The Dating Playbook Series Boxed Set Page 4
I shake my head. “No. I’m actually hoping to avoid seeing him because the last thing I need to see right now is him making out with someone.”
Her lips pull into a line as she attempts to smile. “Why don’t I go with you?”
“What? No. Go. Flirt. Have fun. Get his number. Maybe he’ll lead you back to the rest of the team, and you can have your pick.”
Poppy’s mouth falls open as she laughs. “Oh my gosh. Stop giving me hope.” She glances back over to Chase and then me. “Okay. I have my phone on. If you need anything—anything—just call.”
“I’ve already got babysitters here. I’m good.”
She gives me a parting smile, and then her hips sway as she approaches Chase, his smile confirming he notices her.
The number of bodies in here leaves the air humid, carrying a sea of scents: fruity perfumes, a hint of cologne, an underlying of beer all working to compete against the smell of sweat.
Maybe I should move my plan for stepping outside of my comfort zone and dating to next year after I’ve mastered the mechanics that come with choppy college schedules, parties, and the idea of few knowing my name after attending the same school for ten years.
I find the keg of beer and a stack of plastic cups, and without a purpose in my way, I head toward it and fill a glass.
“Kelly, right?” It’s Derek. He leans closer. His light hair is mussed like he—or maybe someone else—has been running their hands through it. It’s sexy as hell.
Disappointment feels too similar to hope as I shake my head. “Sorry. Wrong girl.”
“Right girl, wrong name,” he says, taking a step closer to me. “I’m sorry. I’m terrible with names. I literally had to write my coach’s name on my forearm so I’d stop calling him Steve. Tell me your name again. I swear, I’ll remember it this time.”
“Raegan.”
“Like the president.” He taps his temple as though storing my name to memory. “Do you remember my name?” He smiles, taking the final step, so there’s barely a gap between us.
He’s flirting with me, and it might be because he’s not supposed to, but I cling to the knowledge he talked to me before knowing I was Pax’s little sister and smile coyly. “It was David, right? Or Duke? Darryl?”
He laughs. “You’re funny.”
“Where’s your accent?”
He raises his eyebrows, and I take another drink of liquid courage. “My accent?”
“I thought you were from Texas?”
His smile grows. “You do remember.” His white teeth flash. “I’m from Rhode Island. I went to Texas for my freshman and sophomore years.”
“Really?”
He nods, grabbing a cup and filling one for himself. “What about you?”
“I’m a Seattleite, born and raised.”
“Really?”
It’s my turn to nod.
“Do you want to stay here after graduation?”
I nod. “I think so. What about you?”
Derek winces. “I don’t know. I’ve got to say, so far it looks way better than I’d expected.” He runs his gaze over me, slowly—purposefully, stopping when he reaches my eyes. I feel my heart beating in my neck. “Want to know a secret?” he asks.
I hold on to the facts of him being attractive and smelling really good as I wait for the pickup line I know will make me cringe.
He leans closer, flooding my senses with his cologne, the heat of his body, the fresh scent of whatever product’s in his hair. His eyes are expressive, his irises edged by a darker hue that creates mazes I’m sure many have been lost in.
“I almost didn’t transfer here because I was worried it was going to rain all the time and feel depressing.”
Relief has me laughing. “October hasn’t begun yet.”
“Bad?”
“You get used to it.”
He slaps a hand across his chest and throws his head back like I’ve just skewered his hopes.
Laughter tickles my lips—natural and easy. I want to blame the beer running through my veins for the temptation to lean closer and mold my body against his in invitation, but that would be a lie since I’ve only managed a few sips.
“Derek!” A girl appears, her arms winding around one of his. She has long, blonde hair, eyes round and wide as a doe, and a waist that is flat and toned, shown off by the cut-off shirt she’s wearing.
“Hey.” He smiles at her and doesn’t try to pull free. “Chrissy, this is Raegan.”
