One Tiny Lie

  “How could you forget Grant?” Reagan announces rather loudly, flashing one of her giant smiles. Subtlety doesn’t seem to be in Reagan’s nature.

  He slows as he approaches, a crestfallen look passing over his face. “You don’t remember me?” he asks, his hands lifting to cover his chest as if his heart is in pain.

  “I . . .uh . . .,” I sputter, shooting a glare in Reagan’s direction as my cheeks flush. They both burst out in laughter.

  With a boyish grin, he extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Grant. Glad you ladies could make it.”

  I offer a shy smile as I take it. “Livie.”

  “You’ll always be Irish to me,” he says with a wink and then turns to head back down the hall that stretches to the very back of the sizeable house.

  He called me Irish.

  Why did he call me Irish?

  I don’t remember him.

  Why don’t I remember him?

  Ohmigod. He saw me like that. He must know Ashton. Does he know what I did with Ashton? Is he going to tell Connor that I’m a maniac when I drink? Has he already told Connor? What if Connor doesn’t want anything to do with me now?

  This is a disaster.

  Reagan grabs my forearm and squeezes. “Livie, you’re not blinking. It’s creeping me out.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. It’s nothing, I tell myself.

  We start following Grant back, past a spacious but unoccupied living room on the right. “Reagan has won over my undying love, but I’m willing to date around while she sows her wild oats,” Grant calls out over his shoulder.

  “I think you’ll be dating until you’re old and gray, then,” I warn with a sidelong glance at her.

  He stops walking and spins around, flashing Reagan a wide grin. “She’s worth it. Would you ladies like something to drink?”

  Before I can request water or a Coke, Reagan is already placing our order, holding up two fingers. “The usual, Grant. Thanks.” I have a feeling the usual is coming from the selection of glass liquor bottles on the kitchen counter I see up ahead. And Grant obviously knows Reagan well if he knows what “the usual” is.

  “Anything for you, Gidget,” he says with another winning smile as he turns a corner.

  I grab her arm to stop her from following. “Did you know that Grant lived here, Reagan?”

  Her brow furrows. “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

  I feel my eyebrow arch and I know it’s probably halfway up my forehead. “So then you knew that he was Connor’s roommate . . .”

  “Uh-huh,” she says absently, wiggling from my grasp and speeding toward the kitchen.

  Why is she being so evasive?

  “Hey, Livie!” I hear. I turn to see Connor coming down the set of stairs, his face beaming. I sigh with relief. Okay, so he doesn’t appear to be regretting this invitation . . .

  He confirms that a second later as he wraps his arms around my body, enfolding me into a warm hug, as if we’re old friends rather than two people who just met. “So glad to see you again,” he murmurs into my ear, sending a shiver through me.

  “You too,” I giggle, melting into him with ease.

  With a gentle hand on my back, he leads me into a large galley-style kitchen full of dark woods and stainless steel. I never saw any of this the night of the party, seeing as we entered the basement through the back of the house. I’m more than surprised that a bunch of college guys live like this. The back wall is basically all windows, overlooking the secluded wooded backyard.

  “Did you meet Tavish?” Connor asks, gesturing to a stocky guy of about my height with red-tinged hair leaning against the counter, inhaling a piece of pizza.

  “Call me Ty.” He wipes his hand on his jeans and then offers it to me.

  “Dude! This is America. We’re not barbarians here. Wash your hands before offering it to the ladies,” Grant mutters as he hands me a drink, waggling his eyebrows. He has a very pleasant, friendly smile.

  “Bile yer heid!” Ty roars at Grant in a thick Scottish accent that I assume is fake, given he didn’t have it a moment ago. I have no idea what he said but Grant’s chastising must have worked because Ty goes to the sink to wash the pizza grease off.

  “If you ever need a little man in a kilt, Ty’s your guy,” Connor says with a wry grin.

  “A kilt?” I repeat in a high-pitched voice as I remember the picture on my sister’s phone.

