I didn’t correct her when she called him mine.
Pink
Ihad a deep aversion to suits.
Always had, ever since my first visit to the tailor when I’d been a kid. The old man had poked and prodded at me for an hour, which might as well have been a lifetime to a seven-year-old. Suits were reserved for unfortunate occasions—funerals, fundraisers, and formal dinners with foreign dignitaries.
My least favorite F words.
I didn’t even wear them on game days, much to the disappointment of our coaching staff who demanded professionalism both on and off the field. That included our finest wares before and after every game. Thankfully, I had gotten away with slacks and sweaters so far this season, mostly because the bulk of my sweater collection rivaled a crossover between Harry Styles and a Ralph Lauren catalog. Apart from the Barbie-pink mohair one featuring a collage of tastefully nude bodies.
Management had fined me for that one, but the designer had emailed me the next day to express her gratitude for wearing her clothes, so it was still a win in my book.
The only suits I fucked with these days were saved for the pool and the occasional hand of poker.
But tonight was a special occasion.
I stepped out of the limo and straightened my tie for the fourth time in twenty minutes. Why was I so nervous? This wasn’t my first date. This wasn’t even my first date with Nessa. Yet here I was, quivering like a virgin on prom night.
Only Nessa could do that—make me feel anxious and excited and, sometimes, a little sick all at once. A thrilling combination that paired well with rainstorms and rutabagas.
Still, nothing could have prepared me for that text message.
That fucking photo.
It was tattooed on my brain alongside the taste of her lips from the day we’d kissed and the sound of her moan when she came.
I had always been attracted to Nessa’s body, but until today, I had never seen her in anything less than a crop top. Even the night she’d dry-humped the shit out of me, I had onlyfelther bare skin. Was it actually dry-humping, though, if one of us had been naked below the waist?
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I answered it after the third ring.
“Can’t talk right now, Belles.”
“Did you know that in her prime, a queen bee can lay an egg every forty-three seconds?”
“Wow. That sounds . . . exhausting.”
I leaned against the car, waving off the driver when he came around to get the door.
“I told my date that today and he thought it was weird.”
“Hold up. Your date?”
Bella barely talked about dating. Ever. As long as I could remember, she had always been too caught up in her schooling and hobbies to pay any attention to dating. That hadn’t stopped the guys from chasing after her—or our mother from foisting her on every “nice guy” she came across.
“Jeremy,” she said very matter-of-fact. “We met at the science department mixer. I must have mentioned him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It doesn’t matter now. I don’t plan on going out with him again. He’s a slurper.”
“A slurper?”
“He slurps his food. Like, all his food.”
To be fair, that might have been a deal breaker for me, too. Soup was one thing, but a banana or handful of cashews? Straight to jail.
“Don’t worry about it, Belles. There are plenty more bees in the hive, so to speak.”
