Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

Because she’s not my girlfriend!

“I did. I told you numerous times I wasn’t interested in a double date.”

“Numerous times,” he repeats, scoffing. “Could you not sound so goddamn stuffy for two seconds?”

Sorry?

“And besides, I wouldn’t have kept bringing it up if you’d said you have a girlfriend.”

Is he going to keep saying it?

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Georgia blurts out at the same time I say, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

She elbows me.

I scowl.

“What? It’s okay for you to say but not okay for me to say it?”

Georgie rolls her eyes.

“Well…” Stewart’s voice drifts off as he thinks out loud. He scratches behind his ear. “We can still double date—Allie might be pissed for a while about Ariel getting the shaft, but she’ll get over it. She really wants to go to that apple orchard.”

He’s never going to let this go.

Never.

“Apple orchard?” Georgie asks, perking up. “The one in Lake Country?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Stew warms to the conversation to sell her on the idea. “They have a vineyard and Allie’s been wanting to go and look cute and drink wine and shit, but I ain’t going to be dragged along by myself.”

Georgia glances up at me, still a good six inches shorter, tucked away under my arm, no effort to peel away. “I could do that. It sounds fun.” She lowers her voice. “Plus…I owe you.”

Well, technically I guess she does, not that I would ever hold her to it or lord it over her—not when I’ve been purposely trying to avoid her.

Look at the mess I just made: she’s beaming up at me as if she’s just won some kind of victory—or won me over.

That is not the case. All is not forgiven because I need a favor for three seconds.

“Okay you two, get a room.” Stewart feigns a gag, although I bet he’s been wanting to tell someone to get a room for a long time and has been waiting for the perfect opening. “Tone it down. I’m not used to seeing this blockhead with a chick, and now I want to vomit.”

“Sod off, Stewart.”

“Okay, but it’s cool if I tell Allie you’re going apple picking with us, right?”

I don’t know shite about American women, but I know this: that Allie girl wants Georgia and me to eat poisoned apples, not pick them with her.

“Can I speak to you in private for a second?” I glance down at Georgia, at her jeans, her sweater, her hair. Give my head a jerk and point toward the front door.

“Outside?”

I lead, she follows to the covered porch, screen door slamming behind us.

It’s cold out tonight and I feel guilty for dragging her outside, but we can’t talk inside; it’s too loud and full of people. Anyone could overhear what I’m about to say.

“You don’t actually have to go to the apple orchard. The whole thing is ludicrous.”

“Oh.”

I study her. “Do not tell me you’re disappointed.”

This is me we’re talking about, the guy she came on to out of necessity and desperation. The guy she’s stuck in class with twice a week, who she can’t escape from.

Her shoulder rises and falls. “I wouldn’t hate going. If you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to,” I blurt out. “It’s an apple picking farm.” I can’t say it enough; the entire idea is bollocks. I’d rather get trollied and left naked in the middle of campus than go to an orchard. Not that I’ve ever been to one—an actual vineyard? Yes.

In the South of France? Yes.

Tuscany, Italy? Yes.

Midwestern America?

Why is this even a question?

Not to make myself sound like a snob, but come on, let’s be real.

“Right. Of course you don’t want to go.” Georgia is looking down at her shoes, downcast. “I was a jerk and…I don’t blame you.”

The truth is, she did nothing thousands of men before her haven’t done. Hazing rituals are common—and not just here in the States. Try being a young bloke at boarding school in England and you’ll see how snotty bastards actually behave when no one is watching.

When they’re in no danger of being caught.

Snitches get stitches…

“Okay. So no date.” She looks oddly disappointed.

I’m confused—is she trying to win her way back into heaven by doing a good deed: a pity date with me?

“No date.”

Her shoulders sag, or maybe it’s the dim glow of the lights on the porch that need new bulbs. They flicker.

Georgia bites down on her lower lip, white teeth playing peekaboo. “Okay.”

I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my jeans and slouch. “Thank you for being cool back there.”

“Um. You’re welcome. It’s fine, really.” She gazes back inside the house through the screen door with a frown. “What was that all about, though? Should I be worried?”

“No, you shouldn’t be worried.” I should, though; once Stewart finds out I lied about Georgia being my date, he’ll insist I double date with Ariel.