Page 78 of The Goalie in Room 1

His face twisted. “Take that back.”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Colored lights look like Christmas puked on the tree. I have way better taste.”

Speaking of puking, hours later, the vast, barren, expensive living space had been transformed, as if Santa’s elves had puked Christmas cheer all over it.

And I was well on my way to being drunk. Which was a totally responsible thing to do when the boy living in my house, who I couldn’t touch but who loved to tease and taunt me, was walking around in nothing but his very tiny green briefs—that had to fucking be on purpose since they matched the clover on the jersey—and my Fighting Irish sweater.

His whole purpose was to torment me tonight.

It wasn’t the first time, and I knew, fucking knew, it wouldn’t be the last.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d told myself not to look. How many times I’d had to force my eyes away from those long, muscular legs, had to redirect my thoughts before they went somewhere they had no business going.

I’d also lost count of how many times I’d failed at all those thi⁠—

“Here,” he said, holding out an ugly-ass star.

I stared at it. Then him. Then back at the glitter-covered monstrosity in his hand.

“No.”

“Yes,” Cash demanded, thrusting the topper at me.

“Absolutely not.”

“It needs a topper.”

“It needs to go in the trash. It looks like a kindergarten craft project gone wrong.”

“It has character.”

“It has glitter.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

“Thad.”

I narrowed my eyes. He smiled.

Fuck.

“Give me the damn thing.”

His smile became a grin as he handed it over.

I climbed up the stepladder we’d been using while Cash backed up far enough to inspect my work.

“Left.”

I moved it left.

“Other left.”

“I know my fucking left from my right.” I looked at him over my shoulder, careful not to make the step ladder wobble. A step ladder I hadn’t known I owned.