Page 62 of On the Breakaway

Having sex with Grayson is a completely logical solution. One time with no feelings, and no mess when it’s done.

“You are very clearly on the hunt tonight,” Haley says, pointing her straightener toward me.

I look down at my outfit. A tiny black tank top and a tight dark skirt. My eyes are smoky, and my hair is curled.

“I’m not hunting,” I say, which is technically true.

Haley looks me up and down. “Then why are your tits out?”

“Rude.”

“I’m just asking.”

I shrug, fixing my lip gloss. “I like my tits.”

Becca snorts. “They are pretty great.” She tosses her lip gloss my way. “Did you ever get Luke’s number after my birthday?” She asks. “He was obsessed with you.”

“Not my type,” I say easily.

Except, he was my type to a T. But I panicked and ended up in a back alley, pinned to a wall by someone who is very much not my type. At least, not usually.

Another reason I need tonight to go well is so I can stop dodging these types of questions. If I can finally hook up with someone once, it’ll stop feeling so impossible.

“I’ll drive,” I say.

Wesley looks up. “You’re not drinking?”

“Not tonight,” I say, and I don’t elaborate.

The idea of tequila still makes my stomach turn after last weekend, and as annoyed as I was by Grayson’s lecture, I did sort of scare myself. I’m not the kind of person who drowns problems in alcohol, and I don’t want to start doing that now. Besides, after seeing me half incoherent and throwing up in bushes, there’s absolutely no chance Grayson will take me seriously tonight if I’m drinking.

By the time we get to the bar, the hockey team is scattered across the place, bodies packed into booths under warm amber lighting, but even after a quick scan past the neon beer signs, I don’t see Grayson.

Becca and Haley peel off when they spot teammates near the back, and Wesley does the same when she catches sight of Nathan across the room. I don’t really register any of it, too focused on finding the one person I actually came here for.

Halfway through my third loop around the room, the nerves start to settle in my palms, making them sweaty, so I cut the loop and head straight to the bar.

I slide into an empty space, order a water, and stare up at the muted sports replay on the TV, wondering if I should give up this ridiculous idea.

Then I hear it: two girls beside me leaning in, voices sharp with excitement.

“Grayson Shaw just walked in.”

Every nerve ending wakes up at once.

I turn to see Grayson coming my way, wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt, and I force myself not to picture him shirtless again. His broad shoulders cut through the crowd while a few people call his name and someone else pats him on the back.

His attention is locked on me.

Heat crawls up my neck as his eyes drag over me, taking in the outfit I absolutely chose on purpose.

“Hi, Chaos,” he says when he reaches the bar. He orders a beer before glancing down at my glass. “That water or tequila?”

And there it is.

Two seconds in and I already remember exactly why I can’t stand him.

“It’s water,” I snap. “And fuck off, Grayson.”