The Mistake

  Garrett turns onto Greek Row, which is jam-packed with cars. We end up parking several houses down from Sigma and walking to the massive frat house, where Dean, Tucker and Hollis wait for us on the lawn, passing around a joint.

  Dean hands it to me, and I take a deep hit, filling my lungs then exhaling a cloud into the warm night air.

  “Guess who just showed up,” Dean murmurs. “Your freshman. Well, I guess she’d be your sophomore now.”

  My pulse quickens. “Grace is here?”

  He nods. “Yeah, but…she’s, uh, with someone.”

  What the fuck? With who? And it damn well not be some drunken Sigma oaf whose only goal is to get into her pants.

  I had no intention of throwing down tonight, but if some slimy mofo so much as looks at Grace wrong, he’ll be leaving this party on a stretcher.

  But Dean is quick to ease my worries. “Hipster type,” he says. “Definitely not Sigma.”

  I’m suddenly eager to get inside, so I herd my friends toward the front door, which gets me a bemused look from Garrett.

  “I take it we’re wooing again tonight?” he says wryly.

  Damn right we are.

  The house is more crowded than our arena during a home game, and I don’t spot Grace when I scan the sea of faces. The deafening dubstep blasting from the speakers makes it impossible to carry on a conversation, so I gesture to Garrett that I’m going to look for Grace, and then I’m swallowed up by the mob as I venture deeper into the living room.

  Several attractive girls smile as I walk past them, but they’re not even on my radar. Grace is nowhere to be found. I wonder if maybe Dean made the whole thing up. Grace on a date at a frat party. It does sound kinda farfetched, the more I think about it.

  I pop into the kitchen and search the large group gathered around the granite work island. No Grace. But one of the chicks sipping a Corona near the sink separates herself from the pack and slinks my way.

  “Logan,” she purrs, wrapping her fingers around my bare biceps as she leans in closer.

  “Hey, Piper,” I mutter, and I’m tempted to shove her away before her lips can graze my cheek.

  Piper Stevens is undeniably beautiful, but that Twitter smear campaign she started against Grace has not been forgotten.

  The kiss lands on my cheek, and although she pulls away afterward, she’s still pressed up against me, her hand stuck to my arm like hockey tape. “So, it’s our senior year,” she says. “Know what that means?”

  I can’t even pretend to be interested. I’m busy peering at the kitchen doorway in search of Grace. “What?”

  “It means our time is running out.”

  Warm lips brush the side of my throat, and I flinch and take a step away.

  She frowns. “You’ve been playing hard to get for three years,” she accuses. “Isn’t it about time you gave us what we wanted?”

  A snort slips out before I can stop it. “What you want, Piper. I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not interested.”

  Her red-lipsticked mouth forms a pout. “Think about how good it will be. All this pent-up animosity between us?” She stands on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, her dark hair tickling my chin. “The sex would be fucking explosive.”

  I uncurl her fingers from my arm. “Tempting,” I lie. “But I’ll pass. Hey, if you’re hard up, we’ve got some new meat on the team. This kid Hunter might be right up your alley.”

  Her eyes blaze. “Fuck you. Don’t try to pimp me out to your teammates.”

  “I’m not pimping you out, babe. Simply giving you a heads up. See you around, Piper.”

  I can feel her glaring daggers into my back as I leave the kitchen, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m sick of her constant come-ons and total disregard for the fact that I’m not fucking interested.

  I wander through the main floor again, checking every room twice before giving up. Maybe she’s outside. It’s crazy-humid tonight, so the party is both an indoor and outdoor affair, which means it’s time to widen my perimeter.

  I decide to start out front. When I step into the parlor, triumph shoots through me, because I catch a glimpse of Grace on the winding staircase.

  She’s alone, and my pulse accelerates as I admire how the stretchy fabric of her black skirt hugs her ass. Her long hair flows down her back, rippling like a golden curtain with each step she takes. Shit, she’s on the move.

  She reaches the second-floor landing and disappears around the corner, and the loss of visual contact spurs me to action.

