I shrug. There’s no better time than the present.
I slip the Hercules-sized black-and-yellow jersey over my head and glimpse myself in the dresser mirror, blinking in disgust at what’s staring back at me. Not only do I look like a just-fucked mess—hair a rat’s nest of knots and makeup sledding down my face—I look like a damn bumblebee on crack.
“What’s up, dude?” an unidentified voice says from the living room.
Curiosity piqued, I decide I’m completely cool with looking like a crack-smoking, just-fucked bumblebee. I also decide I’m one hundred percent baked. Under normal circumstances, considering what happened between me and Ryder today, and what just occurred between me and Brock, there’d be no way in hell I’d leave the bedroom. I’ve deemed what I’m about to do “weed muscles.”
Along with Brock answering the unidentified voice, I hear the front door snap shut, my attention focused on trying to make it down the hall without losing my nerve. As I round the corner to the living room, it’s not my nerve I lose.
No. That’d be too easy, and besides, the bigwigs are seriously out to get me tonight.
Instead, I lose my footing, tripping over a barbell. Right about the same time I register a fiery pain blast through my pinky toe—which I’m sure was just broken—my palms hit the maple floors, closely followed by my knees. I land with a thud—doggie-style—in front of Brock, Ryder, and Mystery Man.
“What the fuck?”
Though I’m currently staring at a tiny dust ball, there’s no mistaking that was Ryder.
“Ber!” Brock bellows, thumping across the living room. He kneels beside me, throws my arm over his shoulder, his face weary as he helps me to my feet. “Holy shit. Are you all right?”
Holding Brock’s shoulder, I hop over to the couch, aiming for crass. “Other than the fact that I’m completely mortified and not sure if my toe’s still connected to my foot, yeah, I’m just dandy.”
Brock frowns and helps me onto the couch, resting my legs over his thighs as he inspects my foot.
“I’ll get our clumsy girl here some ice,” Ryder pipes up, mirth clear in his deep chuckle. He turns toward the kitchen, but not before adding, “You sure do love tripping and falling over things, Moretti, huh?”
I lift my heavy, embarrassed eyes to Ryder’s, my breath catching at the sight of him. Lazy grin properly in place, leaning against the archway of the kitchen, he too has that just-fucked look going on. But, boy, does he wear it better than I do.
His black hair has no organization to it. It’s spiked up messily in every direction, as though some chick was gripping it while in the throes of her pleasure. I contain the urge to bite my lip, watching the way his muscles flex and flow beneath a snug-fitting plain gray T-shirt as he crosses his tattooed arms. He might be a good twenty feet from me, but I can’t help but catch his eyes, their clear—almost translucent—blue gleaming as he pitches me a wink.
Completely enthralled or not, again I aim for crass. “Well, Ryder, I’m sure Brock didn’t purposely stick the barbell in my path so I’d trip over it. Only assholes who are . . . hmm, what’s the word I’m searching for?” Eyes locked on his, I tap my chin. “Oh, that’s right. Only assholes who are insecure in their delivery would do such a thing. They also usually overcompensate by claiming that they own huge . . . buildings.” I smirk, sending him a wink right back. “So with that, I’d say I don’t love tripping and falling over things.”
Oh God. Did I just say what I think I just said? Maybe I thought it.
Those gorgeous, translucent baby blues flash in amused surprise, staring at me a second.
Then another.
And still another.
Brock’s chuckle breaks the silence. “Hot fucking damn. She just put you in place.”
OhmyGod. I did say it. Weed muscles. That’s what it was.
“Dude,” Mystery Man says as he slips into an armchair, “is the Ryder Ashcroft short on words? I think we need to call the media. This shit needs to be broadcast nation-fucking-wide.”
I’ve decided I want to cuddle with Mystery Man.
Ryder looks at Mystery Man then swings his eyes back to me. “Amber, this is Limp-dick Lee Mitchel. Limp-dick Lee, this is the clumsy but oh-so-sexy, can-throw-a-slap-better-than-any-girl-who’s-ever-slapped-me Amber Moretti.”
I feel my face flush purple. Yes, purple. Not red.
“We’ve met.” Lee nods.
I don’t remember meeting him. “I don’t remember meeting you.”
Is there an echo in here?
“I’m your roommate’s boyfriend,” Lee points out.
Roommate? I have a roommate? Blank, I smile as if I know what he’s talking about.
“Oh, and Lee,” Ryder says, cupping his balls beneath a pair of Hugos, “that whole media comment? Yeah, bro, why don’t you come over here and suck my nuts.”
Lee cringes. “Nah, I’m good, dude.”
“I thought so, pansy.” Ryder turns to me, a small smile tilting his lips as his eyes slither over every inch of my listless body. “Amber.”
“Ryder,” I answer, waiting for him to continue.
“Kudos, momma. You just managed to do what no girl’s ever been able to do to me.”
“And that would be?” I question.
“Like Limp-dick Lee said, you rendered me completely speechless.” He slides a hand through his hair, kicking me yet another wink. “So on that note, I’m gonna be a good boy and go get that ice for your pretty little toes.”