder with his own. “I got more bacon.”
“You did not.” I lean into him, examining his place. I mean, just in case, right? “Damnit,” I mutter when I see it.
He chuckles quietly, placing his slice on my plate, replacing it with one of my less bacon-y ones. It’s a sweet gesture, which is why I’m suspicious. He bought me a beer last night, and it sounded a whole lot like he was hoping that would equate to my mouth on one of his body parts later.
“It’s just a piece of pizza, Olivia. If you want, I’ll eat it.” I tug my slice into my chest. “Back off, Beckett.”
Cara tosses a container of dipping sauce on my plate as she strolls by. I dump the entire contents on top of my two slices. Carter watches every second of it, the side of my face heating under his stare.
“Can I help you?” I finally ask.
A small smile tips one side of his mouth. “Nah. I’m good.”
He finishes four slices of pizza, walks back to the kitchen, grabs two more, and finishes both before I finish my two.
“You’re a slow eater,” he remarks, leaning forward and dropping his plate on the coffee table. I try not to notice the way the muscles in his broad back ripple under his shirt, but damnit, I notice.
I’m about to tell him I’m not a slow eater, he’s just a garbage disposal, but the words get lost in my throat when he lifts my feet into his lap and pulls my socks off. His thumbs dig into my arch, and I’m eternally grateful Cara and I spent yesterday morning at the spa.
Carter taps the crimson polish on my toes. “Pretty.”
“What are you doing?” I finally ask, then moan when he digs away at a particularly sore spot.
Carter’s gaze hoods at the sound, and he works the spot harder. “Cara said you needed a foot rub. So I’m giving you a foot rub.”
Should my response be No thank you? Probably. But here’s the thing: he’s got big hands, broad fingertips, a powerful touch, and I drank too much last night, which means I subsequently danced too much. And he feels so damn good. “Jesus Christ,” I accidentally whimper, folding toward him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. If you’re a fan of rubs, we can go back to my pl—” “And you ruined it.” I rip my feet from his magical hands and curl them
under my butt. “Why’d you have to ruin something so good?”
His gaze dips down me, then back up. “I’ve been dying to ruin you, and trust me, it’d be so good.” At my stunned expression, Carter laughs, catching the Xbox controller Emmett throws at him. “You blush a lot, Olivia.”
Cara snorts from across the room. “I’m sure it’s difficult for you to wrap your head around, but she’s not interested, Carter.”
He shrugs. “Doubt it, but okay.”
He and Emmett settle into a game of NHL, because apparently when they aren’t actually playing hockey, they need to do so virtually. Regardless of the laser focus Carter seems to have, he never lets up with the chitchat.
“Do you like the snow, shorty?” “Not really.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to wear socks.” “Spring or summer?”
“Summer.” “Sweet or salty?”
“Sweet.”
“How’d you get home last night?” “I slept here.”
A hum vibrates in his throat, and I have an urge to feel it. “If I’d known you slept over last night, I would’ve come back here rather than going home. We could’ve talked some more.”
Is he for real? Does he not remember the girl he had glued to his side a half hour after I walked away from him? He can’t have forgotten the smirk he threw me with a wink and the tilt of his head. Coulda been you, that’s what that look said; I’m sure of it.
“Yeah, well, you had your hands full with a pretty little blonde.”
His attention leaves the game for the first time to focus on me. “Not as pretty as you.”
Is that supposed to be a compliment? The girl I hooked up with last night after you turned me down didn’t quite stack up to you, but I fucked her anyway? He’s such a manwhore and I’m not interested in being another puck bunny he fucks and chucks, so I roll my eyes in revulsion.
“She didn’t come home with me, Olivia.”
I snort in disbelief. And also, I don’t give a shit. “Doubt it, but whatever.”
“You sound jealous.” “Trust me, I’m not.”
“Couldn’t bring myself to do it, not when I was looking at you all night.” He scores a goal and mutters out a fuck yes under his breath while Emmett prattles off a string of curses before declaring he needs more pizza.
“Don’t care.”
Carter sets his controller in his lap and twists, his expression unreadable, vacant almost as he watches me. I don’t like it. It makes my shoulders curl, makes me want to hide. If I can’t read him, I don’t want him to read me.
“I think you do,” he finally replies on a gruff whisper.
His fingers skim the edge of my thigh, over the ripped slit at my knee, his touch gliding so gently across my skin I’m not certain he’s actually touching me. For a moment, I revel in the feel of his warm, callused hands. For a moment, I want more.
For a moment. And then I use my brain.
What the hell am I doing here? Why am I entertaining this egotistical jackass? I could be at home, braless and taking a nap.
“I gotta head out,” I call over my shoulder. “Thanks for lunch.”
“What? Already?” In the reflection of the patio door, Cara points an angry finger at Carter.
“Gotta go to Jeremy’s.” It’s a half lie. I have hours before I need to be anywhere.
I kiss Cara’s cheek and hug Emmett, avoiding Carter. It’s pointless, because he stands and follows me down the hallway, watching me tug on my knee-high boots.
“Who’s Jeremy? Is that your boyfriend?” I hesitate. Then lie. “Yes.”
“You goin’ to your brother’s?” Emmett shouts down the hall. “Tell Jer I’ll be online at ten tonight if he wants to play!”
Ah, crap. Emmett. Come on, pal.
The grin I offer up to Carter is nothing short of guilty and teeth-gritting.
He crosses his arms over his broad chest and arches a dark brow. “You dirty little liar.”
Yeah, well, them’s the breaks. I lift an innocent shoulder and let it fall as I slip my coat on. Carter grabs the lapels and hauls me into him. I’m momentarily terrified he’s going to try to kiss me, and more so that I won’t stop him, but instead he works the buttons of my wool peacoat.
Carter Beckett is doing up my coat.
“Can I have your number?”
I blink up at him. “Uh…” I mean to say no. I’m not sure why it’s not coming out.
He sees my hesitation as an opportunity, and the man starts prowling toward me, backing me up with each of his steps forward. My back hits the front door and my pulse jumps as Carter’s chest touches mine. Dear Lord, he feels amazing. Warm and firm, broad and strong. And tall. Shit, he’s so freaking tall. My vagina starts doing this little dance, like she thinks she’s about to get some. She’s not.
His palm skates up my side and my heart thuds a little bit faster when he untucks my hair from my coat and lays it over my shoulder.
“Tell you what, shorty. I’ll give you my number. I never give it out to girls. You’d be the first.” There’s an air about him, a smugness shining in
his eyes telling me he thinks this is it. This will be what reels me in. “Because you’re special, Olivia.”
There it is. Is that really the best he’s got? How the hell does this man get so many women to agree to sleep with him?
Laying my palm over his collarbone, I apply gentle pressure, just enough to ease him back a step, and I follow him with my own. At the smile I give him—extra syrupy and just for him—his own grin grows, all dimples and megawatt.
He’s feeling pretty confident right now. I can’t wait to tear him down.
“Yeah…” I skim the tip of my finger over the neck of his T-shirt. My palm curves over the nape of his neck as I guide his face down to mine. His hands land on my hips, gripping me tightly as my lips graze his ear, and I hate how good he smells. There’s an irrational part of me that wants to lick him like a freaking ice cream cone. “It’s gonna be a no from me.”
I watch that smug smile melt right off his handsome face before it disappears behind the door I slam.
Damn, that felt good.
