I know this game. Nate and I used to play when we were kids during long car rides. I don’t think I’ve ever played it as a drinking game, though, so this should be interesting. I stare into her eyes and feel her hands hovering against mine; I twitch two or three times just to see her jump.
“When am I gonna do it? Is it…now?” I shout and jerk, but don’t really move my hands. On instinct, she quickly pulls her hands into her chest; I have to admit, I’m impressed that she’s still so nimble—given how lit she is on tequila. Slowly, she slides her hands back over mine, her eyes intensely watching for any muscle twitch or movements. Then, in a flash, she looks into my eyes again.
“Pussy,” she teases, a tiny smirk tugging at her lips, and holy fuck is it hot when she talks like that. I can’t help the grin that crawls up the side of my mouth as I keep my eyes locked on hers.
“Princess, I’m no pussy,” I say, slowly enunciating each word, and pushing my hands so they’re firmly against hers. Her breath hitches when I do, and her palms heat up from the friction of touching me. Her eyelids grow heavier, and I can tell the alcohol is really hitting her system now, so I don’t waste my time. With a swift movement, I swing my right hand out from under hers, reaching for the top of her left hand—catching her unexpected. Only somehow…what the hell? My hands are flat together, and I’ve missed her completely.
“I’m no princess,” she says, her hands untouched against her chest and the mischievous grin lingering somewhere between sexy and pissed as hell. “My turn.”
Yes, I do believe it’s her turn. Because I have no fucking clue what to do now, but goddamn do I want to figure it out.
Chapter 3
Cass
“How, in the name of all that is holy, are you awake…and moving!” Paige’s voice is muffled by her pillow, which she has secured over her mouth and eyes to block out the closet light I just turned on.
“It’s just easier if you push through the pain. Want me to open the window?” I ask, laughing when she pulls both hands away from her pillow to flip me off. I love teasing Paige when she’s hung over.
“Touch that curtain, and I will end you,” she seethes, which only makes me laugh harder. Paige has flair for drama.
We drank a lot last night, but I’ve drunk more before. It’s been a while, but my tolerance still seems to be okay. And we came home early—mostly because the guy Paige had her eye on left early, and she got bored. I could have played the flirting game all night though. We never talked about anything personal me and…huh, mystery man. No names—at least, not my real name. I think he knew I was faking it, but he played along, which was…nice.
I slapped hands with him for about thirty minutes, maybe longer, and our conversation stayed on the surface. Double-meaning comments, laced with flirtation, but nothing deeper. As soon as I could tell it was going somewhere, I left. He went to the bathroom, promising he’d be right back, and I told Paige I was ready to go home. I’m a little embarrassed by it now that I’m sober, but as far as he knows, I’m Adrianna—might as well be Cinderella.
“I’ve got a noon with the personal trainer. I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I whisper, knowing Paige has already drifted back to sleep.
When I found out they had someone on campus that worked with people…like me…I jumped on the appointment. Not that I really need anyone to push me through workouts, or to teach me things. I’m pretty self-driven when it comes to exercise, which my mom is always quick to point out I should do less of. The doctors disagree—or rather, they don’t all agree. So I do what makes me feel good. And since I left soccer behind in high school, I’ll stick with pushing my body in the gym.
Rowe is standing by the elevator, and I can tell she’s talking to someone, but I can’t see the other half of the conversation until I’m right behind her. And suddenly, he’s here. Our eyes are like magnets. My heart starts to literally throb, my chest pounding with a quick rhythm I’m pretty sure I can’t hide. My palms are sweaty, my mind racing with fear that he’s going to call me Adrianna—or that Rowe is going to call me Cass. Either way, I’m going to look like a lunatic to both of them. And I can tell by the way his mouth is curling into a knowing smirk that he’s ready to pick up where we left off—the flirting game. Thing is, I’m way better at that after I’ve had a few shots of tequila.
“You missed a hell of a party last night. You’re coming to the mixer with me tonight, no excuses,” I say to Rowe, looping my arm with hers, basically using her as a human shield for my embarrassment.