Which means his tee shirts are really big.
I purse my lips and stare down into the suitcase laid out on the bed, shrugging, and avoid her contemptuous stare.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You will wear something I brought for you. Knowing you like I do—since I’m the resident stylist—I forbid you to go out there in that.” She gives my jeans and well-worn sweatshirt a disdainful glance, disappointment written all over her sharp features, which have only been exaggerated by makeup. “While everyone else is chilling in their cute comfies, you want to wear your dad’s hand-me-downs? No.”
And as if she hadn’t delivered that proclamation dramatically enough, she adds a shiver that racks her thin body, totally repulsed. “Not happening.”
“Whatever,” I scoff, refusing to hear any more lecturing, and stalk to the door, giving the handle a good, pissed-off yank.
Peering outside, I give pause when I catch sight of Molly entering the kitchen completely decked out in pale pink yoga bottoms, sparkly rhinestones running up each leg, and a cute coordinating tank top. Ugh, totally adorable. Moments later, Shelby rounds the corner from her bedroom and catches sight of me.
She too is sporting a coordinating set—heather gray leggings and a slouchy, off-the-shoulder gray cotton shirt that says #NOFILTER across the front in big, sparkly sequin letters.
Crap.
Shelby looks me up and down, dismissing me before flipping her long, platinum-blonde ponytail over one shoulder. “Hurry and change. Jeez, slowpoke—we’re picking the movie in, like, five minutes! The guys are in charge of the popcorn.”
I don’t have the guts to tell her this is what I want to wear, because I don’t feel comfortable prancing around in actual girly loungewear in front of real-life, breathing boys.
I jerk my head in a nod, disappear back into my shared bedroom, and slam the door shut. I turn to face Jenna, whose cocky smirk threatens to make my blood boil, even as she points a bright yellow fingernail toward a small pile of neatly folded clothes at the foot of the double bed.
You can bet no spooning will be taking place tonight—no, sir.
Freaking. Jenna.
Caleb
“Sit down anywhere, bro. Pick a spot, we’re starting the movie. Cubby, man, pass Showtime something to eat. Give him the popcorn.”
I stand in the arched doorway of the great room under a bulky log barn beam, stuffing my hands into the warmth of my hoodie, uncomfortable with the dynamics as I debate my options. For the most part, everyone here is a couple. Molly is basically lying on top of McGrath, who is massaging her shoulders in a huge recliner. Shelby, Blaze, Stephan Randolph and his girlfriend, Chelsea, are sprawled out on the floor.
Cubby has claimed the other red leather recliner, arms behind his head and already half asleep, while four more people are lounging on the massive sectional sofa.
In addition, various snacks, soda, water, and beer are set out on the large coffee table that’s been shoved to the side of the space.
So, I can sequester myself and sit on the floor at the outskirts of the room, or grow a pair of balls and sit next to Abby, who has the only other space available beside her on the couch.
What a coincidence.
“Sit your ass down already, Showtime. We’re watching The Mighty Ducks,” Miles Turner informs me from his spot on the couch. His fuck buddy, Angelica, is on the floor in front of him, leaning back between his spread legs. She watches me intently from under her exotic Filipina eyelashes, beautiful predatory gaze alive with interest.
Christ.
“Cop a squat or go sit by Abby. She promises not to bite too hard, and there’s plenty of room on the couch,” that girl Jenna calls out from across the room. My eyes—and everyone else’s—go wide as I search Jenna out on the floor and find her wiggling her eyebrows my way.
She’s got brass balls, that one.
I can’t decide if I like that about her.
Abby, for her part, is snuggled up on the end of the sectional, elbow on the armrest, and watching me with wary eyes and a tentative smile. And I don’t blame her; this whole situation with our friends trying to force us together is embarrassing.
I feel twelve—like I’m in goddamn middle school all over again—only back then I would have bolted out of the house and sworn never to attend another party again.
My feet stay rooted to the ground, uncertainty making me pause.
“Don’t be shy. Go sit down.”
I nod once, acknowledging Jenna’s remark, and hesitantly begin weaving myself gracelessly through the room—stepping over lounging bodies and tripping on a blanket—toward Abby, with her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.
Her long, shiny hair is in a loose, messy braid thing, cascading over her bare left shoulder, her smooth legs extending from a pair of bright white lace boxer shorts as she sits cross-legged on the couch. She’s tugging at the hem of a gauzy white tank top as if it’s too tight, even though it’s, uh, flowy.