He knows her name.
“Hi.” Her lips are pursed, eyes narrowed. If she had nails that contracted, I’m sure they’d be out and pointed at my throat.
I try to return the diluted smile and glance over my shoulder for an excuse to leave. “I need to meet my friend. Nice meeting you guys.”
I turn when Derek yells my name.
“See? I told you I’d remember.”
It’s ridiculous that I find another smile forming on my lips. Hopeless, maybe, but I’m not shameless, so I lift my glass and continue walking until I’m out of sight and pause, looking around for Poppy.
My chest feels heavy and conflicted. Disappointment from too many interactions weighing me down.
“You look way too serious. You must be a freshman.” A guy says, stopping beside me. His hair is slicked to the side with too much product, and he’s wearing a yellow polo with blue and white stripes tucked into a pair of jeans with a belt buckle that’s the size of my hand. His eyes are locked on my hint of cleavage, making the sinking feeling in my chest careen with a nosedive.
“I’m looking for my friend.”
He smiles, his thick neck bobbing as he makes a quick turn of his head. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“I should go. I…” Am really, really terrible at lying and making excuses, and he knows it, his face brightening with the knowledge.
“I’m pretty sure it was me you were looking for.” He offers his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Right.”
My laugh is automatic, and though it’s not meant to encourage him, he steps closer like it was.
“What? I can’t help but fall for you. You keep tripping me with that smile.”
“Oh, that one was so bad,” I tell him, fighting to stop my smile from spreading.
“Let me borrow a kiss. I promise I’ll give it back with interest.” He steps forward, and I swallow my laughter as I take a step back.
“You’re full of pickup lines, aren’t you?”
“Do you know what my shirt’s made out of?”
I take another step back, my heel hitting the wall.
Oh boy.
“Boyfriend material,” he tells me, standing too close for comfort.
I thank my lucky stars when Lincoln appears next to the guy, his eyebrows drawn like he’s bored. Mr. Pick-up-line doesn’t acknowledge him, so Lincoln loudly clears his throat. The sound has Polo twisting. “Oh. My bad,” he says.
Lincoln nods. “Yup.”
The stranger chuckles like he’s undeterred, but sags back, his gaze still on my cleavage.
I look at Lincoln, silently begging him not to leave. “Have you seen Poppy?” I ask him.
Lincoln closes the distance between us, shutting Polo out of my vision. “You just keep needing to be saved tonight.”
Indignation has me planting a hand on my hip, ready to repel his words. His dark and obnoxiously perfect tousled hair teases my fingers, and his eyes are filled with alcohol-induced interest as he slides his hand against my waist, wrapping around my hip, so his fingertips rest on my butt. My hand and anger fall, along with any pride and sense as I stop breathing. My head’s spinning like I’ve had too much to drink as I realize I could get far drunker on Lincoln than any substance.
His eyes close, and my lungs feel like I’ve just belly-flopped. His lips are hot, dancing across my collarbone, leaving a trail that has me shivering though I’m too warm.
His other hand connects with the left side of my waist, pulling me closer to him. “Pretend you’re enjoying this,” he growls, grazing my ear with his teeth.
He’s doing this for show. An attempt to deter Polo. It doesn’t help me breathe any easier. I lift my hands, gripping his shoulders, and he sweeps his lips up the column of my neck, stopping below my ear.
5
Lincoln Beckett has just proven I won’t be dying from a heart attack anytime soon.
“You’re really making me work for it, aren’t you, Lawson?”
I can hardly formulate a coherent thought, much less a sentence.
Someone laughs. The sound too forced and loud to be casual, drawing my attention back to the ogre wearing a polo. He grins, like he knows this is a sham, and expects me to call out the farce.
This is ridiculous.
This is stupid.
This is Lincoln!
Shit!
Rule number five of why I can’t date Lincoln: I won’t date anyone who makes me turn into a shy prude who forgets how to kiss. I want to be with someone who makes me feel empowered, strong, sexy, and when Lincoln is around, I don’t feel any of that.
