No luck.

Frustrated, I stalk over to the bed, yanking back my quilt and sheets, flapping them up and down like a parachute, for any trace of the gold band that I’ve worn every day for the past three and a half years.

“Ugh!” Why do I even take it off? I’ll tell you why; I can’t smear moisturizing lotion all over my hands when I’m wearing it without getting cream in all the intricate crevasses and gooping up the small vintage stone.

But still, I’ve never misplaced it before. Never, not once.

I continue my crusade for a few more minutes, until I run out of time and have to leave for campus, missing breakfast and the opportunity to put together a snack for later in the day.

Sighing, I grab my laptop, notebook, and messenger bag, abandoning the rescue mission for now and heading out the door.

CHAPTER 5

CALEB

Balancing my six-foot-three frame up on a chintzy six-foot ladder, I lean precariously to the side, brace my forearm against the wall, and grasp the bucket of plaster in another.

Having already patched the large, gaping hole in the foyer, I carefully spread the paste on the old wall over the patching tape, using the putty knife to smooth the edges before the plaster begins to dry.

Some putz on the hockey team named Cubby Billings thought it would be a fantastic idea to take the NCAA National Hockey Championship trophy that’s normally displayed in the dining room of the Omega house, and hoist it up in the air.

All thirty pounds of it.

At some point this weekend, Cubby stumbled through the door with it after a hockey victory party, lurched to the side, thanks to the five consecutive Jaeger bombs he’d consumed, narrowly avoided the porcelain Omega vase resting on an antique cherry wood table, and crashed into the wall instead.

Oh, wait.

I forgot the part where a sorority girl named Claudia was riding Cubby’s shoulders, and she was the one who actually smashed the trophy into the wall. You know, in case you were wondering why the fucking hole was eight feet up off the ground, and why I’d need a ladder to patch it in the first place.

So here I am.

Patching the wall.

I lean back, satisfied that the new drywall is even and flush to the wall, and climb down off the ladder to assess it from the floor. My head bobs once approvingly, and I flip my ball cap around so the brim is back in the front, fold up the ladder, and start hauling everything back into the basement of the house.

“You gonna be at the rink tonight?” One of my roommates, Weston McGrath, asks from his position in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter, making a giant sandwich as I pound up the back staircase in my heavy work boots, and licking mustard off his thumb as he watches me close the basement door then lock it behind me.

“Yeah, probably. But first I have to run back to the store and grab some sandpaper. I need to get that spackled hole in the foyer smooth before I can paint it.” I walk past him to the fridge and retrieve a bottle of water, twist the cap, and swallow half of it before turning back to face him.

Casually, I lean against the counter, surveying the mess he’s made as he slaps a giant blob of mayonnaise on two thick slices of bread, followed by cheddar cheese, tomato, lettuce, and chicken.

A few pickle slices, more lettuce, and some jalapeños.

Ham.

Condiments are all over the counter, and a head of lettuce has been whacked in half with a butcher knife I didn’t even know we had in the house.

He’s made a giant fucking mess, considering it’s just one sandwich.

And did I mention he’s only wearing underwear?

Weston lovingly holds up the sandwich like it’s the Stanley Cup, crushing it between his two palms so it will fit in his mouth, then takes a huge bite. Slowly he chews, making both moaning and groaning sounds as he does it.

It sounds like he’s on the receiving end of one fantastic blowjob.

“Dude.” I can’t help but laugh, stepping forward to snag a piece of chicken. “Sandwich can’t be that good.”

He wipes his mouth on his arm and grins. “No, but it’s pretty damn close.” Lettuce falls onto his bare chest.

“If Molly heard you moaning, she’d be jealous.”

“Naw, my girl doesn’t get jealous. She knows she’s got this shit locked down,” he jokes, jamming the sandwich back into his face. He literally has to crush it against his mouth to take a bite.

I’m not really sure how to respond to that, so I cross my arms and wait for him to swallow. “What time you going tonight?”

He swallows before responding. “Er. Around six, I think. I can’t be out late. I have an exam tomorrow. We have that damn exposition game against Michigan on Thursday.” Weston shrugs. “I need more time on the ice than I’ve gotten in practice.”

Tags: Sara Ney All The Right Moves Romance
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