The bathroom door opens. Not the one I came in. Because it’s locked. The second door. Connected to the bedroom.
It’s not Rylie. Not Levi.
It’s no one I want to see right now. Or ever.
Because the man standing in that doorway… is Spencer Armstrong.
2
Kennedy
How do I loathe Spencer Armstrong? I don’t need a list to count the ways—though, let me be clear, there are enough reasons to warrant one, the least of which is that I enjoy making lists.
Where do I even begin? Maybe with the start of the school year, when he and Levi had entered the coffee shop where Rylie and I work, and he nearly flashed me? All because I’d had the audacity to enforce my place of employment’s dress code policy.
Or how he’d punched Ashton twice?
Or that he’d placed doubts in Rylie’s head about Levi’s feelings for her?
That all occurred last semester. Which doesn’t even take into account freshman year—
Nope. Cool it, Kennedy. Keep that temper in check.
Unlike Spencer, whose anger issues are known far and wide on this campus. I witnessed it myself when he beat up some rando at his favorite watering hole, a low-key German-themed bar named Kellermann’s.
Admittedly, that rando had been skeevy. He hadn’t taken kindly to my saying ‘no’ when he hit on me. So Spencer hit him instead.
Also, one of the times he’d punched Ashton had been after our breakup, so I really can’t count that against him. Additionally, both times, he’d been defending Levi from Ashton’s relentless journalist persona, which I know to be pushy.
And… he’d apologized to Rylie. Contritely. Humbly. With fewer than ten cuss words.
Though that doesn’t excuse everything he’s done. Because every time I give Spencer Armstrong the benefit of the doubt, he takes it and punches it into someone else’s face.
He may be the football team’s prized running back. He may even live with Levi, Morris, and Grayson in their house on Main Street, or be friends with Natalie—meaning there’s virtually no escape from him, no matter where I turn. But let’s set the record straight, here and now.
He’s no leading man.
He’s a brute. A bully. Someone who uses their fists before their words. In short, a villain. No one the heroine would be tempted to seriously consider for her happily ever after. Maybe for a night, but not forever.
My gaze slides over him. Though he holds a shirt in his hand, he’s yet to put it on. Which gives me an eyeful of wide, bulky shoulders, bulging arms, and a solid trunk of muscle. Lines cut into his midsection, and a remote part of me thinks how appropriate it is we’re meeting in a house called The Six-Pack. I follow that path, realizing too late it’s led me to the v-shaped arrow of his hips…the one that points directly to his slouching, unzipped jeans. I snag a glimpse of dark curls in a place I definitely should not be peeking.
No doubt about it, he’s got the looks to put a Hemsworth brother to shame.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t have an attitude to match.
“Done looking?”
My eyes shoot up. A dark, severe stare awaits me. His lip rises in a snide smirk. “If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll wait here ‘til you find your camera, princess.”
And that, that right there is why Spencer Armstrong is the bane of my existence.
Because he’s attractive and plays football, that somehow makes him a female fantasy come to life? Nuh-uh. Like I’d swoon for a guy who, after three years of taking photos of him from the football field sidelines, still can’t be bothered to remember my name? My ideal is someone warm and sweet and caring, who will sweep me off my feet—
Which Spencer had done once. Only because I’d been in his way. Large, warm hands wrapping around my waist…
I wrinkle my nose at the memory.
Still doesn’t change that he’s the antithesis of rom-com heroes everywhere. Case in point: the bedroom bacchanalia I’d just eavesdropped on. There’s no sign of the girl in the room behind him, so I assume she left, forever reduced to a faceless notch on Spencer’s belt.
It’s a long belt.
Because Spencer doesn’t do love. Spencer does one night stands. Spencer does a new girl every night, according to his friends, the football team, and the entire Lakewood student body. Now here I am, seeing a first-hand account of it myself. He spits in the face of love. Mocks it. Cheapens it.
If there’s one thing I find more intolerable than him, it’s repudiating love.
I breathe through my nose, count to three, and erase all emotion from my face, as easily as I’d cleaned off my makeup. I sweep over him again with an unaffected stare, then turn back to the mirror to finish swiping on my lipstick. “If any of that impressed me, I’d ask nicely to be lobotomized.”
“Your loss.”
“My win, on the contrary.” Out of the corner of my eye, Spencer ditches something in the trash can. A condom. Well, point in his favor for practicing safe sex. Less so for conducting it in such an unromantic location as a house party bedroom.
Except then I remember it had been his guttural sounds unleashing in that bedroom. I put my lipstick away and undo my ponytail. It’s a bit wonky since my makeout with Pete. Also, I need something to focus on before my traitorous skin unveils another blush.
“I forgot,” Spencer says, finally tugging on a long-sleeved hoodie. It’s fitted and clings to his abdominals. Not that I notice, I’m so busy wrangling this ponytail. “Your type comes in khakis.”
My temple twitches as he rolls up his sleeves, displaying iron forearms as he turns on the second sink faucet. Don’t react, Kennedy. You will not be provoked.
I count to five this
