“At least he doesn’t consider you the douche his mom is dating,” I reply. “Like we do.”
“Good one.” Romeo chuckles.
Ignoring us, Gunner says, “I hate that they’re in that small apartment when I have a goddamn house by the lake. I have so much room for them.”
“Yeah, but one step at a time, man,” Romeo says, growing serious. “You can’t pressure her, and you can’t move fast with Dylan. You have to make sure you build those bonds first.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Let’s not talk about that shit right now, it’ll only depress me. Let’s talk about Arlo’s obvious attraction to Miss Gibson.”
“What?” I ask, just as our drinks are dropped off at our table. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Dude, it’s obvious,” Romeo says.
“How so?” I challenge him.
“Uh . . . the way you look at her.”
“That’s a generalization and not true. I look at her like anyone else would. I also haven’t spoken to her since Monday, so how would you observe my interaction with her? Plus, I’m fucking over this conversation. It’s like we’re on a goddamn hamster wheel.”
“Jesus,” Gunner says, blowing out a long breath. “Chill, dude. From that reaction right there, it’s clear you have a crush on her.”
“When did you two become so immature?”
Romeo lifts his beer to his lips. “Always have been immature, you’re probably just realizing it now.”
“Unfortunate for me.”
“You put in the time building a friendship without putting in adequate research before befriending us. Very unlike you, Turner.” Gunner smirks.
“It was you two or Kelvin Thimble, and I’m not really into Dungeons and Dragons.”
“Thimble is a stand-up guy,” Romeo says. “He has a thing for Keiko.”
“Everyone knows that,” Gunner says. “He practically writes Mr. Keiko Seymour on all of his notepads.”
Taking a sip of my drink, I say, “Never said he wasn’t a good guy, just not into all of that cosplay stuff.”
“But you’d look adorable all dressed up,” Gunner teases while tickling me under my chin.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I say, pushing his hand away just as I sense two people walk up to our table.
Before I can turn to look, I watch a large grin spread across Romeo’s face as he says, “Well, well, well. What brought you ladies here?”
There can only be one reason for that grin.
I look to the side and find Stella Garcia standing next to us, Greer Gibson right behind her. They must be fresh from practice because both of them have their hair pulled up, Greer’s in a long ponytail, Stella’s in a bun. They’re both wearing Forest Heights Volleyball shirts and black leggings with tennis shoes.
The outfit does nothing for me.
Now the blouse and skirt Greer wore the other day . . .
Folding her arms, Stella says, “Needed a beer after a long, torturous practice.” She nods toward the TV. “Watching the game?”
“Always, want to join?” Romeo pats the seat next to him and Stella takes it—and his drink—without a blink. And then, just like that, Greer is left to awkwardly stand at the foot of our table while Gunner, Romeo, and Stella all turn to watch the game.
Christ.
I look up at Greer, who doesn’t look like she knows what to do.
Neither do I.
I’m not in the mood to keep someone company, but it doesn’t seem like our friends are going to be talking much tonight.
“All right, three burgers,” the waitress says, coming up behind Greer and shifting around her so she can set the plates down.
“Thanks,” Stella says, taking my plate. Uh, what the actual fuck? “I’m starving.”
She pops a fry in her mouth while the waitress asks if we need anything else. “We’re good, thanks,” Romeo says, waving her off.
Growing irritated, I twist my cup on the table and say, “What the hell is going on?”
Romeo glances up and smiles. “Think I ordered that burger for you?”
“Jesus.” I stand from the table with my drink in hand, push past Greer, and go to an empty corner at the bar. I expect Greer to take my empty seat, so I’m surprised when I see the bar-height chair next to me pull out. “Not in the mood,” I say, drowning the rest of my drink in one gulp.
“That’s obvious,” Greer says. “But I’m not about to sit there and listen to the stat brothers talk through the entire game.”
“So you think sitting next to me is better?”
“Only marginally. Jury is still out. I might go take a seat by myself.”
“Might be a good idea.”
I feel her tense next to me and I prepare for an onslaught of “what the hell is your problem” and “why do you hate me” questions. But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, when the bartender comes over to us, she orders a simple Blue Moon and a quesadilla. I order another burger and a second drink.
And then we sit in silence.
She pulls out her phone, and she sets it on the bar, tapping away on it.
I stare down at my refreshed drink, turning the glass every so often and then taking a sip.
Our food is delivered and we eat in silence. I admit to myself that her quesadilla looks really good. I even consider saying it out loud but then think better of it. The last thing I want to do is lead her to think I care enough to make the comment.
Because I don’t.
Once I’m finished with this burger, I’m out.
But for some reason, I slow down as I eat. From the corner of my eyes, I watch as she spreads salsa over a triangle of quesadilla and then slowly lifts it up to her mouth. Her lips wrap around the food as she bites down, and then her eyes close while she chews, as if she’s performing the most erotic act and trying to win an Academy Award for it.
Hell, the way her tongue peeks out to swipe away at the salsa, I’d vote for her. That single movement could easily win awards.
And then, just like that, my mind turns on in the worst way possible.
What would she be like in bed?
Fuck . . . it doesn’t matter.
She’s young.
She’s a subordinate.
She’s not your type . . .
Okay, that last one is a goddamn lie. I don’t have a type, but I have fucking eyes, and this woman is gorgeous. An innocent face with dangerously seductive eyes. Long, lithe legs that could easily wrap around any man’s waist. Beautiful lips, full on the bottom, just a tad thinner on top, but curved and plush, a distraction I could easily see myself getting lost in.
And that’s why it’s a good idea I’m keeping my distance, because I don’t need to get mixed up in some kind of co-worker relationship, especially with a woman whose teaching tactics don’t even fall close to my standards. I can’t deny her . . . intelligence, given she graduated from UCLA. I won’t let a physical attraction derail my purpose of ensuring Forest Heights keeps its academic preeminence. There. Done.
Head down, I spend the next few moments focusing on my burger, and once I push the plate away, and take one more sip of my drink, I’m ready to bounce, when Greer turns to me in her seat.