Love Won (Winning at Love book 1) Page 11

  “Here’s to Ubering tonight,” Kami says, closing her menu after we order our drinks.

  “Or I can Uber and you can ask Keaton to drive you,” I suggest as Sandy exits with our plates, adding a mischievous look. “You are on his way, after all. Right?”

  “Shut up. I’m sure he won’t appreciate you volunteering him.”

  “Please. I’m sure he’ll appreciate getting some alone time with you. And you look extra hot tonight, by the way. That maroon tank is doing wonders showing off your tan and other assets.”

  “Jesus, for an admitted cockblocker, you’re working overtime on this fantasy of Keaton and me that you’ve got going on,” she laughs. “Honestly, though, let’s not go back to this topic. I gave enough away for one night. Plus, he’ll be here soon, and the last thing I need is to look like a lovesick puppy because we’ve spent all night talking about the possibility of him and I. Okay?”

  “All right, you win,” I groan. “Let me just say, before moving on, that I’m glad you finally admitted you have feelings for him. I mean, I always knew, but good to see you’re catching up.” I smile, and reach over the table to pat her hand.

  “You know it’s going to work out, right?” I ask as Sandy places first one, then another, murky-blue fishbowl, complete with bobbing Swedish Fish, in front of us.

  “A toast: to moving the conversation along!” Kami says, raising her fishbowl with both hands and ignoring my last statement.

  “Okay, okay.” I raise my bowl to meet hers. “To fishbowls!”

  18

  Fishy Behaviour

  “What’s the difference between a G-spot and a golf ball?” Kami asks me, already snorting. We’re finished our first round of fishbowls, and our second has just been deposited in front of us.

  “Oh Jesus. I have no idea,” I say, shaking my head.

  “A guy will actually search for a golf ball,” she deadpans, and I let out another ungodly snort before we break into fits of laughter.

  “This is why I love you, Kamalot,” I squeal, my new fishbowl raised to toast her.

  “What’s so funny?” a deep voice rasps behind me, and I feel my panties dampen immediately as a result of hearing Coy’s voice.

  “Oh shit,” I hear Kami mutter, as Keaton slides in beside her. He quickly leans in and starts whispering. Whatever he’s saying must be good because she flushes and a really sweet, happy smile spreads across her pretty face.

  “Nothing. Just a funny joke Kami was telling,” I say, setting my drink down in front of me.

  “Tell me. I, too, enjoy a funny joke,” McCoy says, slipping next to me in the booth.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, facing him. He smells fucking yummy, like mango mixed with hints of patchouli and sandalwood. And he looks even better, his light blue Hurley T-shirt doing everything right, highlighting those eyes and that sexy, bronzed, summer-kissed skin of his.

  “Trivia. Heard you needed another player. I’m here to help fill that need. Like I said on the last day, when we were talking in your class, I excel at it,” he whispers, dripping innuendo and gifting me a sexy wink.

  Bastard.

  Ignoring him, I take a big sip from my drink and thank Jenn the Quiztress as she distributes tonight’s game booklets on our table.

  “Hi, guys. We’ll start in about five minutes,” she says, before moving on to the next group.

  “I hope you brought your A-game, boys,” I say, picking up the pen, ready to start the picture clue page for Round 10.

  “No shit,” adds Keaton, looking around the pub. “We’ve got the smallest team tonight.”

  “Piece of cake,” Kami says, waving the comment off. “East and I have had a good amount of brainfood.” She makes a very attractive slurping sound with her straw.

  “What the hell is that, anyway?” Keat asks, pulling the straw away from Kami—despite her laughing protests—and taking a drawn-out sip. “Jesus Christ, that shit’s fucking horrible.”

  “Good. More for me.” She bumps his shoulder and I see their eyes catch, and I melt a little with the hope that one day they will finally be together.

  I hear coughing beside me. “They’re kinda gross, eh?”

  “I think they’re pretty good. Want to try mine?” I ask, looking at Coy.

  “I meant them.” He nods across the booth.

  “Oh,” I shrug. “I think it’s about damn time. Look how cute they are.”

  “I can think of a few things I’d classify as cuter around here, but that’s me,” he responds without hesitation, and I want to read into his words so, so badly, but I’ve been burned before. I decide to block it out. He probably means one of the fifty or so other girls present tonight, despite my desire for him to be referring to me.

