Two margaritas later, Jill and Ashley are reenacting my first meeting with Bryce in the middle of the kitchen while Sara, Gwen, and I sit at the counter bar on the other side in the dining area. Jill, wearing a baseball hat, smacks into Ashley, whose features twist in terror. She lets out a yelp, falling clumsily onto the floor. Jill immediately drops to her knees and starts waving her arms frantically. I can’t stop myself from laughing.
It’s a perfect rendition of when Bryce and I met. And so romantic.
Not.
Our run-in, literally, had happened in late autumn last year, when I was covering a benefit baseball scrimmage for the school paper. I’d been shooting photos from the sidelines when the heavily muscled third baseman had knocked me over while going for a fly ball. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been so close to third base, but I’d been getting such good shots with my camera that I hadn’t wanted to move an inch. So our collision had pretty much been my fault. Even though it wasn’t romantic, Bryce was. He was seriously worried about me through the whole thing. We’d exchanged numbers after our crash, and he’d called me that night to ask if he could come by and make sure I was okay—and he’d even brought flowers. He kept up the phone calls and visits, and a few months later, he’d asked me out. I liked him well enough, and because we both seemed to be equally busy, we fell into an easy routine of casual dating that’s worked for us ever since.
“So that is how Barbie met Ken,” Jill says, bowing. I curl my lip at her and jokingly narrow my eyes. Because Bryce, like me, has blond hair, she’s been referring to us as Beach Barbie and Ken since our first date. The other girls laugh. I take a long, brain-freezing sip from my margarita and ignore her comment.
As Jill helps Ashley off the floor, there’s another knock at the door.
“Oh, let me get it!” Jill runs across the living room and whips open the door, smirking at us over her shoulder. Her entire body freezes as she says, “Holy shit!”
Holy shit is right. Instead of Bryce, whom we were all expecting, Sam stands in the doorway. His gaze travels past Jill to me and then over the other girls. He puts on a slick grin. “Hello, ladies,” he says smoothly, leaning casually against the door frame and giving the girls with me at the bar a wink. “Is this a bad time?”
He’s dressed in long shorts and a faded black tank. His dark curls are a sexy mess under a baseball cap turned backward. He should look like a loser slob, but with his skin tanned golden-brown from lawn work, his muscular arms on display, and his toothy white grin, he looks like a sloppy, college hottie—and I suppose he is, given the way all my friends except Jill are hungrily checking him out.
Sam’s hotness, which I’d ignored when I’d been so obsessed with his brother, Seth, is magnified now. His body looks as chiseled as that of a professional athlete. Sam had always been the one of the two who looked sweet and searing, like a poet. But with his build now adding another layer of gorgeous to his square jaw, sharp cheekbones, and deep-set blue eyes, his looks are as killer as the flirtatious smile he flashes. I’d forgotten that grin, because for the past three years the only expression I’d seen him wear was one of contempt.
Jill looks at me, waiting for me to answer him as her foot taps impatiently on the carpet.
Gwen, Sara, and Ashley continue to stare at Sam with wide, hungry gazes.
I slowly slide off my stool. “What do you want, Sam?”
He glances at the other girls sitting at the counter/bar and grins sexily before saying, “Could I talk with you for a minute?”
Since he appears sincere, I move toward the door. “All right.”
Jill’s look is level as I pass her. Because Sam’s crooked grin is still in place, I wonder if maybe this will be a first step toward resolving our mutual dislike. Maybe he’s ready to be mature. I pry the knob from Jill’s hand, ignore her pointed stare, and step outside, shutting the door behind me.
Sam leans back against the railing of the porch to our apartment, his biceps flexing as he props himself up, his ankles crossed. He is the picture of disheveled cool. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he says. “I was a dick the other day at my apartment. You caught me off guard. Romeo didn’t give any warnings about you or anyone else coming on the tour.”
I nod, hopeful we can find a way to get along.
He lets out a sigh as his eyes roam over me in the dress. “I still don’t think you should come on the tour.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. Perhaps we’re really going to be stuck in the past forever, our distrust of each other like an angry, thrashing metal song that never ends. I don’t say anything, just raise an eyebrow.
“Consider it, Peyton,” Sam says. “Six weeks on a bus ignoring each other. Do you really want to deal with that?”
“I’ve already explained my reasons for going,” I reply. “Your last-ditch effort here isn’t going to work.”
His ankles uncross as he pulls away from the railing and stands up straight. His full lips become a thin line. “Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?”
Unable to control my anger, I snap, “Difficult? Because I’m not doing what you want?”
He lifts the cap and runs a hand through his curls. His wide shoulders sag. “This whole thing is difficult. You have no idea how difficult it is for me.”
His tone, his words, and his stiff body language signal that there’s more going on than that one past incident concerning us. Something is weighing on him so heavily that it strikes a chord of sympathy in me. “Maybe you should explain.”
“I . . .” His eyes are troubled and clouded by a shame that not only confuses me but tugs at my heart. He glances toward the parking lot of the apartment complex and lets out a short breath. When his gaze comes back me, he says, “You know I can’t stand you.”
Asshole. I’m aware he can’t stand me, but his aversion didn’t feel like the issue a few seconds ago. Though I can’t imagine what his emotions are, I’m sensing more than simple dislike. “Well, I can’t stand going to early morning classes or serving crappy-looking pizza or talking to guys with stupid opinions. Yet I deal with all that.” I reach for the door handle. “So my suggestion to you is to deal with it.”
His jaw clenches and his mouth twists, but before he can blow up at me, Bryce steps out of the dusk and onto the porch. Wearing jeans and a fitted T-shirt, he looks good—ready for a night out. Though at six one he’s over two inches taller than Sam, Sam’s heavy muscles make him appear larger than lean Bryce. He gazes from Sam to me. “Hey, Peyton. What’s going on?”
His voice is calm yet tense in a way that tells me he has noticed Sam’s rigid posture and angry eyes.
I feign indifference and shrug. “Nothing much. This is Sam, the bassist from Luminescent Juliet.” I gesture to Bryce. “My boyfriend, Bryce Hanson.”
Bryce gives Sam a skeptical look. I let go of the door handle and move close to my boyfriend’s side. “Sam came to double-check on everything for the trip tomorrow, but he was just leaving.”
Sam nods casually but I notice his fists are balled tightly at his sides. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Bryce watches him go, then turns to me. “What’s his problem?”
I tilt my head as if I’m lost in thought. “Nerves? They want everything to be perfect.” There is no way in hell I’m explaining my past with Sam or that dark time in my life to Bryce. We kind of date in the moment. Sharing our pasts has never been part of our relationship.
As Sam pulls away in his Blazer, Bryce stares down at me. His gaze turns troubled. “You sure you want to do this?”
I bump his arm with my shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m going to miss you and Jill, but it’s too good an opportunity to turn down.” I put my hand on his chest. “Besides, you’ll be gone half of the time at away games over the next two months.”