Page 43 of Secret Obsession
“Ronan Pierce,” he introduces.
“Willow.” I shake his hand, smiling a bit.
“You’re a senior at CPU, right?”
“I am.”
He inches into my space, leaning his elbow on the bar. He’s already got a bottle of beer in his hand, which he takes a long draw from, but his eyes never leave mine. He’s got a kind of roguish charm that reminds me of Greyson or Steele. Dark and twisty and alluring. More Venus fly trap than man.
“Me, too. I think you just transferred into my drawing class.”
My eyebrows hike. “A creative football player?”
“Ah, so youdoknow who I am.”
I flush. “No, no, I just recognized you from…”
From when we went to the football games and danced at halftime. Those words die in my throat. The bartender returns with our drinks, and I take a gulp of mine.
“What’s your drink of choice tonight?” he asks.
There’s cheering around the bar, and my gaze darts up to the television. On screen, the CPU Hawks are celebrating. Knox is holding his stick up in the air, and the on-ice players swarm him in celebration.
“Vodka.” I turn back to Ronan. “I was going to go with tequila, but that was before I decided to come here instead of Prime.”
“Tequila makes you dance?”
“And strip, on occasion.” I lean into him. “Just don’t tell anyone that.”
He laughs. “Our dirty little secret. No problem.” The stool beside me becomes vacant, and he motions to it. “May I?”
“If you tell me what sort of liquor makesyoudance.”
He grins and takes the seat, setting his beer on the bar. “Well, I think I’d have to agree with you that tequila is the Devil’s mistress.”
“No, no,” I giggle. “It’s just the Devil’s juice. Whoever drinks it becomes the mistress. Or master.”
Another cheer goes up, and my stomach flips. This time, it’s Miles filling the screen. He straightens and hands the puck off to a ref, and a replay rolls. We watch the opposing team tear down the ice toward Miles, the Hawks seeming to be caught completely off-guard. Until they shoot, and Miles catches the puck almost lazily.
“Are you not a fan?”
I eye Ronan, wondering if he’s joking.
“More vodka, and maybe I’ll tell you,” I quip.
He nods and gestures to the bartender. “Another one for the lady, please.”
“Thank you, good sir.” I take my almost empty drink and clink it against his.
Time blurs. I get a text from Violet, and I have to bring the phone up to my face to read the text. It’s blurry, too. The words keep moving. But I get the gist. We won—that’s what that cheering was about—and now the team is on its way to Haven.
I swallow.
I said I’d meet them here, but I’m really in no position to want to see Knox.
Or Miles.
Maybe Miles ranks first on my Avoid list, given the fact that my ass is bruised and tender. Discovering that in the shower this morning was not on my bingo card for this week.