  “Hey, Keat,” Sandy says, coming up to our table again now that the guys are here.

  “Hiya, San. How’s it going?” Keaton asks her, and she completely ignores the question, or doesn’t hear it at all, maybe. She’s too busy noticing the man sitting beside me. Yep, welcome to Coyville.

  “Wow,” she lets escape, turning beet red at the realization that she indeed said that out loud. Shaking her head, she composes herself and tries again. “I mean, sorry. Hi, I’m Sandy. What can I get you?” she chances, still sounding all dreamy and breathy and shit. Oh boy, please tell me I do not sound like that when I’m around Coy? I make a mental note to ask Kami later, and if she confirms I do…I’m moving to the Yukon.

  “I’ll take a Mill Street Organic, for now. Please.” He rumbles out a deep laugh, one I feel between my thighs, despite noticing the sexy grin he throws her way. But my heart sinks, knowing I’ll be crushed if the “for now” he mentioned turns out to be more than food or another drink later on. Because maybe it means a hook-up, or the promise of a date, an offer I’m sure Sandy would gladly take at the end of the night because, let’s face it, McCoy Graves is a total catch. God, he’s a jerk, sometimes. I mean, he’s here with Kam and me and Keat to play trivia, and he’s trying to pick up? Fuming, I reach for my drink to let the alcohol soothe my inner tirade. Here I go, being ridiculous again.

  “Relax, Sprinkles,” Coy says, leaning in for only me to hear. I’m not sure exactly what he means, and I don’t get a chance to ask, as right on cue there’s a tapping on the mic and the game begins.

  “Welcome to PubStumpers…” Jenn’s husky voice comes over the speaker system, and it’s a welcome distraction to keep my mind from dwelling on and analyzing McCoy’s words.

  The game and the evening move along, and I have to admit I’m having a lot of fun. Our team is a surprisingly cohesive unit, and we’ve not missed a question thus far (whether our answers are right or not, that’s another story…).

  “What secular holiday, celebrated on December 23rd, was introduced in a popular TV sitcom and includes the ‘Airing of Grievances’?” Jenn says, asking the final question of Round 1.

  I heard the question, but I swear I can’t get the answer out. Not with the way Coy’s body has shifted closer and closer to me throughout the game. His warm thigh is now resting against mine, and it feels good. Too good. So good that I can’t seem to shift my leg away (not that I really want to). As our skin touches for the first time in so long, I react at the contact; the feeling of his warmth against me slowly sets my body ablaze with awareness. And, boy oh boy. I. Am. Aware.

  I want to put my hand on his knee, crave the authority to splay my fingers over his thick thigh, to rub tiny circles along his warmth and to feel the coarse hair that I’d find, all the way up to the hem of his shorts. And I want him to reciprocate. I want his big hand on my smooth thigh, creeping up higher and higher and under my skirt as we continue the game, because he just can’t get enough of me. I want to affect him the way the simplest of his touches and innocent brushes affect me.

  “Festivus. The answer’s Festivus.” He leans his head in closer, his scent once again infiltrating my senses.

  This man puts me on sensory overload. Touch: when he touches me, whether
deliberate or not, the result is always the same—a fire lit so damn deep within me I could combust. Sight: Between those glacial eyes with their intensity, his broad build, and that bloody jawporn, I’m a goner. Sound: His choice of words, accompanied by his polished thundery tone, gets me every single time. It’s enough to leave me wet for days. Scent: he smells like him, a scent which makes me want to rub up on him to transfer it to my clothes and mark myself as his. And, finally, taste: I know without a doubt, if I were ever given the chance to really taste him, McCoy Graves would taste divine, like…mine. Sitting beside him, I’m blissed out to the max, overloaded with all things McCoy, and I’d gladly let this man ravage and overwhelm me, as long as it meant I’d get to keep him near me like this.

  “Sorry…what?” I shake my head, trying to knock away my crazy, and smile when I meet his amused smirk. This man knows exactly what he’s doing to me. If only I knew if the why was the one I’d hoped for, for so long. Could he feel this, too?

