Chapter 5
Abby:
I’m already on the verge of a headache before I open the Zeta house front door. I would rather be at home, eating my weight in popcorn and M&Ms while I binge-watch the first three seasons of my favorite zombie TV series. I’ve already seen every episode—twice—but knowing all the lines doesn’t make it any less interesting. And I can certainly think of worse ways to spend my Thursday evening.
Like tagging along to a frat party with my ex-boyfriend and the girl who’s crushing on him. Everything about this screams mistake.
But here I am at the party, which is in full swing. It’s supposed to be a celebration party after the home game—because the star quarterback is a Zeta. Even though the team lost the big game, the party is still raging. Any excuse to party, I guess. Deep down, I wonder if Paul would believe me if I suddenly feigned sick and then left, but it’s too late to test that question out now, since I’m already here, already opening the door. Already catching a whiff of alcohol and vape and something much less legal.
Inside, the bash is a raging, thumping college stereotype, right down to the group of guys trying to tap a keg in the corner. I don’t know where any of the Zeta brothers are, but they definitely aren’t going to be happy when the realize Big Rob—who has exactly two claims to fame: being a freight train of a linebacker and the amount of alcohol he can drink—has thrown up in their Ficus. I’m surprised a house full of guys even have a Ficus, but who am I to judge. I scrunch my nose and slink past Big Rob’s hunched-over form as he retches technicolor spew into the plant and it splatters onto the wall behind. It’s a good thing I don’t have a weak stomach, or I might be joining him right now.
The living room beyond the foyer is blessedly vomit free even if it is a bit crowded. The three-seater couch is home to seven, no eight, of my fellow partygoers, who’ve thrown themselves across the cushions, and each other, in every manner of weird angle. I recognize some of them. Court Wethers and Jason Suther—who is most definitely not Court’s boyfriend are face-deep down each other’s throats in one of the wingback chairs by the fireplace, and the other chair holds Michael White while he holds a brown teddy bear bigger than he is.
The party’s only been going since eightish, supposedly, and even though we’re only a little over an hour late, it’s clearly already progressed to the making-poor-life-choices portion of the evening. A boon for me. That means I don’t have to stay long. Parties like this were never Paul’s scene. Knowing him, he was probably ready to leave the second we walked through the door.
But instead of looking miserable and ready to leave, Paul is looking around at the other partiers with interest, scanning them for something. Embry? A pang of jealousy slices through me, but I squash it quickly. I am not jealous over my ex-boyfriend, I tell myself. But I’m not sure how true it is. I avert my gaze as Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone to send a message to someone, mostly likely Embry.
Maybe he’s just checking the time. Right, and maybe I’m his number one favorite person in the entire world.
I take a step toward the guys with the keg. If I’m going to stay at this party, I’m sure as hell not doing it sober. By the time I get to them, they have the keg tapped and are passing out clear plastic cups full of foaming cheap beer.
The line is three deep in front of me, but the guy handing out the cups sees me and bypasses the guys in front of me to hand me the next one. “Here you go, baby,” He says with a wink.
I let him calling me baby roll off my back because he’s giving me a beer. I’m a pick-your-battles kind of girl, and seeing as how I got the alcohol, I feel like the real winner here. “Thanks!” I say with a fake smile and then turn tail before he has a chance to hit on me.
But I spin to fast and bump into a hard body, sloshing beer over my chest and a little on his. I gasp and crane my neck to look up into Paul’s eyes, caught off guard more by the way his nearness has turned my brain to putty than the feel of ice-cold beer dripping between my breasts. Why was he so close? How did I not realize he followed me to the keg?
Paul backs up quickly with a curse. “Shit, sorry!” He brushes his hands down the tennis ball sized wet spot marring the center of his T-shirt. The shape reminds me a little of a disfigured heart, and my mind catches on that thought. How apropos. Then the feel of the cold liquid spreading down my chest to my stomach jars me out of my stupor, and I look down at my own shirt.
