Page 15 of Just My Type (The Boston Hearts #3)

CHAPTER TEN

NOAH

“ S till got it!” Hannah crows as she jumps down from the small stage at the front of the bar to raucous applause.

“That’s my fucking girl!” I yell, impressed as shit and loving the way Hannah throws her head back and laughs when I toss my hands up in a victory V, then shoot the whiskey sitting on the table in front of me.

I watch as the eyes of every man in the darkened bar follow Hannah as she walks towards me.

I both hate it and also can’t blame them.

The short, shimmery black dress Hannah wears winks and sparkles with every step she takes.

The material leaves her shoulders bare and skims over her curves, dipping low in the front and molding to the most perfect pair of tits I’ve ever seen.

My mouth waters, wondering how they would taste.

The short dress and her red heels make her legs look miles long, and I imagine how those legs would feel wrapped around my waist as I slid inside her, fucked her until she screamed my name.

Yes, Hannah Evans is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and everyone else’s eyes might be on her, but right now, her eyes are only on me .

“What did you think?” she asks, swinging a little unsteadily onto the tall stool across from me at the high-top table we commandeered an hour ago when we stumbled across this karaoke bar on the strip after the couples went back to the hotel to have sex or whatever and Cooper went with them, grumbling something about work.

I convinced Hannah to stay out with me, and we ended up here. She balked at first, but I promised her we could just watch, and I meant it. I can’t say I hated it when, two more drinks in, she lit up when she realized it was a showtunes-themed night and signed herself up for a slot.

Turns out Hannah Evans is a closet theater geek and is the kind of introvert who also kills at karaoke when drunk. For some reason my hazy brain can’t parse right now, that fact makes me even more wildly attracted to her than I already was.

“Gorgeous, I think that was one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.”

Hannah grins at me and grabs her margarita, taking a long sip. The smooth column of her throat and the way she swallows and then pokes her tongue out to lick a drop from her lip has my alcohol-soaked brain standing up and yelling mine .

“I know, right?”

She grins even wider, then winces when the microphone feedback fills the room and a very drunk man starts singing a very unfortunate rendition of “Don’t Rain on my Parade.”

“Taking on Barbara is a real…choice,” Hannah muses, laughing when the man absolutely butchers a high note. “Anyway, back to me.”

Hannah leans forward and props her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand.

Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the bar.

Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, and she is so fucking pretty that I have to clench my hands into fists to keep myself from reaching out and touching her.

Kissing her. Even drunk me knows that’s not a good idea. Not yet .

“Definitely back to you. How did you learn all the words to ‘La Vie Boheme’? It’s like seven and a half minutes long.”

“Eight minutes exactly on the original Broadway cast album actually.” Hannah shrugs and takes another sip of her drink.

“ Rent has always been my favorite show. I was bored one weekend when I was in seventh or eighth grade, and I locked myself in my room and played it over and over again until I had all the words memorized. I really think it’s my greatest accomplishment in life, and now the whole song is burned into my brain.

You really haven’t lived until you’ve scream-sung the words mucho masturbation , you know? ”

“Well, everyone else is really missing out. That was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I know.” She smirks at me, and I like every single side of Hannah Evans, but something about drunk, confident, light, and happy Hannah has me wanting to claim her in a weirdly possessive way I’ve never felt before.

It’s probably the alcohol.

We’ll go with that.

Her phone dings where it sits face down on the table, and Hannah snorts out a laugh.

“What do you want to bet it’s Jo wondering where we are?

I bet she’s having so much FOMO right now, but that’s what you get for trading a night singing showtunes karaoke style for hot sex with your scorching hot doctor fiancé. ”

Her words tumble together from the alcohol, but I hear her just fine, and I do not like what she just said.

“You think my brother is scorching hot?” There’s, like, an eighty-eight percent chance I’m pouting right now, but I’m suddenly having a hard time feeling my face, so I can’t be completely sure.

Hannah reaches across the table and grabs my chin. “Aw, Noah baby, are you jealous?”

