The Player Next Door

“You’re an asshole. You know that, right?”

“Are you going to keep pretending you don’t give a shit and just sit here, watching some other woman make a move on him? Or are you ready to go over and stop this?” she prods, unperturbed. “Before you lose your shot.”

I begin sliding out of my seat.

“Attagirl!” She claps—with far too much glee.

“Relax, Heidi Fleiss. I’m just going to pee.”

“Boo!” they shout in disturbing unity.

Both are drunk now. Fantastic. “Grab me another round when our server comes by, if she doesn’t cut you off.” I smooth my shirt over my waist and weave through the throng, keeping my head high and my shoulders back.

The closer I get, the more of Susie Teller’s bright eyes and perfect skin I can see and the more uneasy about their connection—or reconnection—I grow.

I make a point of easing past Shane slowly, hoping to catch a hint of their conversation or, better yet, to distract him from Susie Teller entirely.

“I’m free on Wednesday night. Why don’t we try that new steak house in Dover?” I hear her shout over the band.

My stomach sinks. They’re making dinner plans. I’m already too late. Now, I’ll get to sit back and watch Shane start dating the beautiful new girl at work. With my luck, he’s going to fall in love with her and hang his bachelor hat at the door. She’ll move into his house, and they’ll live happily ever after with their blinds wide open so I can watch them have rabid porn-star sex from my dark, lonely bedroom.

I rush past and into the empty restroom near the back, an odd, cold flush coursing through my body. I duck into one of two stalls, unable to ignore how eerily familiar this scenario feels to my first day of senior year. Except I’m not about to cry over Shane. If anything, my tears will be sparked from anger. Not anger at him; he’s being himself. No … I’m pissed that I allowed emotions to stir. I told myself I would never care about Shane again, and yet here I am, my insides burning with jealousy and hurt as I watch him hook up with another woman. I care that he’s been flirting nonstop with me since I moved in. I care that he’s picking up his coworker right in front of me.

I hate that I care.

I need to go home and screw my head on straight.

Finishing up in the restroom, I take a deep breath, steel my nerve, and stroll out. Shane is still with Susie. He’s laughing about something she said. And they’re standing closer together.

What a fucking asshole.

My mood has soured, and it’ll only go downhill from here. It’s best I gather Becca and Justine and get the hell out of this place now.

“Hey, Pacino!”

Ugh. My head snaps toward the bar to where Steve waits. I’m glad I let “Dipshit” slip out earlier.

“Come on! My treat.” He jerks his head toward the bartender who’s busy pouring straight liquor into a line of shot glasses, then waves the bills in his hand. Dean’s with him.

Doing shots with two of Shane’s best friends while Shane is angling to get laid on the other side of the room is the last thing I’m in the mood for tonight. I’m about to give him a curt head shake “no” when I hesitate. Why the hell am I running away? To what? I’m going to hide in my house, depressed? I was having fun before Shane showed up and started pulling his shit.

Plus, Dean looks good tonight, leaning against the bar in his jeans and T-shirt, the cotton stretched across biceps that I doubt I could close my coupled hands around. He clearly spends a lot of time working on that body. I’ll bet he doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him.

And he’s intently watching me. Whatever shyness normally lingers there is gone, replaced by a layer of assuredness. Dean’s comfortable in his skin.

Suddenly the plan of running home and hiding with my jealousy while Shane makes his move on Susie Teller doesn’t sound nearly as appealing as, say, getting over Shane once and for all by getting under his attractive best friend.

What an idiotic idea, that tiny voice warns in the back of my mind. What a completely juvenile, stupid, likely regretful idea, that a smart, well-adjusted, educated, thirty-year-old woman—a teacher!—knows better than to entertain.

I stuff that little voice of reason into a corner where it can’t distract me, take a deep breath, and cut through the crowd toward the bar.

“This asshole soaked my jock in aftershave before a game!” Steve stabs Dean in the arm with an angry finger. “My balls were on fire. I had to leave five minutes into the first quarter!”

“You weren’t there to screw up the plays. That’s why we won the game,” Dean counters.