I step into the hallway near the bathrooms to get away from the noise of The Estates arguing that Edgar Allen Poe was the most influential American poet of the 1800s.

I hear a professor correcting Cole, “Just because the only literature you know by name is The Raven doesn’t make it the most influential. If we went by that standard, the most influential magazine of the 20th century would be Playboy.”

The academics laugh, and I have to admit it’s a good zinger. I sigh, hoping I know what I’m getting myself into . . . and what I’m getting Zoey into too.

I press her contact and the rings sound a bit like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart, nerves and anxiety louder in my head than they should.

“Hello?” Zoey answers.

“Hey, Zoey, I have a bit of an emergency here and I’m wondering if you might be able to help me?” I spit out nervously. God, this could so blow up in my face.

Zoey winds up in an instant, her voice hard and worried. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Shit.

Her first thought is that there’s been a catastrophe of her doing, which was not my intention, but . . .

“Yeah, I’m fine. Can you just come? I’ll send you the address.”

“You promise this isn’t a booty call again?” she asks a bit more warily. “If I get there and your dick is out, I will scream and douse you with pepper spray.”

I chuckle, although my dick does do a little wakeup twinge in my pants. “No, you won’t.”

She sighs, and I know I’ve got her. “No, I probably won’t. Okay, I’m coming.”

“Thanks.” I hang up before she asks any more questions or changes her mind and text her the street address of McKelly’s Tavern.

I can’t help but smile as I return to the table.

Zoey’s coming. She’s coming here.

Not a date, she’s made herself clear on that.

But a chance to see her, and hopefully, get her to help us kick Cole’s ass.

“She gonna show?” Trey asks, leaning over to whisper-yell in my ear.

I nod, watching the door with one eye and my watch with the other. “Strat-e-gery.” Mostly, I’m talking about the strategic moves I need to make with Zoey, but I’ll admit that if she can help us tonight, I certainly won’t be mad at a win.

“Yep,” Trey confirms. “But it had better pay off because Shawn already bailed.”

“I know. She’ll show,” I promise, hoping I’m right.

Ten minutes later, Meg-a-demia is celebrating their win with toasts and clinking glasses while Cole’s Estate groupies are pouting and calling for a rematch. “You were outsmarted, fair and square. Sorry your daddy couldn’t buy this win for you, bucko,” Professor Adams tells Cole, not sounding or looking sorry in the slightest as he smiles and twirls his mustache.

“Next week, you’re going down. But the night’s not over.” Cole calls back as he turns his sights to Heather, who’s ready for him, standing with a hip cocked out to the side and her head tilted in that ‘I’m your Huckleberry’ way.

“We’re ready, Estate Bait,” Heather says, hitting Cole where it hurts. He probably spends hours with his therapist each week bemoaning that no one loves him for him but only for his money. If he wasn’t a douche waffle, it might be different, but he is, so it’s not.

I clear my throat to get Heather’s attention,, and when she looks my way, I flash her a weak version of my ‘Rock brow’ to remind her not to get too carried away because we’re not ready . . . yet.

“Potty break and refills first, then we’re ready,” she says to stall.

“Aww, so scared you’re gonna piss yourself?” Cole teases.

“Nope. Need to puke because you make me sick,” she retorts. Several people laugh, including Bryan, though he tries to hide it from Cole.

“Fine. This round’s on me, next one’s on the losers. That’d be you.”

His smack talk falls on Heather’s back as she heads toward the bathroom, but she does shoot him a middle finger of acknowledgement. Meanwhile, Cole calls out to Don, the bartender, “Three pitchers, please, one for the Meg-a-dicks, one for Chaos Control, and one for us.” That’d be his not-cute nicknames for the professors and us. “Oh, get Bossy Boots a cranberry vodka too.”

Huh, that was actually nice of him to remember that Heather not only doesn’t drink beer, but to remember her preferred poison. Maybe there’s a bit ‘protesting too much’ in their banter?

Pretty-boy Cole and rainbow-haired Heather?

I’ve heard of stranger pairings, but not too many, honestly. Before I can ponder that too much, the door swings open, slamming back against the wall.

Zoey’s entrance is just that, an entrance. Spotlighted and framed by the door, she looks adorable in pink, fuzzy, skull-printed pajama pants, a yellow tank top, purple Ugg boots, and an oversized black cardigan pulled tight around her.

Her hair is piled on her head and she has glasses on. She’s the ultimate in nerd-geek-hot, and I just want to scoop her up again and cuddle and nuzzle her until she’s soft for me, and then when she’s nice and warm, ravish her like a wild animal.

“Oh, shit.” I see her mouth and immediately make my way toward her. Even now, I can see how wide her eyes are behind the lenses.