  Without missing a beat, I stride toward the stairs and hurry after her.

  *

  Grace

  In the upstairs powder room, I wash my hands, then dry them with a New England Patriots towel that makes me grin. Sports merchandising has always seemed like such a lucrative industry to me. Slap a team logo on any old item and millions of people will buy it no matter what it is.

  I check my reflection in the mirror, satisfied to find that thanks to my heavy-duty frizz-control cream, my hair survived the stifling humidity it endured on the walk to Greek Row. Morris had picked me up at my dorm, and although we talked non-stop all the way here, we haven’t spoken much since we came inside. The music is too loud, and Morris is too engrossed in the first-person shooting game they’re playing in the den. The moment we arrived, Fat Ted ordered Morris to plant his ass on the couch and slapped a game controller in his hand.

  I don’t mind, though. I’ve been having fun watching Morris beat Ted’s record on every level. Each time he does it, the frat boys cheer as if they’re witnessing the final touchdown in the Super Bowl and heckle Fat Ted about getting his ass beat. Fat Ted, by the way? Not fat.

  Sometimes I really don’t understand nicknames.

  When I step out into the hall, I experience the most acute sense of déjà vu. Except this time, instead of Logan walking out of a bathroom and me waiting in the hall, it’s the other way around.

  A surprised noise squeaks out of my throat when I spot him. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in three days, not since the muffin incident.

  “Evening, gorgeous.” He grins at me. “I’m totally digging that skirt.”

  His blue eyes conduct a slow sweep of my bare legs, and I curse Daisy for convincing me to wear a short skirt tonight. I then curse myself for allowing his sultry gaze to unleash a flurry of hot tingles, most of which scurry downward and congregate between my legs.

  I sigh. “What are you doing here?”

  “Attending a party.” He rolls his eyes. “Why? What brings you here?”

  I answer through clenched teeth. “I’m on a date.”

  The confession doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “Yeah? Where’s your date at? You should introduce me.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  Logan steps closer, and his spicy scent surrounds me like a thick haze. His big frame dominates my personal space. Broad shoulders and long legs and a chest that’s so ripped I can see each individual muscle straining beneath his T-shirt. I want to slide my hands beneath his shirt and run my hands over every hard ridge. And then slide them in the opposite direction, slip them inside his pants and wrap my fingers around his—

  Snap out of it.

  I try to regulate my breathing, but it’s coming out in shallow bursts. From the way his breath hitches, I know Logan senses the change in my body, the quickening of my pulse. The sexual awareness heating the air between us.

  “How long are you going to keep fighting it?” His voice is husky. Laced with desire.

  “I’m not fighting anything.” It’s a miracle how composed I sound when my heart is thumping harder than the bass line of the dance track downstairs. “I already made it clear I’m not interested in going out with you. And I don’t want to rekindle last year’s hook-ups, either. We had some fun and now we’re done.”

  “Solid rhymes, Dr. Seuss.” Still undeterred, he eliminates two more inches of space, standing so close I can feel the heat of his body. “So you’re not attracted to me at
all anymore?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Desire has clogged my throat.

  “Because I’m still attracted to you.” Heavy-lidded eyes rake over my body. “If anything, I think I want you even more.”

  I know what he means. The attraction seems a thousand times stronger. It’s hot and fierce and I can feel it pulsing deep in my sex. My gaze is glued to his mouth, to the sensual curve of his lower lip. I miss kissing him. I miss the greedy thrust of his tongue, and the way he groaned when it swirled against mine.

  Distance. I need to back away, steel myself against his palpable sex appeal and—my butt bumps the wall. Crap. Nowhere to go. No way to run from the awareness incinerating all the oxygen around us.

  “Kiss me.” His raspy command is barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

  His head bends, his mouth inches from mine. I’m mesmerized by it. By the beard growth shadowing his jaw and the way his tongue darts out to moisten his top lip. One kiss wouldn’t be the end of the world, right? I can just get it out of my system. Get him out of my system.

