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hair behind her ear with a smug grin.
What makes you think so?
The girls in charge think they re the world s greatest matchmakers, and as long as I
appear interested in their hand-selected side of beef, that should stroke their ego into
gifting me a bed.
What? I squint into her, trying to figure out if this is simply a devious side of her or if
she truly does belong with the mindfucks that run that twisted organization.
She bites hard over her bottom lip, letting it out slow as January. I watch as the white
imprint of her teeth ripens a cherry red, and my dick ticks at the sight.
I saw you with that girl. Her head twitches to the side. She took off, and then you
left. You had quite the estrogen-based beehive surrounding you all night. Looks like you
chose a lemon. A smug look of satisfaction crests over her, and I d like nothing better
than to wipe it off by crushing my lips to hers.
What the hell am I thinking? She s young. Too young in fact. And she s essentially my
boss s little sister. This girl is an illegal catch, and I m staying the hell away from her, at
least in that capacity. My dick twitches again in protest.
She wasn t a lemon. I close my laptop and scoot into her, our eyes locking with
heat. Anja never is. She s a Russian beauty. My lids hood over as she lets out a breath.
She s sweet. I lean in. Tastes like sugar.
Gross. Piper sticks her finger down her throat. I don t need a road map to figure out
you re the king of spilling your questionable and possibly STD-riddled bodily fluids all over
campus. I m just counting my lucky stars all I was met with was your Starbucks discards
and a cheap beer. She leans in with a mixture of disdain and disgust brewing on her
face. God forbid you should come at me with something sinister squirting from your
body. She lowers her gaze to my crotch before riding back up.
You re the one who s gross. Now it s my turn to give a smug smile, but that only has
her snarling. All right, truce. I hold up my hands.
No truce. I m never letting down my defenses with you. I know your type. She takes
out her laptop and pulls up the Capwell, Edwards, and James Media Services website.
What type is that? I pull up the same website on my own laptop and wonder how in
the hell we re ever going to work together.
Piper glances over. Her dark hair catches the light and shines like a mirror. There s
pain in her eyes, something hidden underneath that I d like to think is the reason she s
holding up this hardened front. Something or someone has hurt this little girl, and now
she s contorted herself into a ball of piss and vinegar just to make it through the livelong
day. God knows I understand that feeling. Sometimes putting up a front is the only way
to survive.
She nails me with those day-glow eyes. Her hatred for me ramps up to unnatural
levels, and I brace myself for the onslaught.
You re nothing but a heartless player who makes a game of landing girls in your bed,
only to laugh at them later at their expense. Her expression dims as if she s checking out
and heading to some faraway place. And then you tell your buddies about it, and before
you know it, the entire school pegs her as a cock-tease.
Is that what happened? I m no mathematical genius, but I sure as hell know one
plus one equals the cock-tease in question.
Her lashes flutter in a series of rapid-fire blinks as she slams her laptop shut. You
know what? I completely forgot I have an appointment. She swallows hard, stuffing her
laptop back into her pricey leather bag, the color of butter. If Wyatt asks, just tell him to
call me. She zips out the door as quick as she came. The scent of wildflowers straggles
behind in her wake.
I was right. Something or someone smashed her heart to pieces, and now Piper is a
spitfire ready to set the world in flames over one crooked look. And as much as it breaks
my heart, she s not my problem.
That dull ache in my gut says maybe she is.
Maybe I want her to be.
Piper doesn t show up for the next three days, and since it s just a four-day a week
internship, she s free to float through with an Owen-free weekend.
A part of me wants to tell her brother, hell, tell Ryder or Bryson, I say over a beer at
the Black Bear Saloon. We re seated far enough away from the bar for me to feel free to
have this conversation with Jet and Rex. Jet s a brilliant tattoo artist. He s been tatting
me up for the last few years. As soon as I hit a few extra dollars in my pocket, I made a
beeline to his shop downtown. I didn t do it for me. I did it for the women in my life,
particularly the ones that pay to see me. Rex, I met through him. They grew up together,
which strikes me as odd since Jet comes from the dicey side of the tracks and Rex has led
as pampered a life as I had once. Rex is the quarterback on the football team here at
Briggs. He s the golden boy, and a part of me envies how easily it all seems to come for
him.
Dude, Rex pinches at his eyes it s probably not you she s running from. Look, you
need that internship. Don t rock the boat. If she doesn t come back, that s on her. You
haven t done a thing wrong.
You saved her ass. Jet tips his beer to make the point. She was ungrateful.
True. Rex nods with a bounce. Don t think about her. She s too much to deal with
right now. You ve got upper division classes coming up and, believe me, they are geared
to kick your ass in the right way. This isn t going to be easy. This is hardcore shit. You
going to be okay working late nights?
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