The Player Hater (Accidentally in Love 1)

Ahh, so she has a nephew, which means she’s not an only child.

“Would you consider yourself competitive?”

“Gosh no, I don’t think so? I mean, if you win a game I will congratulate you. Definitely not a sore loser, I’m genuinely happy for my friends when they accomplish something and since we’re on the subject, I’m happy for my friend’s happiness.”

Her eyes drift to her best friend, who is sitting on my best friend’s lap. They look cozy—like they’d rather be holed up in their fancy, boho decorated tent.

Damn, Thad is into her.

He’s got his fingers running through her hair and for a brief moment I wonder if they’ve ever gotten caught in her weave.

“Do you think he’s ever pulled the extensions out of her head?” I muse quietly so only Juliet can hear me.

“Actually yeah—he has.”

It surprises me that he’s never told me this. It seems like we’d have gotten a good laugh out of the mishap.

Guess he doesn’t kiss and tell after all, although he did tell me about the first time they slept together; the sparks, how great it was. Gag.

“He has?”

“Yes and she was mortified,” Juliet laughs. “I think he learned his lesson after that—keep your fingers out of her scalp.”

I laugh. “Has anyone ever gotten their fingers stuck in your extensions?” My eyes go to her long, dark hair.

“Um no—I don’t have extensions.” She sounds slightly put out by the suggestion.

“That’s your hair?”

“Yes it’s my hair,” she tells me with a tone that clearly says ‘duh, you moron.’

I want to touch it so I lean over and slide my hand through the brown tresses. It’s silky like a waterfall.

Soft as soft can be.

Juliet rears away from me, holding up her can of White Claw and her plate of food. “Okay buddy, lay off the alcohol.”

“I’m not drunk. It’s one beer and I haven’t even had half of it yet.”

That gives her pause. “Are you a half full or half empty kind of guy?”

“Definitely half full.” I don’t even have to think twice about my response. “I’d say I’m…annoyingly optimistic. Eternal optimist. I shun pessimism.”

Which would explain why Willa was able to gaslight me for so damn long.

Ugh.

I’m too trusting and nice, dammit!

“I can totally see that about you,” Juliet says, lowering her plate. “And you can touch my hair, you just caught me off guard, that’s all. I’m not used to men…you know. Being nice.”

“Is that why you just assumed Thad was a player and I, guilty by association?”

She nods. “One hundred percent. The last few guys I went out with were all wrong, for the wrong reasons—just a bunch of assholes who didn’t deserve me.”

Juliet seems to know her self-worth.

It took me a few years to know mine. I had to learn it all over again; seems she and I are no different in that regard.

We finish off our dinners; when Juliet is left with an empty plate I rise from my chair, extending my hand as an offering to take hers to the trash. She hands it to me, smile on her face—and if I’m not mistaken, her eyes do a quick scan down the front of my body.

She’s hiding the perusal well but…there it is.

I grab us two bottles of water while I’m up, returning to the fire and my chair, setting them both down on the ground. Reaching forward I snatch up everything we need for a little bit of sweets; some s’mores. Considering she barfed up the one she had last night, I’m not quite sure she’ll be in the mood to smell or taste them—but I definitely am. I could eat chocolate every single night of the week.

While I am loading the stick with marshmallows, I glance at Juliet over my shoulder to find her watching me intently.

“Want one?”

She nods, taking the marshmallow from my stick, slowly prying it off as it oozes and goos, blowing on it before opening her mouth to taste it.

“Yummy.”

“Damn right it’s yummy—I’m famous for my mallow browning skills.”

Her brow cocks. “Famous? Surely that’s an exaggeration.”

“He is,” Thad interjects, the sneaky eavesdropper appearing out of nowhere. “Once, at Training Camp, he made his famous apple pie for everyone. From scratch.”

“You bake?” Mia asks from her perch on my best friend’s lap. Huh. They must have moved their chairs closer when I wasn’t paying attention. At least, not to them.

“Some. Not very often,” I demure, which is a lie. I cook and bake all the time—for Penelope and Skipper, obviously. I haven’t mastered the art of quantities and always over-make, left with a ton of food and since the pair of them are in the house next door…

We eat together a lot.

Like, a lot a lot.

“He’s being modest.” Thad leans forward and gives me a bump on the upper bicep with his fist. “Baked chicken—that was a good meal.”