  “The answer, Sprinkles. It’s Festivus.”

  “Yes! ‘A Festivus for the rest of us!’” Kami shrieks, quoting Frank Costanza’s famous line from Seinfeld, causing everyone to laugh.

  “Have another swig, there, babe,” my brother says, laughing as he pulls her close, tucking her into his side. At the sight of them being affectionate, I can’t keep a huge smile from spreading across my face. Sure, it’s premature, and I’m probably reading into things, but it feels wonderful to finally witness two people I love finally finding their way to each other.

  In my peripheral vision, I see Coy, who’s silently watching me. His stare is heavy and it lingers, bringing an all-too-familiar warmth over my body. It’s a visceral reaction I’ve come to associate with being under his scrutiny over the years.

  “Stop staring at me like that,” I finally say, before aggressively biting off the head of the Swedish Fish I’ve managed to angle out of my drink.

  “Stop making it so fucking hard to look away,” he whispers, arching a brow before he swoops in. He brushes my lips with his fingers as he steals my candy mid-bite, giving me that goddamn lopsided grin of his.

  Yeah. Total sensory overload.

  Hearing that comment, I sit, a wee bit dumbfounded, and try to brace myself for two more rounds of trivia with this man and his—and my brother’s—unpredictably odd behaviour tonight.

  By the end of the evening, not only had I survived Coy’s thigh being practically glued against mine as if we were two magnets drawn together by invisible forces, we managed to take second place in trivia, too.

  But we always did make a pretty good team…

  July 20, 2008

  Dear May,

  Today was the most fun! It was Dad’s annual work picnic and guess what happened? Coy came along, and we ended up paired together in both the wheelbarrow race and the potato sack race. And let me tell you, I have never been so thankful that I shaved my legs before in my life!!!! I know I complain about the extra work and all, but now I get it. Holy cow, when he gripped my ankles for the wheelbarrow race, I could have sworn we both made an awkward moan/groan kinda noise. I blushed and he pretended like it never happened, which was okay, because I had no clue what to say anyway. A HUGE thank you to Gillette for keeping my legs soft and touchable. I am forever a fan!!! Anyway, we won both races and it was so much fun!!!! Remind me to thank Keaton for changing his mind about coming; apparently these activities aren’t usually cool enough to participate in when you’re seventeen. If it hadn’t been for Kami deciding she wanted to compete, and Keaton stepping in to be her partner, I never would have been paired with Coy. And this just goes to prove even more that my brother loves my bestie, but whatever, all that matters is Coy, and the fact that he touched me and liked it!!!!!!

  BEST DAY EVER!

  TTFN,

  East

  19

  Fluff & Fold

  “Stupid piece of—” I grunt, sweat trickling down my back as I fight to lift the heavy bags from the trunk of my car. Even though it’s the beginning of September, the sun feels the hottest it’s been all summer break. I grunt and groan as I struggle with a bag of sopping wet clothes.

  “Looks like you could use a hand there, Sprinkles,” I hear from behind me, and my spine stiffens. You have got to be kidding me right now. Seriously, I cannot believe my luck. Out of all the laundromats in all of Guelph, McCoy Graves had to walk up to mine? On a Saturday?

  Well, not mine, per se, but the one closest to my house. My damn dryer broke this afternoon, mid-load. I had just tossed in the first batch of around twenty pieces of clothing and linen to dry, when—bam, it stopped after five minutes. And then the stupid thing wouldn’t turn back on. No matter how many times I pushed its buttons, kicked its front, and then tried to sweet talk it, it wouldn’t budge. After a losing battle, I caved, gathered some garbage bags, filled up three with my dirty clothes and one with the clean wet ones, and grabbed some soap, change, and a box of dryer sheets. And here I stand now—in ratty cut-off shorts, without a speck of make-up, hair in a messy topknot, and sweating in my favourite red-starred Rage Against the Machine tank top (which is a bit too tight and has seen better days)—while McCoy stands behind me and watches me battling with the bags in my trunk. Awesome.

  Shoving my sunglasses onto my head, I turn and ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “Seriously?” He gives me a shit-eating grin. Moving his muscular right arm above his head, he points to the sign that reads “The Golden Coin” in big black letters with the word “Laundromat” underneath.