“You’re killin’ me here, Lawson,” he whispers, then straightens.
The quick rhythm of my heart has me light-headed, and his kiss has left me dazed. I start to look in the direction of the ogre again, but Lincoln grabs my hand and tugs me toward the door.
One of my flip-flops comes clean off, getting stuck to something sticky on the floor. I pull my hand free, struggling to get my shoe back on as others step dangerously close to my toes.
A black tennis shoe with dark gray sides boxes in my sandal, and I nervously glance up, already aware I’m going to find Lincoln. He grins. It’s easy, almost lazy like he didn’t just try giving me a hickey—at a party my brother is also at.
 
; I slide my toes between the small piece of rubber that separates my toes and take a quick look around the house, hoping I catch sight of Poppy before we take the remaining steps to the door.
Rain plays a soft symphony outside, hitting everything like it’s a target. The air is cold—drawing more attention to how warm my entire neck is from where Lincoln falsely marked me.
“Where’s Poppy?” he says.
Emotions and confusion have me clearing my throat, attempting to suppress each of them. I glance back at the house, tucking some of my blonde hair back behind an ear. “Talking to someone.”
“Rugby player?”
“Yup.” I slowly turn my gaze to Lincoln but can only keep his stare for a second before looking away. I pretend the group of guys wearing sheets is fascinating.
“Well, here’s a little insight: the first rule of attending a frat party is knowing who your scapegoat is going to be.”
“My scapegoat?”
Lincoln nods. “When you get attention from someone you’re not interested in, your scapegoat swoops in and plays your boyfriend to get you off the hook.”
I knew it was fake and that he was only pawing at me for show, but the way he dismissively moves on like it didn’t matter to him at all stings. “I didn’t need a scapegoat. Things were fine.”
“You looked like a deer caught in the headlights.”
“I would have been fine.” My words sound more defensive than I intended.
He pulls his head back, his eyes growing round. “Did I hit a pressure point?”
I raise a hand in the direction of the front door. “You guys have to stop. I already talked to Pax. You guys do you, and I do me.”
The left side of Lincoln’s lips tip into a grin that has a dimple flashing. “Oh, yeah?”
“You guys are being ridiculous. I was the only sober person in that goddamn house.”
“Since when did little Lawson develop such a potty mouth?”
I growl. Or maybe I shriek. I’m unsure how to describe the sound that climbs out of my throat, expressing my frustration.
“Hey, President!” a girl calls, her tone flirty, airy—the complete opposite of mine.
Lincoln turns to look—of course he looks. I’m coming across as an errant child throwing a temper tantrum, not sexy or confident in the least. My heart beats painfully in my chest, regret tangling with frustration. Rule six as to why I can’t be with Lincoln: I don’t know how to be myself around him.
“What’s up?” he calls.
“Are you coming inside?”
I don’t turn around to face the girl. I don’t need to add force to the avalanche already crashing down around me, burying me in doubts.
“Yeah. I’ll be in soon.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She giggles.
I roll my eyes.
Lincoln smirks. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, that was something. You should probably sit down. You’re going to be dizzy after that eye roll.”
I shake my head, tempted to roll my eyes again. “Who giggles like that?”
His smirk doesn’t lessen. “Like what?”
“Like that!” I swing my arm toward the house again for emphasis. “And more importantly, why do guys find it sexy? Because it’s not. It is so not.”
“Then, what is sexy?”
“Not that!”
He chuckles, and the jealousy in me disguised as anger and offense spreads. “She was just laughing.”
“She was not just laughing. That was basically her saying, come screw me in the bathroom.”
He doesn’t refute my words, his calm demeanor serving to make mine a chaotic storm I work to suppress by taking a deep breath through my mouth and blowing it out my nose, something Poppy’s mother tells her clients to do when they call her emergency line worked up over something.
