I sighed, glaring again at Rowan, because this was his fault.
Everything was his fault. Even when it wasn’t.
Maybe those shots had been spiked with another shot.
“Does he really think we’re lovers?” I looked to where Nate had gone. There was a pool table where someone had set up a tournament. I hoped Amber, one of our goalies was playing. She’d kick their arses.
Rowan laughed – at me. Why was he always finding me so amusing?
“No, Sparkles, he’s not stupid enough to think that.” He shook his head. “You have another drink.”
I turned around again and this time found Rose holding out a cocktail. I screwed my nose up – I was never sure about cocktails, preferring to drink a couple of glasses of wine because I knew what was in it, rather than a mishmash of spirits that I probably had no tolerance for.
Rowan took the glass from her. “What is it?”
Rose looked from him to me. “French martini. You’ll like it.”
I wasn’t sure I would. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy.” She looked Rowan up and down and then gave me the thumbs up, skirting off backwards straight into Ryan. There was a round of applause as he stopped her from falling, steadying the hand holding her cocktail without letting a drop spill, which only made someone else shout they were getting another round of shots to celebrate.
Rowan passed me my drink. I stared at it, not sure whether it was drinkable or not. Then I heard him laugh again.
“It won’t be poisoned. If you want, I’ll taste it for you.” He held his hand out.
“I don’t need you to test my drinks.”
“Fine. But you clearly don’t want to drink it, so shall I get you something else? What would her ladyship like?”
I knew that my glare had turned into a scowl.
Rowan looked like he was trying to stop his grin from growing. “Fuck, for a sparkly person, you’re a fucking grumpy drunk.”
“I’m not drunk!”
“Merry then.”
“I’m not drunk.” I sipped at the cocktail before I analysed it anymore. It was actually okay. “Maybe I’m a bit merry.”
He gave a nod.
“Does Nate really think something’s going on between us?” I needed the answer more than I needed air, because if people thought that, I needed to put them straight. Rowan’s biceps and calves and thighs were not my type. Definitely not. Never.
“No, he doesn’t. He knows you hate me.” Rowan took a glass full of another cocktail off a passing waiter.
“I don’t hate you.” I suddenly felt very guilty. Hate was too strong a word. One that should be saved for people who committed horrendous crimes. Not ones who had calves that deserved their own calendar.
Rowan took a long sip of his drink. “You don’t?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Do you like me then?”
“You sound like you’re ten and we’re on a playground at school.”
He was definitely trying not to laugh at me.
“I wasn’t interested in girls when I was ten. Only football.”
