Page 5 of Wildfire
“I don’t think either of us needs to worry about that happening.”
He laughs into my hair, still not letting go. “I’m just the stop gap. I’m the guy you fuck right before you meet the love of your life.”
“Statistically, that’s going to happen if you fuck everyone.”
“Trust me, Roberts. I should start a money-back guarantee scheme. You’ll get your happy ending.”
“God, Ryan. Don’t make me emotional when I’m about to head to a hockey party. You know being sad makes me horny.”
He laughs as we reluctantly untangle and take a step back. “If you say being sad makes you horny two more times, Mason will appear like Beetlejuice.”
I roll my eyes as I search out my nemesis, finding him inconveniencing someone else across the room, out of earshot. “Can you take him with you? I can’t deal with him without you.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear. “You told me you want to change this summer. Maybe you’ll come back from camp and be able to tolerate him. You’ll be more experienced with dealing with children.”
“I said I wanted to grow out of all my toxic self-sabotaging habits. I did not say I would change enough to stop hating Mason.”
“Maybe you should switch out some of those contemporary romance choices for self-help books.”
My eyes narrow. “You complete one English degree and you think you’re qualified to start handing out book recs?”
“You’re right, Roberts. Let me just stay in my lane.”
The good-bye is hanging in the air, but I can’t quite force myself to say it. “You’ll let me know how the draft goes, right?”
Kissing my forehead one last time, Ryan nods. “You bet. Stay out of trouble.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Literally never,” he laughs. “That’s the problem.”
EMILIA MEETS ME ASI step out of my Uber, sporting the unimpressed scowl I know and love. “You’re late.”
It’s hard to be intimidated by her when she looks so angelic—literally. Her mousy brown curls have been braided into a halo, and the tip of her nose and cheeks are still red from sunburn after falling asleep in our garden yesterday. The rest of her has remained her normal shade of ghostly white, so I’m not sure how she managed to just fry her face. Something I won’t be bringing up right now. “Would it help if I told you how pretty you are?”
It doesn’t help and I lose her the second we walk through the door of the hockey house and past what appear to be life-size cardboard cutouts of the hockey team.
We tend not to visit these parties despite their campus-wide reputation, due to Emilia’s preference for events that end before midnight and my preference for basketball, but JJ, one of her friends from the LGBTQIA+ society, is heading up north to play hockey professionally and she promised to say bye.
So naturally I agreed to tag along because I’m a great friend, but also because she promised me a veggie pizza on the way home later. I am slightly worried that being late is going to mess with her willingness to buy me pizza.
Despite the hordes of people, it feels oddly homely for a college house occupied by hockey players. There are pictures in frames on the walls featuring a group of guys and two girls, couch cushions that don’t look like they’re harboring enough germs to start a biological war, and, unless my eyes deceive me, someone has dusted in here.
Is that a coaster?
Fighting my way through the crowd, mainly confused that myfeet aren’t sticking to the floor, but definitely thirsty, I head toward my favorite place at any party: the kitchen. The huge island is already covered in various half-empty liquor and soda bottles. My eyes scan the various cupboards trying to guess which one seems the most likely to hold glasses.
Party or not, I’ve watched too many documentaries about the sea to use plastic cups. I tentatively sneak a look in one of the cabinets to find nothing but shot glasses.
Literally.
Not one thing other than shot glasses in an entire kitchen cabinet.
The second cabinet has bowls, and as I’m about to find out if the third cabinet is the right one, feeling a lot like Goldilocks, someone clears their throat beside me. “Are you a burglar?”
Looking around the cupboard door, knowing my face is definitely the color of a stoplight, I take in the guy who just caught me red-handed. I’m five foot seven, even taller in my stilettos, but he still towers over me. However, there’s something decidedly unintimidating about him. His biceps are fighting to escape the sleeves of his black T-shirt, the fabric tight across his broad chest. But his features are soft, and there’s only a hint of stubble along his jaw; it’s like the delicacy of his face doesn’t quite match the rest of his body. His light brown hair is styled off his face and, when I finally settle on them, his sapphire-blue eyes stare back at me, something unsure but intrigued swimming in them.
This is probably the most awkward way I’ve ever met a hot guy.
