When Malia's boyfriend perceives her first conversation with Reese, their college's star soccer player, as flirting, her night ends in lies, denial, a nasty breakup, and a tight strain between her and the hot soccer star.
A hopeful romanticizer at h...
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"Oh, look who's here." Elle points across the club, her eyes widening. "Ramona brought Reese."
I shift in Brandon's arm, my eyes falling atop the physical version of the voices from minutes ago. Ramona and Reese (in the flesh) break from the sea of people, approaching our table. Like linking two cords, I connect their voices to their appearances. Ramona's familiar long black hair falls around her waistline, shining under the lights. Her full lips stretch into a tiny grin, her purple dress glowing.
Beside her, and many inches above her, is Reese.
And, yeah, I understand the buzz.
He walks with soft brown hair tickling the tops of his ears, and I can tell his athletically toned, tan body is impressive even through his jacket. He has the perfect mixture of soft yet defined facial features—a strong jaw, gentle eyes, and full, pink lips curved into a faint smile that stretches the skin on his cheekbones.
Even under the faint purple light, there's no denying he's attractive. Objectively hot, even.
And insanely intimidating.
They step closer, and the booth erupts in enthusiastic greetings. Most people are surprised Reese joined, shooting exuberant congratulations about the team's most recent game.
Brandon isn't among them. He peers at Reese, and the round curves of his jaw tighten. There's casualness on his face, a faint smile even, but his features turn stiff. He tightens his hold on my shoulder, dragging me impossibly closer until I'm flush against him.
My front hair strands fall across my face, and I brush them away. "All good?" I whisper, my words barely audible over the greetings.
"Yes." He flashes a genuine yet stiff smile, nods, and returns to talking with Stella.
I absent-mindedly tap my fingers against my bottle. He says everything is good, so I tell myself it's true. He's smiling, talking again, so it must be. I take a sip of my drink, set the bottle down, and shake it off.
Reese and Ramona stand at the end of the booth. I study Reese as he converses with people, noting how good a job he does hiding the fact he was trying to skedaddle out of here moments ago. Had I not heard that snippet of their conversation, I would think he was happy to be here. But I did and can recognize the restlessness behind his eyes and the waver in his smile. It's small, barely-there, but noticeable if you know to look.
He steps toward our end of the booth, Ramona trailing behind him, and they slide inside. The leather dips under their weight, and I grow in bodily awareness, suddenly conscious of every location of my limbs: the side of my bare thigh pressed against Brandon's. The bottoms of my legs planted on the booth, sticking to the leather in the humid air. One of my hands on my lap, the other grazing Brandon's jeans. The back of my head near his shoulder, which I lift as the booth grows crowded.
Reese settles beside me, a deep midnight scent pouring from him as he spreads each of his outstretched, jean-clad thighs. Even though we aren't close enough to touch, there's only a tiny slip of space. His powerful presence scorches the surrounding air, burning beside his literal body heat.
