Granted, I don’t go out that much myself, but I know I’d remember seeing her out if I did. Truthfully? I spend most of my Fridays lamely cruising up and down the street, nostalgic about home, needing something to fill my time so I don’t spend it doing things I shouldn’t be doing—partying, drinking, sex.

Distracting things.

Unsure about whether or not I should approach her or let her come to me, I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans and stand rooted to the spot. I’m in the corner of the living room, near the kitchen door, with a bird’s-eye view of the entire party.

Charlotte isn’t alone; she’s with three other girls—one from the car that I recognize and two that I don’t. They’re all shorter but cute. Done up like every girl in the room, they ordinarily wouldn’t stand out to me.

But now I know what a smart mouth Charlie has on her, what a brat she can be. I’ve seen with my own two eyes how riled she gets when she’s got her dander up or her panties in a twist.

The thought has my lips tipping up at the corners, and I hide the smile behind the neck of my beer bottle.

It’s a nice night, not too cold, so she has foregone a jacket and stands at the door in a cute shirt tucked into dark denim. Her blonde hair is down and wavy, and tonight she’s wearing more makeup than I’ve seen her in.

Her lips are glossy—I can see them shining from here when she cranes her neck to glance around the room and the light hits them just right.

Is she looking for someone?

I’m no fool—I know she’s looking for me. I take pleasure in the fact that she hasn’t spotted me yet and I can watch her for a few more undisturbed seconds before the spell is broken.

Charlie is beautiful.

So beautiful it makes me slightly uncomfortable. I might be headed to the pros and have an amazing career ahead of me, but physically, Charlie is out of my league.

I’m a brute.

Scarred.

Tall. Bulky. Bruised.

Sore.

Light on my feet for the position I play but large nonetheless.

I run a palm along my jawline. I didn’t have time to shave this afternoon; my entire face is scratchy.

Fuck, my shirt is wrinkled, too, while she looks so fucking pretty. Why she agreed to meet me here is beyond me, especially after our rocky start.

It’s loud in this house, packed to capacity, and takes a few minutes to weave my way through the strangers gathered for the party. Her friends have all gone their own ways and when I reach her, she’s standing alone smiling, lips moving as if pleasantries are coming out of her mouth; words I can’t hear because it’s so damn loud in this house.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Having fun?” I catch her question because I’ve bent myself at the waist, leaned down to listen, and tilted my head at an angle so she can talk into my ear.

“Meh.”

We wouldn’t be able to carry on a conversation inside if our lives depended on it, so thank God they don’t.

“Want to go somewhere quiet? So we can talk?” Jesus, I’m shouting, eyes roaming the perimeter of the crowded living room. Toward the kitchen, landing on the stairs that go…well, upstairs.

Pull them away and refocus on Charlie.

She rolls a pair of eyes so blue when she catches my gaze on the stairs, I compare her irises to the ocean. Fuck. I must be drunk. That was a dumb notion, and she’d gag if I said it out loud.

“I’m not going upstairs with you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Kemosabe. I meant outside—where it’s quieter. On the porch.” There’s a bench swing out there big enough for two, if she can stand the thought of sitting next to me.

“Oh.” She looks chagrined, shifting on her heels and readjusting the purse draped over her shoulder. “All right, we can do the porch. Let me just…” Her sentence trails off as she searches the crowd. “I don’t know where my friends went, normally they’d be hanging all over you. Haha. Let me just text them to tell them I’m going outside.”

Her phone appears from the back pocket of her jeans, and she taps out a quick message. Stuffs it back inside and tilts her chin in my direction. “All set.”

I hold the screen door for her after pushing through the main entrance, and we step down onto the wooden porch of the house with its wide veranda and overhang. White railings and staircase descend into a dark pit of a front yard, the streetlights lining the road doing little to illuminate the area in front of the house.

Only the flicker from two dull sconces flanking the entry provide any light.

“This isn’t creepy at all,” Charlie jokes sarcastically, instinctively moving to the far end, toward the swing. She rests her ass on it.

It squeaks on four rusty chains. They’re thin and clinging to the ceiling by tiny, round hooks.

Shit.

Should I stand? Would that be fucking weird? Me, just staring down at her? I can see down her shirt if I stand here—what if she thinks I’m being a pervert?

Like a bull in a china shop, I sit my ass down.

The swing doesn’t even swing; that’s how much I’m weighing it down, and I’m afraid to give it a push with the heel of my foot. God forbid it comes crashing to the ground.

Charlie already thinks I’m a moron; that would solidify it.

“You don’t look comfortable,” she says after a few moments, the rusty chains yelping with every subtle movement.

I wish she’d sit still.

I give the brackets above a worried peek.

Frown.

“What?” Charlie wants to know.

“Nothin’.”

“Why do you keep looking up at the ceiling? What’s up there?” Now she’s glancing up, only she has no idea what she’s looking for. “Tell me.”

“The chains don’t look sturdy.”

“Oh, well.” Charlie goes to push us off, but I stop the swing from moving forward. “Are you scared it’s going to break?”

“Yup.”

“We wouldn’t have far to fall.” She laughs, as if me falling on my ass wouldn’t be a big deal. “Why don’t you relax?”

“But…” What if the swing does crash to the ground? I imagine the loud thud, hitting my head on the wooden planks, the rusty chains covering us with a clang.

“Jackson, relax.” I watch as if it’s in slow motion as she reaches over and her fingers brush the skin of my bare knee, giving me a reassuring pat before pulling away.

My body tenses up from the contact.

That didn’t help me relax.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Game face, Triple J—shake it off.

And now I’m talking about myself in the third person, using the nickname she refuses to call me because she thinks it’s stupid, which she would no doubt give me major shit for.

My mind is a muddled mess; I do not want to date anyone. I do not want to have sex with her. I’m obviously attracted to her—Charlie is gorgeous—but I don’t want to screw her brains out. Okay, so, I have been thinking about banging her lately, but I won’t. I can think about it in passing, though…right?

Fuck.

Why did I invite her here tonight, and why am I sitting with her outside on the damn porch?

It’s quiet and dim and intimate, and there’s no one outside but the two of us, which is unusual. Normally, people are spilling out of the house, passing by, walking to other parties, neighboring houses—including mine—hosting their own loud, drunken keggers.