But that one look, that one lift of his lips, has my stomach twisting and turning, sending signals to my heart to stay away—stay so far away from this one. He’s trouble.

  “So many things would have to happen for this to be a date,” I answer, standing from the arcade game. I toss the ball I’ve been holding at him and he catches it with ease. “Trust me, you don’t have it in you to make this a date, nor am I interested in it becoming one.”

  He sets the balls down and stands. He must be at least six-two, if not taller. I’m not short by any means at five foot eight, but he towers over me, his broad, fit shoulders filling in all the space of his shirt, his bulging arms a product of the Brentwood weight room.

  I get it.

  I truly get why girls are always talking about Lincoln Castle. His picture is one thing, but his presence is a whole other weapon.

  He’s confident in the way he carries his body. Flawless when it comes to his looks and style. Obviously, he’s outgoing and has no problem teasing and joking. Not to mention his body. It’s the work of God Himself, chiseled in all the right places. I can only imagine what he’d look like without a shirt.

  But the thing that’s been eating away at me all night is his personality. Strong, bold, but then he whines when necessary, effectively playing the cute card. He’s . . . captivating and annoying at the same time.

  “How do you know I can’t handle turning this into a date?”

  I give him a smooth once-over, arms folded across my chest. “Have you ever taken a girl out?”

  “I mean . . . yeah.”

  “When you answer with a pause, then you haven’t. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not interested in dating . . . anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why don’t I want to date anyone?” I shift in my spot and hook my thumbs in my back pockets. For a split second, I catch his gaze dropping to my chest, but then it ricochets back to my eyes. Typical. “I don’t have time to date,” I answer. “Training and school are my number-one priorities. If I have time to relax, it usually consists of lying in bed, naked, watching disturbing jail documentaries on Netflix.”

  “Naked?” he asks, his brow lifting. “You’re a naked sleeper?”

  “Yup. I roll around way too much at night and my clothes get tangled. So, I sleep naked, sometimes in just underwear.”

  He slowly nods, his eyes looking hazy.

  Ugh, men.

  Rolling my eyes, I turn away from him just as he calls out, “Where are you going?”

  “Leaving.”

  “How are you getting home?” he asks, catching up to me.

  “You’re taking me home.”

  “Who says I’m ready to leave?”

  I look up at him and then grab his arm. “I do. Let’s go, Castle.”

  Chapter Three

  LINCOLN

  I will not give my mom credit.

  I WILL NOT give my mom credit.

  Yeah, so I might have had a little bit of fun tonight. And I mean a little.

  Indie is . . . hell, she’s different.

  Bossy.

  Demanding.

  Competitive.

  Relentless.

  Opinionated.

  Annoyingly funny.

  Pretty much unlike any girl I’ve ever met. Not to mention, the girl is hot, especially with her arms raised above her head as she jumped up and down, her tits jiggling in her shirt as she celebrates a win.

  Between you and me, I might have let up a few times so I could watch her celebrate. Perverted? Maybe, but it was a damn good show.

  I lost track of time playing arcade games with Indie. I didn’t even notice our moms had gone, and I know . . . I just fucking know the minute I step into my house, my mom is going to give me the I told you so look, the one that will haunt my dreams for months, because she succeeded. She finally succeeded in keeping my attention with a girl.

  And not only did Indie keep my attention all night, she fucking commandeered it. She made it impossible for me to think about anything but our competition . . . and her jiggling tits.

  I don’t want to go home just yet. I don’t want to face my mom’s gloating. I don’t want to see the look on her face, nor do I want to hear her giggle and squeal with excitement when I open the door.

  That’s why I’m pulling into a Sonic Drive-In.

  “Uh, what are you doing?” Indie asks.

  “I want a milkshake.”

  “You’re supposed to be taking me home.”

  I roll down my window. “I realize that, but I want a milkshake. Therefore, I trump you because I’m the one driving.” She huffs next to me and I pull out my wallet. “You can huff all you want, but we’re not going anywhere until I get a milkshake. So, do you want to join me or not?”

  She tilts her head, blinks, then looks out the windshield. “Oreo chocolate, please.”

  Smiling, I order for both of us and pay.

  I open my car door and she quickly asks, “Where are you going?”

  “It’s one of the last days of summer in Michigan. I think we should take advantage of it.” I get out of the SUV and open the tailgate, then pull out two camping chairs, which I take to the front of the SUV, just as our milkshakes arrive. I thank the carhop and nod for Indie to join me.

  Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t move at first. I’ve come to realize how stubborn she is, but then she exits the car and flops her body into the chair next to mine.

  I hand her the milkshake and say, “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” she mutters, and then we both sip and regard the wooded area behind the Sonic that’s nestled between our homes.

  “So, you went to . . . Carver High?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I’m guessing you went to St. James?”

  I nod and chuckle. “We grew up twenty minutes from each other and didn’t run into one another until tonight.”

  “We’ve also gone to the same college for two years and play for the athletic department, yet this is the first time you’ve noticed me.”

  I swallow a chunk of Oreo and say, “Wow, bitter much? If you wanted my attention, babe, you should have asked for it.”