  He lifts his hand to my face, and rough fingertips skim my cheek. I shiver.

  “Kiss me,” he murmurs again, and my control snaps.

  I grab the back of his head and bring his mouth to mine, kissing him as if possessed. When he groans against my lips, I feel the strangled sound in my clit. Oh God. I can’t breathe. Can’t concentrate on anything but his hungry tongue in my mouth and the rapid beating of my heart.

  He reaches down and cups my ass, pressing my lower body to his and rotating his hips. “I’ve been fantasizing about this all summer.” His agonized whisper heats my neck before his mouth latches on, sucking hard enough to make me moan.

  I cling to his broad shoulders. Helpless to stop this. He kisses a path back to my lips, teases the seam with his tongue before plunging inside again. His hips keep rocking. So do mine. I’m aching for him and he knows it. He growls softly, then slips one hand under my skirt, his fingers tickling my thigh, gliding higher, moving closer to the spot that’s begging for his touch. Millimeters. That’s how close he is. I want to scream for him to touch me already, but he’s taking his time. Rubbing my inner thigh with his thumb. Slowly. Too damn slow.

  He breaks the kiss and stares into my eyes, while his hand eases closer to the crotch of my panties. His fingers tremble. His breathing grows labored.

  And then he yanks his hand away, his expression so tortured you’d think he’d been water-boarded for three days straight.

  “No, goddamn it,” he croaks. “This wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “W-what?” I’m stuttering, still dazed from those mind-melting kisses.

  “I just wanted a kiss. Not a hook-up.” He draws a deep breath. “I meant what I said the other day. I want to take you on a date.”

  “Logan…” I trail off warily.

  Footsteps echo from the stairs, and Logan quickly steps back, his gaze shifting to the landing.

  When Morris rounds the corner, my heart jumps to my throat.

  Oh shit.

  Morris. I totally forgot about Morris.

  “There you are,” he says, his smile uneasy. “I was worried you might’ve gotten lost on your way to the bathroom.”

  I inhale deeply, willing my heart rate to stabilize. Praying that my expression doesn’t look too guilty. Or worse, aroused.

  “No, I found it,” I answer. “I ran into…a friend on my way out.”

  Logan’s nostrils flare.

  “This is Logan,” I add, then gesture to him as if Morris couldn’t figure it out for himself.

  My date nods at the guy I was just making out with. “Nice to meet you.” He glances at me. “Ready to rejoin the party?”

  No.

  Yes.

  I don’t even know anymore.

  What I do know is that I came to this party with Morris, who happens to be a terrific person, and I’m not about to ditch him for another guy, no matter how tempted I may be.

  “Sure.” I make only the briefest amount of eye contact with Logan as I murmur, “I’ll see you around.” Then I follow Morris downstairs and force myself not to look over my shoulder.

  But I can feel Logan’s eyes on me the entire time.

  22

  Logan

  It’s a damn shame that duels don’t play a role in the modern world anymore. Because right now, I’d totally be down for slapping a leather glove on Morris Ruffolo’s cheek and challenging him to one.

  What the hell kind of name is that, anyway? Morris Ruffolo. I’m highly suspicious of people who have last names for first names. And Ruffolo? Is he Italian? He didn’t look it.

  And yes, I know the name of the guy Grace came to the party with last night. After she’d deserted me upstairs, I asked around and found out everything I needed to know. His name, his rep, and of course, his dorm. Which happens to be my current location.

  I’ve just knocked on the guy’s door, but he’s taking his sweet ass time answering. I know there’s someone in there, though, because I can hear the muffled sound of a television from inside the room.

  I knock a second time, and an aggravated voice calls out, “One sec!”

  Good. He’s home. I’d like to get this out of the way fast so I can enjoy the rest of my Saturday.

  When he opens the door and finds me standing there, a deep scowl twists his mouth. “What do you want?”

  Okay then. I was wondering if Grace would tell him about the kiss, and his visible hostility answers that question.

  “I came here to declare my intentions toward Grace,” I announce.