  “Ty’s all about the traditions. Aren’t you, Ty?” Reagan chirps from behind me, giggling. She flipped through the pictures too, so she knows exactly what I’m remembering.

  He responds with a loud belch and a grin.

  “Man, Ty. Ease up,” Connor says with a laugh, shaking his head. To me, he says, “He’s a small-doses kind of guy. And a no-doses kind of guy when he’s walking around in that thing. You don’t want to witness it. It’s not pretty, trust me.”

  Reagan howls with laughter as my cheeks burn and Connor chatters away, clueless.

  Connor quirks his brow at her. “What’s so funny, Reagan?”

  “Oh, nothing . . .” An impish grin flashes across her face and then it’s gone. “Good to see you, Connor.”

  He walks over to give her a hug. “Good to see you too, Reagan. Though I don’t know if Princeton is ready to handle you...”

  She only winks in response.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I ask, “So how exactly do you all know each other?” I shoot my sneaky little roommate a pointed glare. She quickly ducks behind Grant, avoiding eye contact.

  “Reagan’s dad coaches my rowing team. Didn’t she tell you that?”

  “She left out a few details.” I know that Reagan’s dad is the coach of a rowing team but she neglected to mention that she even knew Connor, let alone that he was on that team. Again, I glance over my shoulder. Reagan is leaning up against Grant, half-hiding, watching me with a pained expression.

  “We’re also all members of Tiger Inn. A Princeton eating club. You’ve heard of those, right?”

  “Kind of like a frat, right?”

  Connor shrugs. “Way more relaxed than a frat, but we do bicker.”

  I quickly pick through my limited knowledge of Princeton’s social scene to avoid sounding like a dumbass. “Bicker . . . that means pledge, right?”

  “Right. You can’t bicker until spring of your sophomore year, but you should start getting to know the various houses.” Grabbing my hand, Connor pulls me toward another room.

  “So you’re on the rowing team?”

  “Yeah, all four of us. Come on.” Connor grabs my hand and tugs me forward. “Come meet Ash.”

  My brain has just enough time to process, my stomach has enough time to drop, and my legs falter as we step into the den. I’m sure my face is displaying the perfect mix of shock, embarrassment, and horror. There, stretched out in an oversized armchair, beer in one hand, remote in the other, is the tall, lean form with dark brown eyes and shaggy hair that I’ve sworn out of my life.

  Ashton “I Regret You” Henley.

  “This is Ashton, our captain, though for the life of me I can’t figure out why,” Connor says in a playful manner, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I know exactly who Ashton is and am about to collapse.

  I can’t speak as I stare at that face, as I watch those eyes shift from me to Connor to Connor’s hand holding mine, taking a long sip of his beer as he does so.

  “Irish,” he finally offers in a flat tone. I notice his jaw is clenched. This is probably as comfortable for him as it is for me. His regretful night—the girl he wants to forget happened—is standing in his house.

  “Wait a minute . . .” Connor’s hand slips out of mine. Oh . . .here we go . . . A finger points toward me as Connor’s head cocks to the side. He stares wide-eyed at his roommate. “This is the girl who dared you to get that tattoo?”

  I close my ey
es and take several deep breaths, silently saying goodbye to any chance I might have had with Connor. When I open them again, the two of them are staring at me.

  “Well, how about that!” Connor throws an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me to him. “You’re famous around here!”

  I feel the color drain from my face. “Famous?” I manage to squeak out. As what? The robot-dancing, face-sucking virginal boozehound? I turn around to find that Grant and Reagan have snuck up behind us. I throw a set of extra-sharp daggers directly at Reagan’s face for setting up this ambush. Her mouth clamps on her drink as she quickly ducks behind Grant.

  I turn back to face the guy I want to impress and the guy I want to forget, and I silently wonder how today could possibly get worse.

  “Ashton. Babe—we’ve got to get going if I’m going to get to the airport in time.” I hear the voice before the blond appears through another entrance into the room with her purse and coat slung over her arm. Leaning over the back of his chair, she lays a long kiss on his lips.

