A Kiss Like This (11 page)

Since I’m shelling out so much for the two-night stay this weekend, I’m secretly pleased that from the outside, the cabins appear to be worth every penny.

Rather than house numbers, each abode is indicated with a sign above the door.

Our home for the weekend is named “Bear Claw.”

We pull into a short parking spot, and when Weston puts the truck in park, he takes his phone from the cup holder and thumbs through the texts. Still looking at the screen of his smartphone, he says, “Abby, I guess Shelby’s got you rooming in the cabin next door with Jenna?” He says it likes it’s a question. “Let’s all go in and say hello before you head next door to put all your stuff away.”

I nod and brace myself, ready for whatever the weekend holds.

~ Caleb ~

I can hear them before I see them—the newest arrivals—even above all the loud chatter and commotion in the cabin, and I tense at my place by the sink, where I’m helping Shelby unpack the groceries we brought down.

Voices sound from the front entry hall, greetings and salutations exchanged as Weston, Molly, Jenna, and Abby descend into the main family room, where a fireplace is roaring—despite the fifty degrees outside.

Cubby just couldn’t resist.

As I rip open a bag of chips and pour them into the large red serving bowl Shelby plunked down in front of me, she gives me a sidelong glance from the sink, where she’s cutting up a tomato for some taco dip. “So…?” She lets her voice trail off suggestively.

I blink back.

She cocks her head at me and plants a hand on her hip. “Well?” Now she’s got her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline, and she’s gazing at me expectantly as holds the pronged knife that’s now dripping tomato juice on the tile floor.

I’m confused as shit right now.

“Well…
what
?”

Shelby rolls her eyes and goes back to cutting the tomato. “You
know
.”

“Pretty sure I don’t.”

“Oh, please. Hello…
Abby
is here. Are you nervous
?
”

I grab the shredded cheese that has been sitting on the counter in front of me, resisting the urge to rip the thin plastic bag in half like the Incredible Hulk and wondering how the fuck I got stuck helping her prepare the snacks to begin with. “Nervous about what?”

Shelby waves a hand airily to and fro then flips her long platinum-blonde hair flippantly before lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Blaze told me you haven’t made a pass at her yet, and we all see the way you watch her. We don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

Fucking. Blaze
.

“Oh,
Blaze
told you that, huh?” I hiss, glaring at her. The thing is, she doesn’t look the least bit put out by my mood swing. Or maybe she’s just that dumb. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a crap.

Another hair flip. “Um, yeah. He tells me everything. Cause,
hello
.” She strikes a pose, inviting me to ogle her by propping her knife-free hand on her hip, sticking out her impressive artificial chest and making a duck face with her cherry-red lips.

“I’m speechless,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

“Why, thank you.” She takes that as a compliment and preens a little. “Listen. Can I give you some advice?’

“As if I could stop you,” I respond dryly without the barest hint of a smile.

Shelby gives a twinkly laugh. “You’re so hilarious.” She begins spreading the diced tomatoes evenly onto the taco dip tray, and continues. “Can you hand me that bag of cheese? Thanks. Anyway, as I was saying—just some friendly advice, since you’re Blaze’s best friend and all—”

“I am?” Since when?

She laughs again like I’m the funniest guy. “Just try smiling this weekend, ‘kay? You look so angry all the time. We don’t want you scaring the poor girl away.”

Here we go again with the
we
.

“Is that your friendly advice?”

She rolls her eyes. “Well… yeah.”

I suddenly feel really bad for Blaze, because Shelby can be such an airhead sometimes. Don’t get me wrong; most of the time she’s a real sweetheart, but sometimes I worry the elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor. But what she said made me think, and I glance back to where Abby stands, hovering on the fringes of the kitchen, looking as uncomfortable as I feel, even surrounded by her friends.

***

Abby
:
Guess where I am…

Cecelia:
Please tell me you’re in the basement of a fraternity house doing body shots
…

Abby:
GUH! Seriously. Why would you say that
?
You just ruined my fun
.

Cecelia:
Blah blah blah, stop keeping me in suspense
.

Abby:
We took a road trip to the Dells, and now we’re all holed up in this rental cabin, getting changed into our pajamas, then watching movies
.

