Very tough.
“It’s not my fault you chose the wrong person to spend your birthday with,” I say, attempting to figure out why on earth he’d want to spend the night in my company.
I’m no one in his world. Sure, I can make a mean quesadilla, and if you were to ask me what season of New Girl a certain episode is from, I’d be able to answer you. And not to toot my own horn, but this girl knows how to sew a button, a lost skill among the ages. But other than that, there’s nothing special over here, at least nothing of Hornsby’s caliber.
“True, but I’m choosing you now. Are you really going to turn me down?”
Uhhh . . .
I’m trying to, but failing magnificently.
I’d like to state it’s not my fault. Just look at him. I’d love to see any one of you say no to him. Go ahead, give it a shot.
Yeah . . . that’s what I thought. Impossible.
Goodbye girls’ night.
I had plans, you know, of talking to Blakely about my latest waxing experience—which was a nightmare—and asking her what she thinks of that period underwear you see advertised all over the place. Oh . . . and how I spent two hours the other night watching this beautiful Turkish baker plow her fist into proofed bread dough over and over again.
That is not the kind of conversation that should be had in front of a man like Eli. Nor should he obtain humiliating information like that about me.
Also, I’m not sure he would have a valuable opinion on period underwear.
But it seems Hornsby has other plans, and honestly, I’m not a beast. I can’t just leave someone on their birthday . . . alone. So it seems this duo of Blakely and me has become a trio.
“Turn you down?” I glance to the side, spotting Blakely buried in her phone. I swallow hard. “I guess I’m not.”
A full-on, mind-melting, panty-splitting smile spreads across his face, and that one look, full of flirtatious promises, makes my legs quiver. Pulse. Possibly spread if I wasn’t standing.
I have no intentions of ever hooking up with Hornsby or any one of Pacey’s teammates for that matter, but he’s chosen me to be his bestie tonight, so that’s that.
Without another word, he wraps his arm around my shoulders, and together, we head toward Blakely, who looks up from her phone just in time to catch us walking together.
Uh-oh.
I’ve seen that grin before.
That grin doesn’t look promising for me.
The gears are grinding in her mind . . . her evil, evil mind.
When I set her drink on the table, I can tell I’m not going to like what comes out of her mouth next, and that drink will most likely be consumed by me, not her.
“Eli Hornsby, isn’t it your birthday?” she says, the ease in her voice making me envious. She’s always had an easy time talking to the players, whereas I nervously sweat in the corner and respond to their questions with weird grunting noises until I warm up. You would think being around hockey players my entire life would have prepared me not to be a nervous wreck, but that is not reality. At least not when it comes to Hornsby.
“It is my birthday.” He sets his drink on the small, circular table.
“Well, Happy Birthday,” she says. “And I hate to do this because celebrating your birthday seems like a lot of fun . . .”
Uhh, hate to do what?
Why is she standing from her chair?
Why isn’t she lifting her drink to take a sip?
Why the hell is she putting her purse strap over her shoulder?
“But Perry called, and he came home early to surprise me. I’d love to see where this night takes us, but my Valentine is requesting my presence.” She pouts her lip, but it falls flat on me.
I don’t believe her.
Not even for a second.
“You’re just going to leave?” I ask her, panic laced in my voice. I give her a look, the best friend look that says, “Please, Jesus, don’t leave me alone with him,” but because she’s the evil wench that she is, she deliberately doesn’t translate my plea.
“Yes, but you have Hornsby here to keep you company and possibly be your wingman.”
“Wingman?” Hornsby says. “Are you looking to hook up with someone, Penny?”
“What? No!” My cheeks flame with embarrassment. “No, I didn’t even want to come out tonight, but Blakely convinced me. I was fine with just hanging out at my place and eating a gallon of ice cream . . . errrr, I mean pint, a pint of ice cream.”
*Whispers* I actually meant what I said. A gallon. A full-on gallon of creamy, delicious milkiness. Possibly even with some sprinkles or chocolate fudge. Definitely cherries.