Fifty minutes and counting.
This is shaping up to be the longest hour of my life. Maybe I should head inside and grab a drink. By the number of drunken idiots I’m surrounded by, my guess is that the booze is flowing freely. I maneuver my way through the crowd and into the kitchen before taking in the scene.
If Beck’s mom saw all these people sitting their asses on her polished-to-a-high-shine marble countertop, she would probably have a conniption. She’s kind of a germ-o-phobe. There’s a half-naked girl stretched out on the island with a lime clenched in her teeth as one of the football players slurps tequila from her belly button.
I’m no aficionado on hygiene, but that definitely doesn’t seem sanitary.
A few people greet me as I make my way to the keg and take my place in line. I’m in the middle of chatting with a girl from my French class when she turns an unflattering shade of green and bolts to the nearest bathroom with her hands slapped over her mouth. All thoughts of a refill are abandoned as she pushes her way to the back hall. I really hope she makes it in time. Caroline will be furious if she finds out someone has thrown up on her marble floors.
Once I have a frothy cup of beer in hand, I head to the patio to check on Alyssa’s progress.
Am I a terrible friend for hoping she’s already been shot down and has thrown in the towel for the night?
Probably, but I can deal with that.
Instead of finding a dejected Alyssa crying in the corner, I’m amazed to discover that she’s clawed her way to the front of the pack. Who knows, she may actually have a shot of getting picked from the crowd.
This could be a real game changer for her.
Guess that means I’m stuck here. I look around the patio, searching for a place to park my ass. The Hollingsworth property is about an acre in size, which is the same as ours. The space around the pool is gated with a black iron fence and tall arborvitae that spear into the dark night sky. Toward the back of the gate is an unoccupied lounge chair with my name on it. I’ll hang out there for forty minutes before dragging Alyssa’s panty-less ass back to my house.
Before I can take three steps, a deep voice cuts through the raucous noise of the party.
“Well, well, well. Look who decided to make a cameo appearance tonight.”
I swing around, knowing exactly who I’ll find.
Beck.
As difficult as it is, I try not to notice how delicious he looks in plaid board shorts that hang low on his hips, showing off the cut lines of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the waistband. The chiseled strength of his arms and chest are enough to bring most girls to their proverbial knees.
The operative word in that sentence being most.
I, however, am not one of those idiotic girls.
“Coming here tonight wasn’t my idea. I was dragged under duress.”
“Yeah, I figured you would have better things to do than hang around with a bunch of wasted assholes.”
He’s got me there.
“You know me too well.” When my throat grows dry, I lift the red Solo cup to my lips. Before I can take a sip, he snatches the drink from my fingers and brings it to his mouth. I watch his throat constrict as he drains the contents.
“Rude much?” My fists go to my hips. “What did you do that for?”
He shrugs. Even though it’s a slight movement, his muscles ripple and attraction bursts to life in my core. “You shouldn’t be drinking.”
“Excuse me?” My eyes pop wide as laughter tumbles from my mouth. “Are you being serious right now?” I wave a hand toward the drunken mass that surrounds us. It’s not even eleven, and already people are passed out on loungers. “Look around, dude, everyone is shitfaced.” Hopefully, there are a few designated drivers among this group or Uber will make a hell of a lot of money tonight.
As soon as Beck smirks, I know his answer is specifically designed to piss me off.
“That might be so, but everyone knows you’re a good girl. And good girls don’t drink. I wouldn’t want the society to revoke your membership. You’ve worked so damn hard for it.”
My eyes narrow to slits. The attraction that had flared to life so quickly is extinguished by his teasing.
I hate when he calls me that. And he knows it, which is precisely why he continues to do it. Beck loves nothing better than to crawl under my skin. He’s like a rash I can never quite get rid of, no matter how many steroids I use.
It’s irritating.
“I’m not a good girl,” I growl before stabbing a finger at his ridiculously hard chest. “And you are not my keeper. I can drink if I want to.” In a haughty voice, I remind, “I’m the one who was requested to babysit your ass. Not the other way around.”