Cecelia:
And might I ask—who is WE
?????

Abby:
You know. The gang… Weston, Molly, a few guys from the team. Caleb
…

Cecelia:
I can see you blushing from here.

Abby
: Ugh, I am! I can’t help it. I feel like this is my very first crush…

Cecelia
:…and what a wonderful feeling that is! Now go dazzle him with your brand of Abby awkward…

CHAPTER 12

Abby

“Jenna, where are the pajamas I put in here?” As I ask, I continue digging through my suitcase, which I’ve ransacked twice already.

No pajamas.

“Oh. You mean those hideous thermal bottoms and giant man shirt? They’re gone.” She emerges from the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, toothbrush poised at her bottom molars. “No freaking way am I letting you out there in that getup. Not with Caleb here, not when we’re trying to get you laid.”

She watches me and works the toothbrush back and forth
.

Brush, brush, brush
.

“Oh. My. God. Jenna, why would you
do
this to me? Why?” I try not to shriek, really I do, but unfortunately for me (and whoever is sleeping in the next room) my voice comes out breathlessly high pitched and scandalized. “This isn’t a beauty pageant. We’re camping.”

“This isn’t camping, you yuppie.” The brat snorts at me, shaking her lavender ponytail. “I’m sure you think you’re perfectly adorable in
man
jams, but it ain’t happening. The clothes are gone. Poof! I smothered them in hot dog juice and fed them to the raccoons.”

Brush, brush, brush
.

I take a deep breath, count to five in my head, and mutter through clenched teeth, “Remind me again why I haven’t tried to asphyxiate you in your sleep yet?

The toothbrush stops moving, and Jenna lets it sit in her mouth while she talks around it. “Why are you fighting me on this? Molly and Cecelia were never half as argumentative when I was helping them.” She disappears for a few seconds to spit in the sink, then returns. “Your problem is those hideous—and I do mean hideous—thermal pants, that for the life of me I can’t fathom
why
you would bring along… and ends with the most asexual shirt you own. One that even your dad wouldn’t wear.”

I fold my arms across my chest and pout. “It
is
my dad’s.”

Jenna stops brushing and points the foaming toothbrush in my direction, dripping toothpaste bubbles on the carpet. “Exactly! That’s my point. And how tall is your dad, exactly?”

Tall. My dad is
really
tall.

Which means his tee shirts are really big.

I purse my lips and stare down into the suitcase laid out on the bed, shrugging, and avoid her contemptuous stare.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You
will
wear something I brought for you. Knowing you like I do—since I’m the resident stylist—I forbid you to go out there in
that
.” She gives my jeans and well-worn sweatshirt a disdainful glance, disappointment written all over her sharp features, which have only been exaggerated by makeup. “While everyone else is chilling in their cute comfies, you want to wear your dad’s hand-me-downs? No.”

And as if she hadn’t delivered that proclamation dramatically enough, she adds a shiver that racks her thin body, totally repulsed. “Not happening.”

“Whatever,” I scoff, refusing to hear any more lecturing, and stalk to the door, giving the handle a good, pissed-off yank.

Peering outside, I give pause when I catch sight of Molly entering the kitchen completely decked out in pale pink yoga bottoms, sparkly rhinestones running up each leg, and a cute coordinating tank top. Ugh, totally adorable. Moments later, Shelby rounds the corner from her bedroom and catches sight of me.

She too is sporting a coordinating set—heather gray leggings and a slouchy, off-the-shoulder gray cotton shirt that says
#NOFILTER
across the front in big, sparkly sequin letters.

Crap.

Shelby looks me up and down, dismissing me before flipping her long, platinum-blonde ponytail over one shoulder. “Hurry and
change
. Jeez, slowpoke—we’re picking the movie in, like, five minutes! The guys are in charge of the popcorn.”

I don’t have the guts to tell her this is what I
want
to wear, because I don’t feel comfortable prancing around in actual girly loungewear in front of real-life, breathing boys.

I jerk my head in a nod, disappear back into my shared bedroom, and slam the door shut. I turn to face Jenna, whose cocky smirk threatens to make my blood boil, even as she points a bright yellow fingernail toward a small pile of neatly folded clothes at the foot of the double bed.

You can bet no spooning will be taking place tonight—no, sir.