  “Don’t call me babe, and you know damn well I don’t want your attention.”

  “Actually, I don’t know that.” I take another sip. “I have no idea if this was a ruse. If I think about it, how convenient that I ended up meeting you right before we go back to school. Your mom just happened to do my mom’s hair, and then she just happened to leave so I have to take you home. Seems too convenient. How do I know you didn’t plan this? You even admitted to knowing who I am. For all I know, you could be a stalker; watched me all summer, took my mom captive, forced her to bring me to Boondoggles, and then stole me away for your own benefit.” On the inside, I’m cracking up. On the outside: deadpan.

  She stares at me.

  Blinks.

  Stares.

  And I wilt slightly under her gaze. The girl has a look, that’s for damn sure.

  “If you really think that’s true, you’re more deranged than I thought.”

  “Prove me wrong. Tell me it’s not true.”

  “It’s not true,” she says without even batting an eye.

  “How do I know?”

  “Because.” She turns to me and smiles. “If I was truly seeking your attention, I’d have sat in your lap and stroked your ego, like every other girl who’s attempted to get your attention.”

  “Ah, so you’ve observed me then.”

  “Jesus . . .” she mutters under her breath, turning away. “You know what? It’s true, you got me,” she says in a monotone voice. “I planned out this entire thing. Watch out, my next move will be taking advantage of you in the back of your mom’s sensible Honda CR-V.”

  “I knew it,” I say jokingly, as she shakes her head. “Can I suggest though, when you do take advantage of me, please know my nipples are quite sensitive, so go easy.”

  She snorts and covers her mouth, then swallows hard. “Are your nipples really that sensitive?”

  I puff out my chest. “See for yourself.”

  She looks down at my pecs and then back up at me. “You want me to touch your nipple?”

  “Don’t be shy. Give it a boop with your finger.” I show her an example of said boop. She doesn’t move. “I can lift my shirt so you can see it better.”

  “I’m not touching your bare nipple.”

  “It’s already excited at the prospect, see? Hard,” I say, flattening my shirt some more so she gets a better visual. “And it’s tingling.”

  “I’m not touching it,” she says, going back to her milkshake.

  “Don’t be shy. Touch it.”

  “No.”

  “Touch it.”

  “No.”

  “Give it the old touchy, touch, touch.”

  “Get a life.”

  “Touch it.”

  “No.”

  “Now.”

  “No,” she says louder.

  “It wants your fingers. Touch it, come on, just touch it. Touch it. Touch it. Touch it.”

  “For the love of God,” she says, while flinging her arm to the side and running her fingers over my nipple. The moment her fingers connect with the hard peak, I let out a long, disgustingly sexual moan and tilt my head back. It takes everything in me not to laugh out loud as she retracts her hand quickly, shaking her fingers out.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I can’t hold back anymore. I let out a rip of a laugh as she just stares at me.

  Blankly.

  When I settle down, I say, “That was fun.”

  “You need help.”

  * * *

  “You know, this is shaping up to be more of a date than you realize,” I say, pulling out of Sonic. We threw away our cups, packed up the chairs, and set the GPS on my phone so I knew where to drop her off.

  “This is not a date.”

  “I don’t know, feels like it. We went to a restaurant—”

  “We didn’t eat together.”

  “But we still ate food,” I say, holding up my finger. “And then we played arcade games. I then bought us dessert, courtesy of my mom’s credit card.” She snorts. “And now I’m driving you home. Feels like a date to me. The only thing we have left to do is kiss.” I reach into the center console and pull out the ChapStick I know my mom keeps there, and start lining my lips, making a show of it.

  She laughs. Loudly. “Do you honestly think I’m going to kiss you goodnight?”

  “I mean . . . I bought you a milkshake . . . so . . .”

  “You forced me to get a milkshake. And I was forced to accept a ride from you. This was not a date.”

  “Should I ask Siri what the definition of a date is?”

  “Why do you even care? You didn’t want to be set up by your mom, unless . . .” I stop at a red light and catch the large grin that stretches over her face. “Oh my God, you’re crushing on me.”

  “What?” I say, louder than expected. “I’m not crushing on you.”

  “Oh, you are soooooo crushing on me.” She points at my face. “You’re blushing.”

  “It’s dark. You can’t even tell.”

  “This all makes sense,” she says, starting to run with her absurd idea. “The relentless need to keep challenging me, the disappearance of our moms. You probably sent them a secret text, giving them a thumbs up to leave. And then you just so happened to want a milkshake, and now you’re puckering your lips, looking for a goodnight kiss. Oh yeah . . . you’re crushing.”

  “Ha, you wish,” I reply lamely.

  “I really don’t. It would be quite a nuisance if you crushed on me, actually. Because then you would follow me around campus, puppy-dog eyes begging me to pay you some attention. Knowing what little I know about you, you’re going to need attention. You seem very needy.”

  “I’m not fucking needy.”

  “Hmm.” I can feel her studying me and if I wasn’t driving right now, I’d study her right back. Return the same sass she’s shooting my way. “I’d like to believe you aren’t needy, but I did attend one of your parties, and I mean only one. And yes, I might have had too much jungle juice that night, but I distinctively remember you standing on the kitchen counter, shouting to everyone in the house that you were amazing.”