  “I mean, why are you here? At this place?” I shake my head, but before I can turn back and again attempt to get the heavy bag out, McCoy brushes past me and easily removes the torture device. Water drips onto his sandals. “Thank you,” I mutter.

  “Anything for you, Sprinkles. I just live around the corner. The washer/dryer set I bought is still on back order, and it’s laundry day, so here I am,” he smiles, shrugging.

  “Well, I hope they come soon. I can’t imagine having to do this all the time.” I blow out a long breath, still feeling a bit sweaty. “It seems like a lot of bloody work.” I look down at my pile of garbage bags, and Coy laughs.

  “It’s not that bad…at least, not when your clothes aren’t wet and weigh a million pounds.” He chuckles, and I nudge his shoulder. “I was actually just on my way to grab a Slurpee from 7/11.” He motions at the variety store across the road with his chin. “I’ve got three loads in the wash, so I figured I’d kill some time and take a walk. When I saw you struggling there, thought I’d give you a hand then see if I could get you a cold drink while I was at the store. Seems you might need one?” he jokes, and I swear he’s eyeing the sweat that’s no doubt making my face look like a shiny, dripping mess. “Least I can do now that we’ll be laundry buddies. So, can I get you anything?” He picks up all but the one small bag I have in my hand, and carries everything towards the laundromat’s entrance.

  “No. Thank you, though. I brought some water,” I say, but quickly change my mind. “Nevermind. Actually I’d love one,” I admit. I go to grab the glass door to hold it for him when it swings open in our direction. I jump, startled.

  “Whoa, sorry!” a surprised voice says, and I cringe at the sound. “Eastlyn—hi!”

  “Mr. Foley. Hi. H—how are you?” I ask Neil, my student Mitchell Foley’s father. The same man Kami and I have been brainstorming ways for me to avoid as much as possible once school starts on Tuesday. The man seriously cannot seem to accept “no” for an answer.

  Despite not wanting to start any kind of conversation with him, at the same time I can’t be rude. He’s a parent, and I need to remain professional and polite, especially with McCoy, my new boss, standing right behind me. I want McCoy to take note and witness that I’m both cordial and friendly when bumping into parents in the community, even ones who make me uncomfortable and try to cross the boundaries I’ve made clear time and time again. I want him to see that, despite his comment back in June on the
last day of school about me leaving if I couldn’t handle working with him, that I would actually be missed if I left, regardless whether McCoy meant it or not. I know I’m a good teacher and the kids and parents generally respect me, as I do them.

  Unfortunately for me, simply talking to Neil Foley is probably going to read like some type of foreplay in his world. I know if I engage too long, it’s likely he’ll think he’s making headway and will ask me out again.

  “Much better now that I’ve seen you, to be honest,” Neil says, shifting his eyes down to the star on my chest, and following that move with a slimy smirk. “You’re looking very well, if I might say so, Miss Hatfield. I’m very pleased Mitch is going to be in your class this year.” I want to throat punch him for stressing the “Miss”—as if I don’t already know I’m single—and then kick him in the shin for setting off my creepdar once again. Hearing McCoy clearing his throat behind me, I start to relax.

  “Excuse me,” McCoy says, placing his hands on top of my bare shoulders, pulling me back a step so I’m now flush to him, my back against his solid chest. It’s a possessive move, one that has my inner Coyfreak doing a happy dance. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Coy says, amusement lacing his tone. I assume it’s because he, too, has noticed Neil’s eyes going wide, having caught McCoy’s moves when pulling me in close to him…a move I’ll need to thank him for later.

  “I’m McCoy, a good friend of Eastlyn’s,” Coy says, shifting the laundry bags and extending a hand, failing to mention that he’s also the new principal at Westwood Elementary.

  “Nice to meet you, man. I’m Neil.”

  “Good to meet you, too. You look like you were on your way out. We’d better let you go. We—” he stressed the word, skimming his thumb over my bare shoulder intimately while Neil pays rapt attention, “—have a ton of this one’s laundry to get done today,” Coy says, moving us forward through the door Neil is still holding open.

  “Yeah, sure. I gotta go pick up Mitch from his mom’s anyway,” Neil says, his eyes back on mine and looking a bit mournful.