I’ve already been approached three times, by three different guys, two of whom attend the college and are on one team or another, and also by one of their coaches. He looked to be in his midforties, and as flattered as I am, he’s old enough to be my father, so that’s a hard nope for me. I might have daddy issues, but not those kind.

Joey apparently had a date lined up, but she came down with the flu or food poisoning—the story keeps changing—so he’s a lone wolf on the prowl. I hope I don’t become his target of choice since Bishop isn’t here. So far I’ve managed to avoid being cornered, but it’s only a matter of time before he tracks me down.

“Bishop better not stand me up,” I say to Pattie. She and Jules decided to be each other’s date because there are a lot of hot guys at these events.

“He’s not going to stand you up.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s way into you.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Ever since he picked up my suitcase and we had that conversation, things have been different. Sure, he’s been around more, picking me up all the time and hanging out at my place after sessions, but he doesn’t make passes at me like he used to, and he hasn’t tried to hump on me at all. It’s just been those freaking forehead or temple kisses. Maybe seeing me melt down over Joey made him reevaluate his position. Plus I told him to pretend the almost-kiss-hump-off didn’t happen. And I think he’s actually taken me seriously, but now it’s messing with my head. Which I realize is my fault.

Joey, being the opportunistic asshole he is, picks that very moment to interrupt our conversation. He slings an arm over my shoulder, having approached us from behind so we wouldn’t see him coming.

Last night I was here with Pattie and Jules until ten, putting up decorations. We had to watch the game on our cell phones, which was annoying. We came back early this morning to finish up. Joey conveniently “forgot” he was supposed to be part of the setup equation. On principle it frustrates me, but I have to say I was pretty grateful I didn’t have to deal with him last night.

He gives me what he thinks is his sexy smile and notches up the smarmy levels by staring at my chest for far too long. The dress dips low in the front. I don’t have particularly big boobs—a solid handful—but they’re perky enough that I can get away with going braless, which is important in this dress with the plunging neckline—again, Pattie’s and Jules’s influence.

He lets out a low whistle. “Wow, Stevie, love the dress.”

“Super glad it has your seal of approval.”

I try to slip out from under his arm, but he tightens his grip on my shoulder, keeping me glued to his side.

I pin him with an unimpressed sneer. “I wouldn’t do that unless you’re wearing a jockstrap or you’re not worried about compromising your ability to procreate.”

“Come on, Stevie, I’m just being friendly.”

“If by friendly you mean harass-y, then I totally agree.”

I’m about to give him a swift elbow to the ribs when a familiar deep voice makes my lady parts perk up, and Joey drops his arm like I’m made of acid and I’m burning the skin off his arm.

“Hey, Pattie, there you are. Have you seen Stevie? My flight was delayed, and I left my phone in Kingston’s car, so he had to drive it back over, and my brother wasn’t home so I couldn’t call—” He eyes Joey with contempt, and his gaze slides past me but quickly darts back. His eyebrows lift, and his mouth drops. “Holy shit. Stevie?”

“Hey.” I raise my hand in an awkward wave. I’m not sure how to take his reaction.

Bishop lets out a low whistle, but it’s appreciative, not smarmy. “Wow. You look”—he runs his hands down my bare arms, the touch electrifying my skin, and threads his fingers through mine—“fucking delicious.”

“I told you the dress was perfect,” Pattie says from my right.

I ogle Bishop like he’s a chocolate triple-layer fudge cake during period week. He’s dressed in a sharp black suit, probably custom tailored, based on the way it hugs every single one of his incredibly cut muscles.

His dark-brown hair is actually styled, rather than being the haphazard mess it typically is when I see him for sessions, as if he’s been running his fingers through it incessantly and forcing it to stand up in different directions. Tonight it’s parted to the side: a natural Superman wave that makes him look both like a badass and the kind of guy I’d want to take home to meet my mom. That he went to all this trouble for me, especially after traveling all day and having to rush here after a delayed flight, makes my stomach flutter.

“You look delicious too.” Obviously my ability to form words and sentences with unique descriptors has disappeared in the wake of his extreme hotness.

Bishop bows his head and grins, looking all shy boy-man instead of badass hockey player. He lifts my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles. The simple, mostly innocent gesture feels wildly intimate, probably because it sends a shock wave of desire firing through me, peaking my nipples and inciting a sweet ache between my thighs. I’m in so much trouble.

And that’s before he parts those soft, full lips of his and bites my knuckle. The shock wave becomes a torrent of lust as he steps in closer, the tip of his polished black shoe meeting the tip of my silver heels. He raises my hands, encouraging me to drape them over his shoulders.