  I chuckle. “Did I flex my muscles?”

  “In fact . . . you did.”

  I nod. “Sounds like something I’d do.”

  “And you said you’re not a douchebag. Okay,” she scoffs.

  I rub my jaw while I turn right, down a residential road. “When alcohol is involved, we all have our douchebag moments.”

  “I’m glad you can admit that.” She points to a house on the right. “The house with the red Mazda 3 in the driveway, that’s me.”

  “I’m going to take a wild guess here and assume that’s your car.”

  “Why would you guess that?” she asks, as I pull in next to it.

  “Because, it has sass written all over it, just like you.”

  She removes her seatbelt and opens the car door. “That’s Rita, and yes, she’s mine.” Once out of the car, she turns to face me. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I pucker up my lips. “Ready for you.”

  “Get a life.” She shuts the door, but I roll down the window and call out to her.

  “So, this is how the night’s going to end? It’s so anticlimactic.”

  Walking backwards, she says, “If you were expecting more, you clearly didn’t learn anything about me tonight. See you around, Castle.”

  And then she takes off toward her door, leaving me with far too many unanswered questions and thoughts about her.

  The scariest thought? I think I like that girl.

  * * *

  “Tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” Hartley asks, pulling me into a quick hug as he meets up with us in the kitchen of our house.

  Freshman year, Hartley and I were roommates in the athletic dorm. We shared a suite with four other guys. Four football players, two baseball players. When I got my rooming assignment, I remember thinking Hartley’s last name was familiar and then my mama made the connection. Hartley Dashel is the son of the soon-to-be Football Hall of Famer, Mason Dashel. We, of course, went to our good friend the Internet to confirm, and sure enough, my new roommate was a prince of football royalty.

  I had to play it cool, but when Mason Dashel showed up in our dorm room, carrying a minifridge, I nearly had a heart attack. Hartley let me have my fangirl moment, but after that, I was told I had to be cool. And I have been ever since.

  We’ve also been inseparable since freshman year. When we had the chance to move off campus last year, we took it. We found a great six-bedroom house three blocks from Frankie Donuts and the boardwalk. We brought all the guys from our dorm and made it our own.

  The four rules are simple:

  Don’t be a slob.

  Don’t be a bitch.

  Pitch in for groceries.

  Knock before entering any bedroom—for obvious reasons.

  And we haven’t had any problems.

  Most of the baseball guys my age moved into the baseball loft, which I frequent, but when given the choice, I stuck with my boy, Hartley.

  Mom pokes me in the arm and coos, “Tell him about the girl.”

  Yeah, you can imagine how the last few days have been. When I got home from the “date,” I tried to slip in through the back door, but before I could even lock up, my mom was on my heels, asking me how it was, and if I could smell marriage in the air.

  I gave her a pat on the head and walked up the stairs. She trailed after me, asking a million questions, but I didn’t answer any of them. Instead, I kissed her cheek, told her I loved her, and then I went to bed, with thoughts of Indie’s jiggling tits running around in my head.

  The next morning, I received knowing looks. Mama made waffles with blueberries, my favorite, and when I sat down, there was a piece of paper next to my fork with a phone number on it.

  Mom just smiled and said, “In case you wanted to call her.”

  I rolled my eyes and ate my waffles. When I got up, I shoved the stupid piece of paper in my shorts and went to take a shower. That night, I stared at the number for what felt like hours. I considered texting her but remembered how the night went. Yeah, she was teasing and joking a lot of the time, but I also got the sense that she honestly didn’t have any interest in me. It felt like she was forced to stay and hang out with me, and that didn’t sit well.

  So, I tossed my phone aside, picked up a book, and started reading.

  “There’s a girl?” Hartley asks, excited. “No way, man. Your mom finally made a match?”

  “I did.” Mom twiddles her fingers together. “And they’re so cute together.”

  Mama unloads groceries, not paying attention to the conversation, probably still mentally applauding herself for figuring out the butt-plug debacle. Rest assured, people can search for butt plugs on that site now. Thank the high heavens.

  “Mrs. Castle, what an accomplishment. I know how hard you’ve worked this summer.” Hartley is such a kiss-ass.

  “Countless hours,” Mom says, playing up to Hartley’s praise.

  Interrupting their minor celebration, I say, “She did not find me a girl. She thinks she did, but she didn’t.”

  Hartley’s brow creases and he crosses his arms over his chest while leaning against the counter. “Mrs. Castle, were you just lying?” He shakes his head. “Do we need to go over the rules of the house again?”

  Oh yeah. No lying. That’s another rule, one Hartley strongly holds everyone accountable to.

  “I’m not lying; there was a true connection. He had heart eyes.”

  “I did not have heart eyes,” I say, picking up an apple from the bowl Mom just filled.

  “Back me up, Michelle. He had heart eyes, didn’t he?”

  Mama’s head pops up from the fridge. “I normally stay out of these things, but there might have been an extra bounce in his step.”