Freaking. Jenna.

~ Caleb ~

“Sit down anywhere, bro. Pick a spot, we’re starting the movie. Cubby, man, pass Showtime something to eat. Give him the popcorn.”

I stand in the arched doorway of the great room under a bulky log barn beam, stuffing my hands into the warmth of my hoodie, uncomfortable with the dynamics as I debate my options. For the most part, everyone here is a couple. Molly is basically lying on top of McGrath, who is massaging her shoulders in a huge recliner. Shelby, Blaze, Stephan Randolph and his girlfriend, Chelsea, are sprawled out on the floor.

Cubby has claimed the other red leather recliner, arms behind his head and already half asleep, while four more people are lounging on the massive sectional sofa.

In addition, various snacks, soda, water, and beer are set out on the large coffee table that’s been shoved to the side of the space.

So, I can sequester myself and sit on the floor at the outskirts of the room,
or
grow a pair of balls and sit next to Abby, who has the only other space available beside her on the couch.

What a coincidence
.

“Sit your ass down already, Showtime. We’re watching
The Mighty Ducks
,” Miles Turner informs me from his spot on the couch. His fuck buddy, Angelica, is on the floor in front of him, leaning back between his spread legs. She watches me intently from under her exotic Filipina eyelashes, beautiful predatory gaze alive with interest.

Christ.

“Cop a squat or go sit by Abby. She promises not to bite too hard, and there’s plenty of room on the couch,” that girl Jenna calls out from across the room. My eyes—and everyone else’s—go wide as I search Jenna out on the floor and find her wiggling her eyebrows my way.

She’s got brass balls, that one.

I can’t decide if I like that about her.

Abby, for her part, is snuggled up on the end of the sectional, elbow on the armrest, and watching me with wary eyes and a tentative smile. And I don’t blame her; this whole situation with our friends trying to force us together is embarrassing.

I feel twelve—like I’m in goddamn middle school all over again—only back then I would have bolted out of the house and sworn never to attend another party again.

My feet stay rooted to the ground, uncertainty making me pause.

“Don’t be shy. Go sit down.”

I nod once, acknowledging Jenna’s remark, and hesitantly begin weaving myself gracelessly through the room—stepping over lounging bodies and tripping on a blanket—toward Abby, with her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.

Her long, shiny hair is in a loose, messy braid thing, cascading over her bare left shoulder, her smooth legs extending from a pair of bright white lace boxer shorts as she sits cross-legged on the couch. She’s tugging at the hem of a gauzy white tank top as if it’s too tight, even though it’s, uh,
flowy
.

As she scoots closer to the arm of the couch to make room for me, I drop onto the beige corduroy furniture with an “Oomph,” quickly taking note of Abby’s visible cleavage, the delicate smell of her perfume, the sneak-peaks of skin in her crochet top, and, well…
her
.

My dick stiffens, and I quickly adjust myself and my gym shorts.

Shit. This is gonna suck
.

I give her a nod in greeting, spread my legs to get comfortable, and sink lower into the broken-in cushions, clasping my hands in front of me on my lap to cover my boner, even though what I could really use right now is a pillow.

“Showtime, heads up,” Cubby says, pitching me a beer from the cooler like he’s lobbing a football through the air. I catch it easily, tap on the top before twisting the can cap off, and toss the cap behind the couch before taking a swig. I struggle with the urge to pound it all down in one breath when Shelby jumps up and clicks off all the lights.

~ Abby ~

I can hardly breathe when the lights go off. Caleb is sitting so close, and I’m wearing so… little.

His head is tipped back, and I hungrily observe the thick cords in his neck work as he swallows from his beer bottle. It’s obvious he hasn’t shaved in a few days, the stubble on his neck and chin casting a dark shadow over his already seemingly unhappy features.

He lowers the bottle and wipes his mouth, casting a quick glance over at me, his eyes flickering down over my chest, and I swear I hear him grunt grumpily.

As soon as the lights are turned off and the movie begins, my body is on high alert. Every tiny movement, from his shallow breathing and occasional discontented grumbling, to the heat his imposing body is emitting—sends a tide pool of awareness through my nerve endings, and I’m unable to concentrate on the big screen television in front of us.