I’m striking out with women today. First, Sam stands me up, and now Jemma’s turning me down, or at least playing hard to get.
What the hell is going on?
Irritated about Sam blowing me off, I open the Strick Net app on my phone to send her a message. I might have been a little bit of a dick toward the end of our conversation, but we had a deal. She was supposed to be here by now.
PuckMe_69: I’m here. You’re late. We still on for today?
Seconds turn into minutes, and before I know it, another ten minutes has flown by without a response. I’m about to leave the coffee shop when a blonde wearing a green Broad Street Beans polo takes the seat across from me. She stares at me in horror as our eyes meet when she realizes I know her, too. But I don’t know her as Sam…
Chapter Four
Sam
The line hasn’t died down since the minute my shift started. At least a hundred students are in Broad Street Beans taking up space in the café or sipping lattes out front on the small terrace which overlooks Broad Street. As one group leaves, another enters, demanding even more complicated drinks. Rich kids are the worst. They’re difficult and expect everything a certain way, their orders barked in condescending tones that makes my blood run cold.
I glance at the watch on my left wrist and let out a sigh of relief. Ten more minutes. That’s how long I have until I can slip out from behind the counter and make my escape. Except, I’m not free. Not when I have to go straight to my next job.
The crowd ebbs and flows, and in with the new comes someone from the past. Someone I still hate with a passion. A rich asshole I want to punch in the face every time I see him on campus. Tucker Kane. The douchiest douchebag I’ve ever met. And the sad thing—he doesn’t even remember me. Or at least he never appears as if he does. Why would he?
For the longest time I wasn’t sure if he was Tucker or Trent. He’s identical to his twin in every way. But I learned over time that Tucker always wears his hair spiky, whereas Trent’s falls over his forehead.
Tucker had me fooled my freshman year. I was blind to his charms, thought he was the most incredible man I’d ever met. Until he told me our night together didn’t matter.
When a man like Tucker shows you attention, you feel as though you’re the most important woman in the world. He promises dreams and then sells you nightmares. Because when he disappears, it’s lonely and cold, his light now eclipsed by the moon, leaving you in complete darkness. You mean nothing. You’re just another girl in his path to the next one, left behind to pick up the pieces.
Tucker never comes into Broad Street Beans. And now, he’s here. He glances around the store, his eyes traveling over every girl in the place. Checking out his next victim, I assume.
Slinging a backpack over his right shoulder, he flexes his thick muscles. A small part of me aches when I’m reminded of our last time together. And that part of me wants to wrap my fingers around his biceps, slide my hands over his chiseled chest—he takes my breath away—that part hasn’t changed.
I can’t peel my eyes from him as he waves to a group of girls by the window on his way toward the back of the café. He sits at the only open table right in front of the restrooms. It’s the worst seat in the house. No windows. Smells like a toilet. The round table only enough room for two, if that.
Glancing over at Tucker, memories of my first time with him force their way into my mind.
I sucked in a deep breath, trying to psych myself up to play strip poker. But I couldn’t do it. No matter how many times I tried to get comfortable enough to sit at the table, there was no amount of liquid courage that could prepare me to take my clothes off in front of strangers.
We were in the backyard of the Delta Sig fraternity house with ten people seated at the felt-lined table in front of me. Stacks of colored chips were at the center, a pile of black, red, and green overflowing onto the river cards. When Tucker asked me if I could play poker, I lied. I grew up with a drunk for a father, a man who lost every paycheck playing cards on his lunch breaks and on the weekends in Atlantic City. Because of that, I loathed anything to do with gambling.
Tucker pulled two lawn chairs beneath the maple tree and told me to sit. I did as he instructed without giving it another thought. He was gorgeous, well over six feet tall with a surfer tan and short, blond hair gelled into tiny spikes. I’d seen him around campus a few times. I’d even attended the parties at his house. But he never noticed me, not even once. Now, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.