“Shit,” Colter mutters as he angles the truck into the garage. “Forgot it’s game night.”
“Game night?” I echo. My brain flashes to Monopoly and Pictionary, which doesn’t exactly match the vibe of the ranch guys I’ve met so far. They don’t strike me as the roll-the-dice crowd.
“Soccer,” he says.
“Oh.” Awkward. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a soccer fan.” Not that I know what he is a fan of. We barely know each other. Strangers, really.
Strangers who happen to have really good sex.
“I’m more into MMA,” he admits, sliding out of the truck. “But a lot of the guys are into it.”
Before I can move, he’s circling around to my side, opening my door, and offering his hand like I might refuse. He grabs the overnight bag I packed from the floorboard before I can even reach for it.
Nerves prickle under my skin as I follow him toward the house. God, I hope this isn’t anything like Jackson’s pool parties.I can’t do the nudity and open sex thing again. And if I’d known there would be an audience tonight, I might’ve worn something besides ratty leggings and a hoodie. Maybe even swiped on mascara.
The second we step inside, noise hits me. The television blares commentary, bodies fill the space—some standing, others draped across couches, a few leaning in the doorways like permanent fixtures. Laughter spills from the kitchen to our right. It’s crowded enough to make me feel like I can blend in. Or at least sneak away if I need to.
“Colter!” A voice booms over the noise.
A man peels himself from the pack, tall and broad, grinning like he owns the air in the room. He carries a beer that sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
Colter’s mouth twitches into something that looks like a smile, though I’ve learned with him that it’s more about the teeth than the warmth. “Jericho.”
The guy claps Colter’s shoulder, hard enough that I hear the smack of it. Colter doesn’t so much as flinch. Then those sharp green eyes cut to me, lingering, curious. Like I’m the punchline to a joke he hasn’t told yet.
“And who’s this?” Jericho asks, dragging it out like he already knows but wants Colter to say it out loud.
Colter doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds the small of my back, hot and firm through the hoodie, pinning me to him like an anchor. “Peyton.” Just my name, but the weight of it in his voice feels like more.
Jericho’s eyebrows climb, his grin spreading. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He tips his beer toward me in mock salute. “Didn’t think we’d ever see the day.”
I frown, not sure what the hell that means, but Colter ignores him and keeps steering me forward. People shift as we move, eyes flicking our way, curious but not cruel. A ripple of attentionthat trails after us like we’ve dragged something into the room that doesn’t belong.
My pulse jumps. I don’t know these people. Don’t know what they think they know. But I can feel their stares like fingerprints pressing into my skin.
Colter doesn’t explain, doesn’t slow. He cuts a clean path through the house, the crowd making room for him like it’s second nature.
The television dominates the living room, massive and bright, blasting the soccer match. A handful of guys shout at the screen, groaning with every bad pass, the air thick with beer and testosterone.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “So… this is game night?”
The corner of his mouth ticks, and he bends close enough that his breath grazes my ear. “You’ll survive.”
Easy for him to say. He belongs here. Me? I’m the outsider in yesterday’s clothes, trying not to look like I’ve been dragged into the spotlight.
But his hand doesn’t leave me. Possessive, steady. It keeps me tethered when my instincts whisper to find the nearest exit.
Jericho’s laugh cuts across the room again, sharp and knowing, and I can’t help but wonder what exactly everyone here thinks they know about Colter Shaw, and what it is they see when they look at me.
“Wings and shit in the kitchen, Colt!” someone yells as we pass the living room.
Colter doesn’t answer. He keeps moving, steering me up the stairs and down the hall like the crowd downstairs no longer exists.
“We’re not staying down there?” I ask as we step into his room. The words slip out before I can stop them. Does he not want anyone to see me?
“We’ll go back down,” he says. “But I want to change. Thought you might want to unpack your bag.”
“Unpack?” My head tilts.
