I don't know exactly when I decided to keep my identity a secret. I just knew I wanted to be the one making the rules. The one with the power as I let the guy I had been drooling over for the last few months rail me against a sink. At the time, I hadn't yet had my epiphany, so I leaned in and did what I always do. I kept it casual, light, fun.
Unforgettable.
Maybe a little too much considering I'm still thinking about it after all this time. For someone who says she doesn't get attached, Drew's been hard to shake. But something about him struck me—stuck with me even after all this time.
I was caught off guard by the fact that he seemed different than I expected—more raw. Real. His intensity, the way he growled into my ear—it felt like we were connecting on a deeper level than maybe either of us are used to. Add to that his solid thighs, rock-hard ass, andholy shit, his massive—
"Brooke!"
The sound of my name rips me from the memory of Drew's perfect… everything, and I look up from where my gaze burns a hole in the red laminate floor of the kitchen. Trisha, our very goth—very unfriendly—hostess, stands in front of me, her expression blank behind her thick black eyeliner. She's naturally blunt, aggressive, and borderline hostile, but when she's standing by the restaurant door, she can turn it on better than anyone I know. It's scary how she can be two completely different people, but you get used to the slight fear she instills in you every time she comes to tell you that she's seated someone in your section.
Sort of.
"Sorry, did you say something?" I ask, taking another sip of my soda before returning my drink to its slot next to Tess's.
She stares at me briefly, and my gaze wanders awkwardly around the kitchen. I've learned that avoiding eye contact makes you feel less like she has a voodoo doll of you at home.
"I said, I sat you. Table twelve." With that, Trish turns on her heels, mumbling under her breath.
Normally, I would laugh off her attitude—that girl is one puzzle I don't care to piece together. But I have no capacity to feel anything right now except for the paralysis of my mind thanks to her last damn word.
Twelve.
For the past ten months, anything that reminds me of Drew "Best Sex of My Life" Anderson, makes my stomach drop, my palms sweat, and my chest flutter with a weird anxiety. I've had one-night-stands, sure, but none of the others still sit in the back of my mind. I don't think about any of them when I'm alone at night or sleeping with the guy I've gone on a few dates with, who is dull as dishwater but hung like a horse—Sorry Shane, it's nothing personal.But seeing Drew in the news, hearing him speak in an interview, having customers seated athisnumber's table… all of it brings memories of that night flooding back to me.
Cracking my neck to either side, I roll my shoulders in an attempt to release some of the tension.Get it together, Brooke.Drew Anderson was a one-off. He's the Flames' star forward for God's sake, and he's not without baggage, that's for sure. I know I'm just starting myrealjourney into adulthood, but something tells me pursuing a young celebrity isn't the most promising start.
Besides, it was my idea to make sure our bathroom sexcapades stayed within those four white walls. Who's to say he'd even remember holding my naked body against them while he slammed into me, my weight held effortlessly in his chiseled—
Holy shit, I've officially lost it.
Glancing into the dining room, I find table twelve, a booth with dark stained wood and red pleather seats tucked into the back corner. I snicker when I see who is seated there, hands intertwined on top of the table, their plastic menus casually pushed to the edge. I would swear they did this on purpose if they knew about that night. But they don't. No one does. And ideally, I'd like to keep it that way.
Strutting over to them, I mouth the words to the song echoing around the room, resetting myself to the beat of the music. "Your love would be so damn nauseating if you guys weren't so disgustingly hot," I say when I finally reach their table.
Alex rolls her eyes before glaring up at me. Levi chuckles, leaning back into the cushion behind him, his hands slipping from Alex's grasp. "Hey, Brooke," he says, draping one arm on the back of the booth and turning his body to face me.
"McHottie," I say curtly, nodding to him. Levi shakes his head and smiles as I slide into the booth next to Al. "What are you guys doing here?"
Laying her head on my shoulder, Alex wraps her arm around mine now resting on the table. "Can't we just come see my best friend while she's working on cheesesteak night?"
I look down at her suspiciously, then over at Levi, who immediately raises his palms in the air. "Don't look at me," he says. "I'm actually here for the sandwich." He reaches for the specials menu tucked into the metal holder at the back of the table and pretends to be captivated by the faded image of chipped steak and melted cheese wedged between a long sub roll.
Al's head slips off of my shoulder as I turn toward her and raise my brow. "So, are you going to tell me why you're really here or do I need to sic Trisha on you."
"Front of the house Trish or therealTrish?" she asks with wide eyes.
"I haven't decided yet."
With a shiver, she shakes her head. "Forget it. Both give me the creeps." She scrunches her face up before continuing to answer. "I need a favor."
I nod in faux understanding. "You guys want to borrow my handcuffs, don't you? I told you, you're always welcome to any ofmy—"
"Oh my God, no." She slaps my arm as a laugh rips out of me. "That is not what I mean."
I glance at Levi, who has his eyebrows cocked and his lips turned down, looking over the cheesesteak card. "Speak for yourself," he whispers not-so-under his breath as he returns it to its place in the holder. Alex looks at him as her mouth falls open, and he, once again, holds his hands up in surrender.
"What do you need?" I ask through a giggle, turning back to my blushing friend.
