The Player Hater (Accidentally in Love 1)

More like summer camp on steroids with less fun, no counselors, and more alcohol.

“Stop trying to check out my package, you had your chance when you snuck up on me.”

He begins walking back toward the trail.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I didn’t realize you were peeing until I almost walked into it.”

“What the hell did you think I was doing behind the tree? Playing a game?”

“No.” My head is shaking as I follow behind him, trying to keep up. “I wasn’t thinking at all.”

He glances at me over his shoulder and raises his heavy brows. “I thought you didn’t like me, why are you following me?”

“I’m not—just so happens, I’m headed in this direction. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I never flatter myself.” He snorts.

“Oh please—you know you’re good-looking.” The words come flying out of my mouth before I can stop them and I immediately press them shut, so more dumb things don’t come out.

Davis stops walking and spins around. “You think I’m good-looking?”

Now I’m the one snorting. “I didn’t say that.” Well, not in those words.

“No, you said, ‘Oh please—you know you’re good-looking,’ which means you think I’m good-looking.” He raises his voice a few octaves, which I’m assuming is his best Juliet impression.

I am not impressed.

My chin tilts up as I roll my eyes up to the treetops. “You’re taking it out of context.”

“Right. We were talking about you following me and stalking me and not looking at me, and then you said I was good-looking as if that were a defense.”

I want to wipe that cocky grin off his face, but he’s not wrong; the problem is, I can’t talk my way out of this corner I put myself in, dammit.

“It’s too early for this conversation.” Dramatically I press a hand to my forehead and furrow my brow, feigning a cringe. “I have a hangover.”

Davis laughs. “You are not hungover. You said so this morning.”

Did I?

“I don’t recall.” Plenty of greasy bacon, buttery toast, and chocolate milk for breakfast definitely did the trick, curing me of whatever post-alcohol induced ailments I may have had.

I stomp down the path, staring at his broad back, affronted that he’s calling me out on my bullshit.

Rude.

I don’t want to like him. I don’t want to like Thad.

But they’re both so LIKEABLE AND ANNOYING.

Ugh.

“Where you headed?” he wants to know, making small talk. “Thad took Mia to town for lunch.”

They left? They left and didn’t say good-bye? Or offer to bring me an actual coffee from an actual coffee shop?

It’s been two whole days since I’ve had a latte.

Okay, that’s a strike in the negative column against both Thad AND my best friend—this whole trip was supposed to be a bonding experience for the four of us, but it’s turning into a romantic getaway for Thad and Mia, and they’ve ditched us most of the time we’ve been here!

What the actual hell, man!

We’re in the woods! I don’t want to fend for myself!

I don’t want to come up with my own activities!

I need to be shown where the fun is! I’m not built for trees, sticks, water and bald eagles flying overhead. Campers with tiny showers and tiny sinks and beds that convert into tables and tables that convert into beds with barely any room for luggage.

“When will they be back?”

Davis shrugs. “Don’t know, he didn’t say. I didn’t even realize they were leaving and caught them as they were climbing into the Gator to be taken to the outpost for their ride.”

“I hate this place,” I grumble, kicking at a rock. “What are we supposed to do all day, stare at each other?”

Davis stops again, except this time, I’m clomping along so intently, I almost smash into him.

“We?”

I roll my eyes. “Who else am I supposed to hang out with? Lionel who tried to kill me with his moonshine or Cookie who wants to sleep with you?”

He ignores most of my sentence. “Are you implying that you want to spend the day with me?”

“No, I’m implying that I don’t want to sit around twiddling my thumbs and be bored.” Although I do have this book, one I haven’t started, but that got great reviews. “I could find a hammock and read or something, at least until lunch.” I sneak a peek up at his face. “Unless you have a better idea.”

He seems to mull this over, raising his hand to touch his ear where I’d hooked him. “Fishing is out of the question—all of the boats have been reserved, and I have no intention of having my eyes gouged out with hooks or you accidentally hitting me in the back of the head with the pole.” He runs that same hand across the stubble on his chin. “And it’s too cold right now to go swimming.”

Swimming? In the lake? Hard pass.

Davis goes on as we stand in the middle of the path. The resort feels empty, not a single person in sight except the man rearranging the campfire pit, another one neatly setting water bottles out on a table nearby in tidy rows.