“If anyone even thinks about trying to claim the master, you better think twice,” Lucas yells as everyone scrambles into the house to claim a room. “And the room next to the master is off limits!”
“Why the room next to the master? Don’t want anyone to hear me moaning your name every night?” I cheekily nudge him.
“It’s for Ryder King, if he shows up,” Lucas mumbles, running his hand through his hair. “But now that I think about it, maybe I shouldn’t have picked the room right next to ours . . . It’s one of the three with a king bed. Figured I would need to give him his own room.”
“Wow, that’s very kind of you, Captain,” I tease. “Already saving the best for your new star player.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes out. “We’ll see.”
He winks at me and grabs my hand, pulling me close. Inhaling his familiar scent of freshly laundered clothes mixed with sandalwood, citrus, and other woodsy scents, calms me—he smells and feels like home.
Delicately placing a kiss on my forehead, he leans in closer to whisper in my ear, “There’s a very large, built-in bench in the master shower. Perfect for you to sit back with my head between your legs, tasting your pu—”
“Libby!” I shriek, cutting him off, not wanting anyone to hear his plans for me later and praying I can keep quiet enough. My face turns the color of a freshly ripe tomato.
“Why the long face, Lib?” I ask Libby, her lips turned down with a frown.
“I’m sharing a room with Mitchell,” she complains, making a retching, gagging noise.
“I’m not that bad,” Blaine protests as he comes down the stairs. “At least there’s two queen size beds instead of one.” He lowers his gaze, and his words barely reach my ears as he rubs at the back of his neck.
“Just don’t bring anyone home,” Libby mandates. Her pout turns into a demanding glare. “I refuse to deal with that.”
“No promises, Lib,” Blaine replies cooly. “I can’t always plan for that.”
Libby makes an exaggerated throwing up noise. Bren and Tyler come down the hallway.
“Tyler and I are sharing bunk beds. How fun!” Bren shrieks enthusiastically, coming into the living room. No hint of sarcasm detected. Unsurprisingly, Bren appears genuinely elated to be sharing bunk beds as a fresh college graduate. Her go-with-the-flow, bubbly attitude is the exact opposite of Libby’s frustration.
“See Libby, at least we don’t have bunk beds. Wouldn’t want you to hear what I’m doing on the top bunk at night,” Blaine remarks with a wink at Libby.
Libby winces in disgust.
My stomach rumbles, ready to finally eat something. “I’ll start making the margs,” I declare and clasp my hands together. “Lucas, can you start the grill while Bren and Libby unpack the food?”
Everyone starts moving, following my lead and moving outside. Maybe I need to give myself more credit for being a promising lead for the PR team.
“Laur,” Lucas calls to me from outside, “is everyone here? Just trying to get a head count on burgers.”
“Almost! Ryan just texted that he is thirty minutes out with Harlan andtheRyder King. I’m ready to fangirl,” I joke playfully.
Lucas rolls his eyes at Libby and Sydney, who both squeal in excitement at the mention of Ryder’s name. Sydney is one of Libby’s best friends from her classes. We’ve recently recruited her to come tohockey games, but she cares much more about the players than the game.
Ryder King definitely merits some fangirling, but I’m already a fully dedicated fangirl to Lucas Donato.
“Don’t worry,” I assure Lucas. “It won’t make me less of a dedicated Donato fangirl.” Sauntering over to him, I kiss him passionately on the lips. His hands grip my hips, pinning my body against his.
“Focus on grilling our burgers and less on your girlfriend’s mouth, Donato,” Tyler bristles with impatience. “I’m fucking starving.”
Out of nowhere, a lime flies out of Lucas’ hand, hitting Tyler square in the nose.
“Your lucky margaritas aren’t made with grapefruits, Barret,” Lucas growls at Tyler.
A girlish giggle escapes me at Lucas’ corny joke. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy another lime flying through the air again, this time from Tyler’s hand. I catch it before it makes contact with Lucas.
“Stop wasting my limes, or you won’t get any margaritas,” I threaten, shaking my fist clenched around the lime.
Lucas lets out a low chuckle. “Barret can’t have any until after a post-dinner workout anyways.”