  Connor leans toward me in ignorant bliss. “That’s Ashton’s girlfriend, Dana.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Man Whore

  I’ve given up on talking by this point. I know that whatever comes out of my mouth will be idiotic gibberish because I tend to speak that way when I’m nervous or shocked or upset. Right now, standing here, watching Ashton and his girlfriend kissing, the perfect storm of all three brews inside me.

  Dana pulls away from Ashton at the sound of her name. “Hi, Reagan! Hi . . .”

  “This is Livie,” Connor says.

  She offers me a warm smile. “Hi, Livie. It’s nice to meet you.”

  I try to smile back. I think that I succeed. I’m not sure; it could have looked more like the sneer of a rabid animal. I’m too busy trying to calm the screaming inside of my head.

  That asshole cheated on her. With me!

  My eyes dart to his face, to see that he’s staring at me with a strange expression. It’s not his usual arrogance. It’s not guilt, which it should be. No, I know exactly what it is. Desperation. He’s pleading with me not to say anything. He doesn’t want his girlfriend to find out. It all makes sense now. This is why he wants to keep what happened between us quiet. But then . . .why would I be famous?

  I sneak a peek at Connor to see him smiling at me. It’s a warm smile, not the amused smile of a guy who knows that I messed around with his roommate and am now being introduced to said roommate’s unsuspecting girlfriend. Either he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with what happened—making him a complete ass and so not the nice guy that I thought he was—or he doesn’t know.

  I don’t get it. But everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to respond to Dana. I swallow and then do my best to force out a pleasant, “Hi, Dana. Nice to meet you too.” It must have sounded passable, because she smiles and nods before she grabs hold of Ashton’s arm and yanks at it. “’Kay, seriously, Ash. Get that gorgeous butt up so we can go or I’ll be late.”

  He complies, sliding out of his chair with ease to tower over her. Her loose curls spill back as she tilts her head back to gaze at him. The way that her eyes sparkle—like Kacey’s do when Trent is in the room—I can tell that Dana is head-over-heels in love with him.

  I want to be anywhere but in this room with this sweet, unsuspecting girl and her lecherous boyfriend right now. “Connor, where’s your bathroom?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

  With a nod to the left, he says, “There’s one through that doorway, around the corner. First right.”

  “Oh, I’d give that one an hour,” Grant warns from behind us. “Ty was in there. It’s not suitable for ladies. Or most humans.”

  “It’s that damn chili your mama made!” Ty bellows from the kitchen.

  Shaking his head at his roommate, Connor says, “Third door to the right, upstairs. You want me to show you?”

  “No, I’ll find it, thanks.” I pat his arm as I turn to dash out of there.

  “It was nice to meet you, Livie,” Dana calls out.

  “You too,” I throw back with a smile, rushing to the stairs. I hope that wasn’t too rude but I can’t help it. She’s super-nice and that’s making me want to scream.

  I hear Ashton behind me say, “I’ll meet you out by my car in five. I’ve got to change and grab my wallet.”

  He’s following me.

  Blood rushes to my ears. I speed up, taking the steps two at a time, determined to get behind a locked door before I have to face him. And I would have made it if my toe hadn’t snagged the lip of the top step, sending me sprawling out onto the hardwood floor, flat on my stomach.

  My face burns as I scramble to my hands and knees, still determined to hide. I hear a soft chuckle behind me as two hands grab my waist and yank me to my feet effortlessly.

  “Jeez, Irish,” Ashton mutters. I bristle as I feel his hand touch the small of my back.

  “I’m fine from here,” I mutter angrily, twisting away from him as I hurry toward the bathroom.

  He follows suit, increasing his speed behind me. “I doubt that,” he says, but he doesn’t laugh. When I reach the third door to the right, Ashton grabs my hip and practically shoves me into the spacious room. I spin around to close the door but it’s too late. He’s already maneuvered his way in, shutting the door behind him. And locking it.

  “What are you—” I start to say in a biting tone but his hand clamps over my mouth.

