After a beat, I reluctantly hold onto his shoulders, and we begin to sway to the music. It’s awkward as hell, but at least I managed to evade Garrett, who is now regarding us with a frown, his hands hooked in the belt loops of his faded blue jeans.
When our gazes meet, I shoot him a half-smile and a what-can-you-do look, and he immediately narrows his eyes as if he knows I’m dancing with Jimmy just so I don’t have to talk to him. Then a pretty blonde touches his arm, and he breaks the eye contact.
Jimmy twists his head to see who I’m looking at. “You know Garrett?” He sounds more than a little wary.
I shrug. “He’s in one of my classes.”
“Are you friends?”
“Nope.”
“Good to hear.”
Garrett and the blonde duck out of the room just then, and I mentally pat myself on the back for my successful evasion tactics.
“Does he live here with you guys?” God, this song is taking forever, but I’m trying to make conversation because I feel like I have to finish out the dance after being so “enthusiastic” about it.
“No, thank fuck,” Jimmy answers. “He’s got a house off-campus. He’s always bragging about it, but I bet you his father pays his rent.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “Why do you say that? Is his family rich or something?”
Jimmy looks surprised. “You don’t know who his dad is?”
“No. Should I?”
“It’s Phil Graham.” When the groove in my forehead deepens, Jimmy elaborates. “Forward for the New York Rangers? Two-time Stanley Cup champ? Hockey legend?”
The one hockey team I know anything about is the Chicago Blackhawks, and that’s only because my dad is a rabid fan and makes me watch the games with him. Ergo, I have zero knowledge of a man who played for the Rangers, what, twenty years ago? But I’m not surprised to hear that Garrett hails from hockey royalty. He’s got that superior sense of entitlement down pat.
“I wonder why Garrett didn’t go to college in New York then,” I say politely.
“Graham Sr. finished out his career in Boston,” Jimmy explains. “I guess the family decided to stay in Massachusetts after he retired.”
The song blessedly comes to an end, and I hastily excuse myself by pretending I need to use the washroom. Jimmy makes me promise to dance with him again, then winks and wanders off toward the beer pong table.
Since I don’t want him to know I lied about the bathroom, I follow through on the pee charade by leaving the living room to loiter in the front parlor for a bit, which is where Allie finds me a few minutes later.
“Hey! Are you having a good time?” Her eyes are bright and her cheeks are flushed, but I know she hasn’t been drinking. She promised to stay sober, and Allie never breaks her promises.
“Yeah, I guess. I think I’m taking off soon, though.”
“Aw no, you can’t go yet! I just saw you dancing with Jim Paulson—you looked like you were having fun.”
Really? I guess I’m a much better actress than I thought.
“He’s cute,” she adds with a meaningful look.
“Naah, he’s not my type. Too preppy.”
“Well, I know someone who is your type.” Allie wiggles her eyebrows before lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “And don’t turn around, but he just walked through the door.”
My heart takes off like a kite in a windstorm. Don’t turn around? Don’t people realize that saying that is guaranteed to make someone do the exact opposite?