The Player Hater (Accidentally in Love 1)

Do the trees look like they’re swaying? The one on the left looks like a dinosaur. Wait, no—a mountain range.

Is that a mountain range? Shit. Are we that far west?

I’ve never been good at geography, the hell if I know where we’re even at.

We could be murdered and I wouldn’t know where to send the ambulance!

I giggle.

Nibble on more crackers like Davis told me to. “God these are good.”

Famous.

Last.

Words.

CHAPTER 4

Davis

“Oh my god, I want to die.”

We haven’t even made it as far as the camper when Juliet announces she’s dizzy and I wouldn’t be surprised if she throws up.

She wavers on our walk, the rest of the group separating for the night, disappearing into the dark night, so I take her arm and guide her along the path. It’s lit, but not well, to cut down on light pollution considering we’re in the woods and it’s supposed to be serene—not populated by people.

“Do you think you have to throw up?”

She halts on the path. “I don’t know.” Starts walking again, breathing deep breaths and holding up her hand in the ‘stop’ motion. “No, I think ish good, ish good.”

A few more steps.

Juliet halts again.

I wait, bracing for something I’m not sure is coming, but prepared just the same. Arms out, knees braced, hands at the ready as if I were waiting for an NFL linebacker to come plowing into me, ready for the impact of a fall.

Juliet falters, hands going to her mouth. “Um. I wasn’t gonna puke.”

Eh. She doesn’t look so good, but who am I to say? “I can’t take you back inside to puke in the toilet, Juliet, it will back the septic up.”

She shakes her pretty head. “Don’t know what that means.”

“If you’re going to toss your cookies, you’re going to have to do it in the woods.”

“Cookie,” she laughs in the way only a drunk person can laugh—a bit maniacal and delirious. “I’m not gonna puke—ish fine. Really, ish fine. You’re silly.”

I’m silly? Literally never been called that a day in my life, I don’t think.

Juliet attempts a few more steps and I wonder how she could have gotten so drunk after only one glass of moonshine; we were all drinking and I don’t think any of us got this loaded.

“Juliet, how many glasses of Lionel’s booze did you drink?”

“I don’t know. Three glasses?”

Three! My eyes almost pop out of their fucking sockets.

Three?

How? When? I definitely feel I was paying attention to what she was doing—she’s cute and funny and goofy when she’s tipsy, but I certainly don’t remember her chugging more than one glass of alcohol.

Who poured her another glass?

I was sitting right next to her, surely, I would have noticed?

I’m a big dude and even I’m feeling the effects of one glass and the beer I drank to go along with it. It was a chill, relaxing evening—we were all drinking, but Juliet seems to be the only one stumbling her way back to the cottages.

Concerning.

My hand steadies her elbow as I watch her.

Her cheeks puff out and she makes the telltale sign of someone who’s going to toss their cookies.

“Oh no,” she moans miserably.

Oh shit.

“Here, come over here.” Gently as I can and as fast as I can, so she doesn’t barf in the middle of the walkway where:

Anyone can happen upon us and watch.

No one will step on it in the dark, or in the morning.

I guide her to the tree line, eyes shifting all over the damn place—for people and for wild animals that may be lurking in the shadows. Last thing I want is to be mauled by a damn bear while I’m performing a civic duty…if there are even bears around.

Juliet is bent over several feet past the path we were taking, hunched over, guts hurling.

“Can you hold my hair?” she moans as she sputters, vomiting into the tall grass. I carefully pull back her smooth ponytail, holding it away from the stream of barf and her mouth, so it stays clean.

Her hair is shiny and silky beneath my fingers and I resist the urge to toy with it. Rub it.

“I’m so ugly!” Juliet cries, literal tears falling from her drunk eyes. “Don’t look at me, I’m hideous!”

I laugh at her dismay, thankful she probably won’t remember this in the morning.

“I’m so sorry, David.”

She’s so drunk she can’t even get my name right? How is that possible?

I roll my eyes. “It’s Davis.”

“I can’t even get your name right,” she moans, spitting puke onto the pine needled forest floor. “I suck.” Juliet pauses. “Actually I don’t suck—I haven’t given anyone a blow job in ages. I hate being single, but who would even want their dick in this mouth?”

She’s crying again, big sloppy tears and loud sobs.

“You’re fine. Cute as a button,” I lie because in all honesty, this really is not her best look. Not that I’ve seen all her looks, but a puking Juliet certainly has seen better days. I’m fairly certain she’s way cuter when graham cracker vomit isn’t spewing from her throat.