  “Shut up.” He pushes me backward until the edge of the granite countertop hits my tailbone, keeping his hand on my mouth the whole time. I briefly consider biting it but I restrain myself. I’d probably draw blood, I’m so angry. Livie the Biter. God knows that would only add to whatever stories are already circulating about me.

  He’s staring down at me, those deep brown eyes intense and thoughtful. My nostrils catch that light musky cologne of his. It instantly triggers memories from last Saturday. Memories that just won’t leave me alone.

  I look away from him as my heart starts racing and I feel the first trickle of sweat down my back. I just want to get away and I can’t. He’s trapped me. The entire situation is overwhelming and I have to fight to keep my knees from buckling. Or maybe it’s just Ashton that’s overwhelming me. Everything about him. I swallow repeatedly.

  “If I move my hand away, will you keep quiet and let me explain something?” he says with a warning glare.

  My brow furrows. What is there to explain? That he got drunk and cheated on his girlfriend? But at this point, I just want to get away from him, so I bob my head.

  The second his hand drops from my mouth, my anger flares again. “How could you do—” My words are cut off as Ashton grabs my waist and spins me around to face the mirror. I’m about to twist my torso against him to get away, but then I look up at our reflection and find his dark stare pinning me with its strength. My breath hitches.

  “How do you know Connor?” His voice is strangely calm. I tense as his hand lifts to brush my long black hair off to the side, his fingers grazing my neck.

  “I met him the other day,” I answer involuntarily, distracted. “Didn’t he mention it?” What is he doing?

  “No.” His index finger tugs gently at the back of my shirt, pulling it down far enough to expose my tattoo. “Small world,” he murmurs as his finger runs horizontally along the writing. He exhales slowly, his breath sending shivers down my back and legs, stiffening my entire body.

  I set my jaw. “Unfortunately.”

  His finger stops moving as searing eyes flash toward mine in the mirror. When he looks back to my tattoo, I catch the little smirk. His finger starts running back and forth along the ink on my back again, the motion drawing my breath out of my lungs and making my face redden. “Now you see why last Saturday needs to stay between us?”

  “It should never have happened in the first place,?
?? I say, my voice cracking as his muscular arm reaches toward the bottle of lotion on the counter, pumping a small amount onto his fingers. With a pinched brow, I watch as he brings it toward me and, in the most gentle of touches, begins to smooth it over my freshly inked skin. I close my eyes as I swallow, taking a moment to enjoy the cool, soothing cream. That damn thing has been driving me insane all week. I’m diligent with caring for it, but I have to admit that my hands don’t feel nearly as good as his.

  I hate admitting that.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it,” he murmurs with a huskiness in his voice that makes heat blaze through my body.

  “Yes,” I hear myself murmur. Wait . . . My eyes fly open to find his trained on my reflection. Dammit, how does he do that! “No!” I snap, wiggling my way free of him and spinning around. I move toward the door, but Ashton’s giant hands land on my waist. He roughly lifts me up and sits me on the counter to face him. “Stop being so fucking stubborn and listen, Irish,” he snaps, his hands squeezing my sides, his thumbs pressing into my hip bones.

  It’s his tone that makes me flinch, though. “Connor is my best friend. We’ve known each other for four years. I know him well.” He pauses, his eyes skating over my face. “I know he seems really easygoing, but . . .I can tell you that Connor wouldn’t like knowing that you and I hooked up. Even if it was for one night. Even if we didn’t fuck.” I gasp at his crudeness, but he continues without apology. “So if you want anything to happen with him, you should probably stay quiet.”

  I frown. “I don’t get it. I thought he knew—”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Ashton confirms with a shake.

  “Nothing?”

  Ashton’s hands slowly slide from my waist over my hips, down the sides of my legs, squeezing them slightly, to settle on my knees as he steps away. “Nothing.”

  A strange heat spikes in my thighs with his touch but I clench my teeth, more focused on answers. “Well, then why am I the famous Irish?”