“So you’re an overachiever?” I tease, realizing too late that probably makes me an underachiever.
Story of my life.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” The bartender slides our drinks across the sticky bar. A bottle of Yuengling and an electric blue cocktail that looks like it should be served in a fishbowl. Mike hands over a twenty, and it occurs to me that maybe I should’ve asked more questions.
Like, what the hell is an AMF?
I stare silently at the drink as the bartender makes change. It can’t be any worse than Greek Row punch, right? I lift the cup to my lips and take a tiny sip.
It’s surprisingly sweet, and it goes down easy, nothing like the boozy punch I’ve sampled at Sig Chi. Thank God. That stuff will destroy your taste buds.
“What’s the verdict?” Mike asks, turning back to me with a cheeky grin. He’s so close now that our shoulders are touching. I can smell the musky scent of sweat and cologne that clings to his skin. A warm heat spreads throughout my chest, but I’m not sure if it’s his proximity or the alcohol hitting my system.
Either way, I don’t hate it.
“Despite the offensive color, it’s good.” I take another sip. It goes down just as easily as the first. “Really good, actually.”
“Told you so.” He lifts his chin, gesturing toward the dance floor. “Want to dance?”
Um, yes, please.
So what if I’m a shit dancer? Even I can grind up against a guy without causing permanent damage.
Probably.
I take a swig of my drink, and confidence bolstered, nod.
Mike takes my hand, his skin cool against my own, and leads me onto the dance floor. There’s a popular hip hop song blasting from the overhead speakers, making it damn near impossible to think, let alone talk. I take a long pull from my plastic cup as we squeeze through the crowd, letting the soft buzz of alcohol dull my senses.
I don’t need to be completely sober tonight. Not when my mind is already made up.
The crush of bodies swallows us up like quicksand, and a flutter of excitement fills my chest as Mike wraps his arms around my waist. His beer bottle presses against my backside as he pulls me in close, and I loop my arms over his shoulders, careful not to spill my drink on him since that would probably be a total mood killer.
We move slowly to the beat of the music, feeling each other out, but eventually we find our rhythm. A half dozen songs later, his hips are pressed to mine in a wholly indecent manner. One that suggests I’ll be ditching my virginity sooner rather than later.
Could this night get any better?
Not likely.
“Excuse me.”
The familiar words echo in my alcohol-soaked brain, but I ignore them. There’s literally nowhere to go. I couldn’t move an inch in either direction, even if I wanted to.
Which—spoiler alert—I don’t.
Whoever it is will have to find another path to the bar.
There’s a deep growl to my left—an actual freaking growl—and I jerk my head around to find a sexy blond giant smirking down at me.
Our eyes lock, and an involuntary shiver races down my spine.
Cooper-the-interfering-jockblocker-DeLaurentis.
12
COOPER
“Miss me, sweetheart?”I give Quinn a slow once-over, taking in the sexy emerald tank top that complements her Coke bottle eyes and the snug, curve-hugging jeans that show off her perfect ass. “Because I sure missed you.”
