If he wasn’t so freaking egotistical, it might be a little cute. But the fact that he A—assumed I needed to be rescued, and B—thatheneeded to be the one to rescue me, sits heavy in my stomach like soured milk.
Jerk.
I pull back, enjoying the red marks my teeth left on the edge of his ear. And I sigh. I wanted tonight to be fun, to let my hair down with my cousin, have a few drinks, maybe throw some shapes on the dance floor.
I wanted to stay up past bedtime and wake up with a headache. Because I don’t have classes tomorrow, I have no assignments hanging over my head, and because I stupidly thought I wouldn’t be anywhere near dumb penises and I could just enjoy some girl time.
Quite the fool, am I.
Turns out all the dumb penises are in one place. Sure, I wanted Tate to see me rocking this outfit like the queen I am, but now he’s probably feeling sorry for me. Poor, sad Penelope, cheated on by her ex and her former best friend. Ugh. The pathetic-ness coats my tongue.
“Why do you hate me so, Penelope?” Tate purrs into my ear. He’s not touching me other than his hand placed on my lower back, but I feel that contact everywhere.
It’s in the way my pulse skips in my wrists, the way my mouth is dry but other parts of me aren’t, and the way my body temp has risen by about three thousand, two hundred and four degrees since he handed me the glass of whiskey.
It’s not really him I’m angry at, it’s myself.
My rage is waning, my resolve wavering, like violent waves crashing against well-weathered stone, chipping away at it, tiny little pieces at a time and sweeping it out to sea never to be heard from again.
Why can’t I kiss him again?
He smells like he’s had whiskey, too. Did he get the same kind he got me? Does he like craft whiskey too? Or does he like mainstream brand names?
The tip of my tongue burns with curiosity, but I bite down so the questions don’t fall out.
Over Tate’s shoulder, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze on me. Expecting to find Dick’s weasly eyes meeting me across the bar, I instead find Chloe. She gives me a small smile, picking herhand up like she’s not sure whether she should wave at me or not.
The hate-fire burning inside my body for my former boyfriend and best friend is stronger than the hate-fire thatshouldbe burning in my bones for this delicious tall drink of water standing next to me with his hand on my body.
“Tate?”
He looks at me, eyes wide, like he’s stunned I actually addressed him by his name. “Yeah, Pitstop?”
“Kiss me.”
He purses his lips. “What’s the catch?”
I sigh.
“Are you going to bite my tongue off and keep it in a jar on your nightstand?”
“That’s an idea.” I tap my chin with the tip of my index finger.
“You want to make a scene in front of your ex, don’t you?” He searches my face, and I’m glad of the low-level lighting in the bar that hides the heat creeping into my cheeks.
I bite my lip, guilt seeping into my veins. He’s right, I do want to use him to emphasize my point to Dick and Chloe. It’s childish, it’s petty, it’s wrong, and I shouldn’t have asked him. But I also want a reason for him to kiss me.
“It’s okay. Vengeance is as old as time itself.” He stares at me long and hard, like he’s trying to find a way inside my eyes and into my soul. “And fully justified when you’ve been hurt by people you trust.” There’s no pity in his eyes, only understanding, and part of me wonders if someone has betrayed him in his life before. I doubt it, he’s just like my brother Oli, another golden boy, popular, talented, and from a line of NHL royalty.
I need some flaws to reappear right now, because standing so close to him in a heady whisky haze, I want him to consume me. Does he still kiss the way he did last year? Or has a year ofbeing a player—on and off the ice—made him even better with his mouth?
He strokes my cheek, leaving a trail of sizzling energy across my skin as his fingers glide along my face. My eyelids flutter closed on a long breath.
Pretending to hate him is exhausting.
It feels much nicer to just sink into this facade for a few minutes, get what I crave, what I need, and pretend it’s because of those assholes across the bar. I don’t give a fuck about them. Sure, they hurt me. Sure, they embarrassed the fuck out of me. But they deserve each other. And I deserve better than both of them.
But I want Tate to kiss me.
