If one of them was smiling at me, I’d know it was her.
When I take a proper look at the drink, I’m even more confused.
“What is this?”
“It’s . . . um . . . a White Russian?”
My brows knit together as I stare down at the milky drink, threads of dark liquor pulling up from the bottom. What the fuck?
“Enjoy!” Bailey squeaks before peeling away. If I didn’t know she was the only good Jansen of the entire group, I’d suspect her. But the only thing I suspect is that someone else has put her up to this.
My first guess is Beau.
My eyes scan the bar for him as Laura, someone I’ve known in passing since high school, tries to flag down a server like this milky umbrella drink is an affront to my masculinity. There’s even a fucking maraschino cherry on top—plump and bright. And as I stare at it, I’m reminded of Summer’s mouth.
I ditched her and didn’t think twice about it when we got here. Not my finest moment. And definitely not a gentlemanly way to welcome her to town. I swivel on my stool, trying to see where she landed.
When I finally find her, she looks deep in conversation with my brother and his friend. They all seem relaxed, and oblivious to whatever this stunt is here. So, I rule them out. Though my eyes linger. She’s talking, and those fuckers are hanging on every word like she’s the most interesting person in the world.
And truth be told, if I wasn’t so miffed about this whole thing, I might be interested in talking to her more. She does seem interesting. There’s something intriguing about her. The way she looks, the way she talks, her confidence and spunk.
Summer Hamilton is an unusual combination.
“Excuse me, Rhett would never drink something like this.” I almost scoff out loud. The way Laura is talking like she knows me grates on my nerves.
Someone promptly takes away the drink and replaces it with a bottle of local brew. Something I like.
But within minutes, Bailey is back, looking like she’d rather run out the front door than face our table again.
“Your future wife sent this over. She said she knows how much you love chocolate milkshakes.” Then she darts away while I stare down at the creamy brown drink in a long-stem martini glass.
With an umbrella and cherry again.
These cherries are going to be the death of me. Somehow, my brain has connected them to the lipstick Summer wears, and the color isn’t even that similar. But it’s going there anyway.
It’s going other places too. Like how that mouth would look wrapped around my dick.
When I peer up at her this time, her big brown eyes flit in my direction, but she purses her lips and turns away, like she finds something distasteful about me.
Some guys at the table are having a real good laugh now. “Thought you didn’t like milk, Eaton?” one of the older men blurts out, and a smile tugs at my lips. At least these people don’t hate me for saying what I said. And as usual, their attention feels good. I roll my shoulders back and choose to ignore whoever is pulling the hilarious prank.
“This is ridiculous,” Laura hisses, rubbing my back like I’m upset. But I don’t get mad, I get even. And when I figure out who is getting a kick out of sending me these milky fucking messes, it will be game on.
“Bailey, darlin’， I don’t want this.”
She nods quickly and snatches it away before leaving us again.
Laura leans close, her lips brushing across my ear in a way that should be sexy, but makes me recoil as she whispers, “I’m so sorry someone is doing this to you. Mocking you like this. It’s been a tough week for you already.”
She’s not wrong about that. But she won’t be the factor that turns this week around either. Things aren’t going to turn around until I can ditch my babysitter once and for all—even if she isn’t following me around like I thought she might.
I don’t throw Laura any bones, but I don’t push her away either. Even if I’m not remotely interested, I don’t want to be rude. So, I tip my beer bottle in her direction before taking a swig.
“All good. I’m a big boy.”
She smiles suggestively, reading an innuendo that isn’t there, and I take another swallow. Because that was not how I intended for it to come out.
With a wink, she slides her hand up to play with the ends of my hair. “I’ve heard.”
And that is why I don’t hook up with women in this town anymore. I had one casual girlfriend before I learned my lesson. You get a blowjob from someone in Chestnut Springs and the next thing you know, it’s in the newspaper, and the ladies at the salon are planning a fucking wedding. No, I keep that shit on the road where it belongs.
When I come home, I want privacy.
My eyes flit up to where my brother is sitting, and this time, I’m met with all three of them staring back at me. When they catch me looking, Summer and Beau quickly glance down and reach for their drinks.
Jasper grins at me from beneath the brim of his cap. The guy is quiet and doesn’t smile that much. He gives thoughtful pauses and one-word answers until you get a few drinks into him. They say goaltenders are a different breed, and in Jasper’s case, that’s true. I should know, we grew up with the guy.
And more than anything, it gets me wondering why he’s staring at me like the fucking Cheshire Cat. It’s creeping me the hell out. The way it slowly widens further as his eyes drop to the table in front of me.
I glance over in time to see Bailey hustling away. This time, she didn’t even say anything. Just dropped the drink and ran. Can’t say that I blame her.
“Is that. . .” Laura looks offended, like someone just called her mother a whore.
The clear glass mug is one typically used for speciality coffee. But the liquid inside is solid white. It’s topped with whipped cream.
And a fucking cherry.
When I touch the side, it’s warm. Not hot. Warm, like I’d make hot chocolate for Luke.
“Is that warm milk?” Laura’s voice is shrill, and I hear snickering from around the table, but I don’t address them.
Instead, I tear my eyes away from the whipped cream melting down the sides of the mug, making a colossal mess, and peer up at the couches in the back.
Jasper is still staring at me, but this time, his hand is thrown over his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely restrained laughter. Beau, the cocksucker that he is, has flopped back on the couch, like this is the funniest joke in the world.
Spoiler alert: it’s not.
I just lost a huge sponsorship over milk, and these dickheads are sitting around sending me warm milk. I almost shudder at the thought.
But it’s Summer that really gets me. She’s sitting there looking perfectly put together, perfectly smug. Legs crossed in the most lady-like way with the chocolate milk martini I sent back in her hand. She holds it up to me in a silent “cheers” and then plucks the cherry off the top and wraps her lips around it.
And then I’m moving across the bar. Storming up toward them. Half amused and half pissed off that these fucking traitors are playing tricks on me with the woman whose presence they know I don’t like. It seems like they’re taking her side when it’s me they’ve known their entire lives. Am I having a minor internal temper tantrum over it?