“I’m surprised it bothers you so much.”
“Says the guy who tried to give me a hickey because I was having a conversation with a dude.”
“You really aren’t going to give me any credit for saving you, are you?”
“No!” I cry.
He shrugs. “Give it a couple of weeks on campus, and you’ll realize I did you a favor.”
He has no idea how wrong he is. I’ll likely be distracted, working to remember every single second and detail of those few minutes. The way his cologne infiltrated my thoughts, the heat of his lips before the scent reached my nose, and how cold my skin felt when he’d worked his way higher on my jaw, like each cell was crying out for him to return.
Lincoln didn’t save me. On the contrary, he’s likely ruined me.
He chuckles again.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because I can practically hear your thoughts screaming ‘fuck off’ at me.”
“I’m not….” I release a deep breath, trying to find my footing. I’m in a no-win situation. Admit that’s not what I was thinking and risk exposing my jealousy and insecurities surrounding him like the Great Wall of China, or allow him to think that’s true, and I’m a moody bitch. “I just don’t understand why guys think it’s cute when girls act giggly and dumb.”
“Was she acting dumb? She spoke in complete sentences and addressed me by name. Were you expecting her to speak in Latin? Recite the Declaration of Independence?”
I sigh.
Touché.
“Okay, look,” I say, pointing to where the group of guys dressed with sheets as togas are standing in a semi-circle, a couple of girls off to the side of them dressed in jeans and tees. They talk to each other, occasionally stealing glances at the guys. It’s obvious one of them or maybe both like a guy in the group. “Those girls have been talking to each other since we came out here, obviously trying to catch their attention, and the guys haven’t talked to them once. But, watch this,” I say, as two girls wearing bikinis walk by and wave, giggling when the guys call out for them to stop and giggling louder when they make a lude remark. “Boobs and giggles walk into the picture, and suddenly toga boys realize they’re not the only ones out here.”
“I doubt the giggles did anything. I’m pretty sure that was all boobs and asses.”
“You see my point.”
“But, why are you mad at the guys. Be mad at the girls.”
“Because you guys don’t pay attention unless a girl walks in looking and acting like that. Women feel like they have to pretend to be clueless and perfect to get attention.”
Lincoln tilts his head. “Were you giggling when that guy inside talked to you?”
I pause too long.
He smiles. It’s a victorious smile, one that makes his eyes shine, and both dimples become prominent distractions. “My point exactly.”
I shake my head, my thoughts churning too slowly with his close proximity and my confusion for how this night has gone.
“I thought you were just looking for a good time, anyway?” he asks.
“I am.” I nod too vigorously.
“Then, don’t worry about it or, you could try it.”
“What? Wear a thong bikini? No, thank you.”
He rolls his shoulders with a casual shrug. I notice he doesn’t wince this time. Last year, there were a couple of months where every time I saw him, he’d wince when he moved. It was slight—so much so it didn’t feel okay asking about it. “There are no rules or dress codes at these parties.”
“As a girl, I have an entire list of rules I have to abide by that you’re unaware of.”
Lincoln pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and a bright orange lighter. One of the cheap Zippo lighters that Maggie,, Pax, and I would pick up at the grocery store as kids simply to try and light. I never did become adept at using them, but Lincoln has no problem getting it to light with a quick zing of his thumb.
His face glows a warm orange that should be unattractive because I hate cigarettes. I hate the way they smell. I hate the way they look. But right now, dammit, if I don’t find it warming every inch of my skin.
“Fuck the rules,” he says.
6
“Hey, hey! There’s my girl!” Mom calls as I make my way into the kitchen. It’s Friday morning—or what’s left of the morning—and the skies have cleared, unlike my thoughts, which are thickly overcast with memories of last night. My skin still remembers Lincoln’s touch, and the farther the hours stretch, the more annoyed I’ve become that I didn’t take every opportunity to play the role he provided.