Eighties implants I call them.
“Are you staring at my boobs?”
Staring? “No.”
Checking them out? Yes. 100%.
“But you did look.”
Shit, she really must be getting drunk, her filter slowly slipping.
“Looking is not staring.” I feel the need to clarify this point. Feel like I’m in middle school again, wanking it in my bedroom and almost getting caught by my mother because she always refused to knock.
You do not walk into a boy’s bedroom when they’re a teenager—you’re only in for a rude awakening if you do. Mom did not get the memo and I lived in fear every time I jerked it, sometimes in the closet.
When all my buddies were getting laid by girls from our grade, I was masturbating in the walk-in closet at home. Or in the shower. Or in the dark, in bed.
But I digress…
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I must be getting buzzed from this mojito—I don’t usually drink.”
“Neither do I.” Which is true. I don’t. One, I’ve never liked the taste of it, and two, as an athlete, it’s just bad for my body. I spend countless hours eating healthy and exercising. I don’t want to counteract all that by drinking my calories. “This is the only one I’ve had tonight.” And then I’ll switch to water.
We have a scrimmage this week and I’ll be feeling this one drink in my system for days. No doubt tomorrow morning I’ll have a headache.
“So…” Her voice trails off, eyes wandering around the room before settling back on me. My chest. Hair.
Nose.
Fuck, my nose.
I resist the urge to cover it with my hand, sniffing instead. Nostrils flare.
She pulls her eyes away, thank God. “You’re all friends?”
I nod. “Friends and…” Let’s see, how do I put this? “Co-workers.”
“Dang, what kind of job do you have where everyone is over six feet tall and made of steel? Are you all gym rats?”
“Something like that.”
She emits a humph. “Figures.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?” I lean in so she has to repeat her snarky comment, stereotyping us as meatheads. Not having a single clue we’re professionals, earning money that would make her pretty head spin. “You’re mumbling.”
“I’m not mumbling. I said what I said.” She’s defiant, getting a bit tipsier, and sounds like a meme on the internet. “Wow, I’m being a brat. Please ignore me—I’m not usually like this.”
Not usually like this?
What a liar. Miranda is a complete sass pants. I can see it in her eyes, along with something else: mischief and sparkle. Interest.
Interest, Noah? In you? Please get your head out of your ass. This girl is not interested in you.
But she’s not interested in Wallace or Leo, or anyone else, either. So what is her type if it’s not tall, rich, and handsome?
“You have a terrible habit of gazing off into space. Do you know that?”
“I do?”
“Yes. One second we’re talking and the next you’re off in another world, overthinking things.”
I twist my mouth. “How do you know I’m overthinking things, let alone thinking about anything? We’re in a bar—it’s loud, and crowded. I can’t hear you, can’t hear my own thoughts.”
“Whatever. I can tell by the way your forehead gets all wrinkled, even though it’s covered by all this hair.”
She reaches up then to brush it out of the way, and I grab her wrist to stop her.
Please don’t touch me.
It’s been so long my entire body vibrates from the heat of her skin beneath my hand, and I quickly drop it. “Shit. Sorry.”
“Whoa, what was that?” Her face changes then, expression softening. Worried, then concerned. “I wasn’t going to hit you.”
“I know what you were going to do. That’s not why I…” I feel like such an idiot, heat rising to my face. “Knee-jerk reaction, that’s all.”
I can’t say, I have PTSD from all the balls flying toward my face on a regular basis. ’Cause that wouldn’t sound weird at all.
“Well, I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t get in your personal space. It’s something I’m working on.” She smiles up at me, white teeth shining in the dim light. “I’m overly affectionate.”
I clearly am not.
Miranda rambles on. “I’m a hugger. I think it’s going to be an issue when I run my own business—I don’t need anyone reporting me to HR because I grabbed them for a bear hug.” She giggles into her glass. “I think it’s because my parents weren’t really huggers. I don’t remember them even touching each other very often. Weird, right?”
Jesus, are we suddenly having a therapy session?
I shift on my heels, uneasy. “Right.”
“You could probably use a hug.”
Uh. What?
“I’m good, but thanks.” Vigorously, I shake my head.
“Aww, the big teddy bear needs a hug.” She says it in that way only girls can, almost as if she’s cooing to a baby.
Yeah, she’s drunk. “Trust me, I don’t.”
“Come here.” Her arms open and I stare down at her tiny, hot little body. The boobs beneath her blouse. The tight, high-waisted jeans. The tips of her toes peeking out from whatever heels she’s got on.
No. I do not want her to hug me.
I do not want that body pressed against mine.
I do not—
She grabs me before I can stop her. Tits and pelvis and everything else pressed against me, this virtual stranger, the top of her head tucked under my chin.
Her arms are around me and I feel her hands brushing my spine, then along my latissimus dorsi, as if she’s feeling me up, but not brave enough to go all in. ’Cause that would be strange, right?
I’m ramrod straight, fighting so fucking hard not to sniff her hair but failing; it smells like hairspray and shampoo—the fruity kind, not