The gray fabric is molded to my breasts, clearly defining the lines of my lace bra underneath. And my nipples, hard from the chill of the beer, point straight out, practically cutting through the thin, wet fabric. “Too bad there’s no wet T-shirt contest,” I joke before I can stop myself, then clamp a hand over my mouth on a surprised giggle. I mentally kick myself. I’m acting ridiculous already, and I haven’t even started drinking yet. To stop myself from saying anything else stupid, I bring my drink to my lips and down the remaining contents, which as it turns out, is only about half a cup.
When my cup is empty, Paul gently takes it from me and sets it on a nearby table. “Come on. I think the bathroom is this way.”
“Bathroom?” I ask stupidly. Why won’t my brain work tonight? What is it about being near Paul that shuts down my ability to think clearly?
Paul nods and leads me toward the stairs. “Unless you want to walk around soaking wet and smelling like beer all night.”
“I don’t mind being wet,” I answer, only realizing what I’ve said when he coughs and turns to look over his shoulder at me in surprise. And since I’m no shrinking violet, I decide to own my words. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
Paul stumbles over one of the steps, but rights himself quickly and keeps his back to me the rest of the way to the bathroom.
It’s occupied when we get there, but he bangs on the door with such ferocity, I’m surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure. A moment later, a guy comes stumbling out with his T-shirt wrapped around his head like a bandana, and his pants askew: one of his pockets pulled wrong side out and his fly open. I briefly consider telling him that his zipper is down, but he stumbles away down the hall before I can form the words.
Paul ushers me inside the bathroom and follows me in, shutting the door and locking it behind us. He pulls his light blue t-shirt over his head and lays it on the countertop, then grabs a handful of toilet paper to dab at the small wet spot.
My eyes are drawn to the lines of his bare chest like it’s magnetic. He’s always had a fit physic, but he’s filled out in the years since I last saw him shirtless. His muscles are larger, his abs more defined, and I get lost mentally mapping the planes there.
When he turns to face me, I don’t drop my gaze. In fact, I do the opposite; I add my hands into the mix, reaching out and placing my fingertips at the place where his abs disappear below his waistband.
Paul sucks in a breath, and his stomach muscles tense. Goose bumps erupt across his abdomen. But he doesn’t stop me from touching him. Growing bolder, I trace my nails over his taut stomach, the bold red a stark contrast to the creamy smooth skin there.
“Abby,” he whispers my name, and it jars me back to the reality of the moment. Paul and I aren’t together anymore. He’s not mine to touch; he’s the guy who shattered my heart three years ago. I pull my hands back quickly and clench them into fists at my sides.
Paul swallows hard and looks away. He grabs his shirt from the counter and holds it out to me. When I take it from him, he turns his back and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s waiting for me to change into his shirt, I realize. And giving me the privacy to do so.
I tuck his shirt between my legs so I can take mine off, but as I draw it over my head, the wet fabric sticks to my arms, effectively trapping me. I wiggle and tug, but the most progress I manage to make is getting my mouth and chin free. At least I can breathe. But the rest of my head and my arms are still stuck.
I sag in defeat and give myself over to the embarrassment of having to ask for help. “I’m stuck,” I say simply, and I swear I can hear him chuckle. “Don’t be a dick. Just help me.”
Nothing happens for several long minutes. Just when I think he’s going to leave me here forever, a gentle touch lands at my sides, just above the band of my bra and moves feather light up to the T-shirt holding me hostage. An eternity passes in the time it takes him to free my upper arms, then my face. By the time he draws the garment away from my hands, and my hair falls free, he’s standing impossibly close. We’re almost chest to chest, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body—never mind the heat in his gaze as he looks down at me with parted lips and half-mast bedroom eyes.
He licks his lips and drops his gaze to my lips. I’m almost positive in that moment that he’s going to kiss me. But when I lick my lips, he blinks once, twice, and then leans away from me on a long, pained sigh.
Taking a step back, then another, he purses his lips and rakes a hand through his hair. Then he reaches for the doorknob. “Get cleaned up.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing out into the hallway, and practically slamming the door behind him.