  “Gee, how honorable of you.” Morris snorts. “But the truly honorable thing would have been to not make out with my date last night.”

  I let out a remorseful sigh. “That’s the other reason I’m here. To apologize.”

  Despite the perma-scowl on his face, he opens the door wider and takes a reluctant step back, an invitation to come in. I follow him inside, sparing a quick look at the clutter-ridden room before getting down to business.

  “I’m sorry I moved in on your date. It was a total violation of bro code, and for that, I’m offering you one free swing at me. Just make sure to stay away from my nose, because I’ve broken that motherfucker way too many times and I’m scared one day it won’t heal right.”

  Disbelief-laced laughter flies out of his mouth. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”

  “Sure I am.” I widen my stance. “Go ahead. I promise I won’t hit back.”

  Morris shakes his head, looking both amused and irritated. “No, thanks, I’ll pass. Now say whatever else you wanna say, and then get lost.”

  “Suit yourself. That was a one-time offer, by the way.” I shrug. “Okay, next. You should know that as long as you and Grace aren’t exclusive, I won’t stop trying to win her back.” Regret rushes through me, and my voice shakes a little. “We hooked up back in April, and I screwed up pretty badly—”

  “Yeah, she told me.”

  “She did?”

  He nods. “On our way home from the party last night. She didn’t offer many details, but she made it pretty clear that you messed shit up.”

  “Yup,” I say glumly. “But I’m going to fix it. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear, but I figured I should warn you, because you might be seeing a lot more of me. You know, if you go out with Grace again.” I cock a brow. “Are you going out with her again?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He cocks his brow. “Either way, it’s none of your business.”

  “Fair enough.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I hope there’re no hard feelings about last night. I didn’t show up planning to kiss her, it just sorta happened and—holy shit, are you playing Mob Boss?” My gaze has landed on the frozen image on the TV that’s mounted on the wall opposite the bed.

  Suspicion darkens his eyes. “You know this game? Nobody I talk to about it has heard of it.”

  I wander over to the cabinet
beneath the TV and pick up the video game case. Yup, I have the identical one at home.

  “Dude, I’m all over this game,” I tell him. “One of my teammates got me hooked on it, this guy Fitzy. Well, his name’s Colin Fitzgerald, but we call him Fitzy. He’s a serious gamer, plays a ton of weird shit nobody even knows exists. He actually reviews games for the Briar blog—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Morris exclaims. “You actually know F. Gerald? I’m obsessed with his reviews. Wait—he’s your teammate?”

  “Yeah, Fitzy uses an alias for the blog. He doesn’t want chicks knowing he’s a hardcore geek.” I grin. “As hockey players, we have a certain reputation to uphold.”

  Morris shakes his head in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re friends with F. Gerald. He’s a fucking legend in the gaming community…”

  He trails off and our surprisingly animated discussion reaches it conclusion, an awkward silence creeping in to take its place. Sighing, I gesture to the screen and advise, “Save the ammo.”

  His eyes narrow. “What?”

  “You keep failing this level, right?”

  With utmost weariness, he nods.

  “Same thing happened to me. I’d make it all the way to the end, but then I wouldn’t be able to kill Don Angelo because I’d be out of ammo and there are no fucking ammo crates in the warehouse.” I offer a helpful suggestion. “There’s a switchblade on the docks. Grab that and use it on Angelo’s enforcers, then bust out the AK when you reach the warehouse. You might die the first few times, but eventually you’ll get used to killing with the knife. Trust me.”

  “The switchblade,” he says doubtfully.

  “Trust me,” I repeat. “Do you want me to pass it for you?”

  “Fuck off. I’ll pass it myself.” He reaches for the controller, then sighs and looks my way. “So where’s the knife?”

  I flop down beside him. “Okay, it’s hidden in the corner of the shipyard, near the dock master’s office. Just head that way and I’ll show you when you get there.”

  Morris presses restart.

  *

  Grace

  The first thing I do after marching out of the media building on Monday evening is send a very curt text message to one John Logan.