The word baby penetrates my tipsy brain and makes me feel warmer than the whiskey.

“I don’t get jealous. It’s just that you should think I’m scorching hot.

I’m a doctor too. And you should also think I’m number one in the definitive ranking of Wyles brothers.

Elliot told me you chose him when you were all ranking brothers at your book club. ”

Hannah shrugs and gives me a lopsided grin. “Sorry. It’s the hot nerd thing. I’m absolute trash for a hot nerd.”

“I can be a hot nerd,” I grumble, cursing my perfect eyesight for the first time in my life.

I know what kind of hot nerds Hannah is trash for.

The ones in the romance novels who wear the glasses.

And honestly, I get it. I’m a goner for those guys too.

Who isn’t? All my money for shitty eyesight and a pair of slutty little glasses, you know?

“Mkay,” Hannah says absently, reaching for her phone with one hand while she picks up the fresh drink that just got delivered to our table with the other.

But the second she looks at the screen, her face falls, and she sets the drink back down on the table with a heavy sigh.

Even in my drunken haze, I can see the weight land right back on her shoulders, all the lightness from before gone in a flash.

“What is it?” I ask, reaching over and touching her hand.

Hannah shakes her head. “Fucking Brett. Goddammit, I hate him so fucking much.”

The thing is, her eyes don’t say hate. They say anxiety and something darker. Something that reminds me of the way I saw him put his hands on her three years ago. Of the bruises on her wrists when she showed up at my parents’ house. Something that has worry piercing my drunken haze.

“He’s still texting you?” I growl. I don’t like that at all.

“All. The. Time.” Hannah pokes a finger into my chest with each word and then slams her phone back on the table face down.

“Why?” Suddenly this seems like the most important question I’ll ever ask.

“Who the fuck knows.” Hannah takes an angry sip of her drink. “No. That’s a lie. I know. Because he wants me back. And he doesn’t know how to do laundry. ”

“He what?” I say so loudly that I see people turn to our table despite the practically deafening music coming from the karaoke stage.

Hannah shrugs so casually it makes me want to scream because I don’t feel anything casual about that asshole wanting to get her back.

I feel like I want to hurl him into the sun.

“I mean, I don’t think he actually wants me.

More, he doesn’t like that I walked away from him and doesn’t know how much laundry detergent to use to wash his damn underwear.

Did you know he’s the reason I can’t write? ”

“You told me on the roof.”

Hannah shakes her head vigorously. “No. But did I tell you why?”

I take another sip of my drink, squint my eyes, thinking back. Braining is hard right now. “Because he didn’t treat you right. That’s why I promised to show you how you deserve to be treated. I think I’m doing a pretty good job.”

Hannah’s eyes go stormy. “Well, you haven’t told me that writing romance is a silly girl’s hobby and my books will never be widely respected in the publishing industry, so you’ve already got a leg up on him.”

I clench my jaw so hard I’m shocked my molars don’t disintegrate into dust. Good thing I’m an oral surgeon and I can fix that shit. “What the fuck, Hannah? We need to come up with a better word for asshole.”

Hannah laughs darkly. “Every time I sit down to write, I hear his voice in my head, and I can’t write a single fucking word. Until…”

I feel my eyes sharpen as much as they’re capable of with ten gallons of alcohol swimming in my bloodstream. “Until what?”

Hannah reaches across the table and boops me on the nose.

“Until you came along to hang out with me and show me what a nice guy is like. Now I can write words. Not a lot of words, probably not even good words. But words anyway. And you never get angry and grab my wrists until I get bruises, and I bet you give really good orgasms. Brett never gave good orgasms.” Hannah closes one eye and tilts her head like she’s deep in thought.

“That’s a lie actually. He never gave any orgasms. I’m really happy I’m hanging out with you and not with him. ”

Hannah sighs and leans back in her chair, glancing casually over at the two girls performing “Defying Gravity” on the karaoke stage as if she didn’t just drop thirty-seven bombs on me in like seven seconds. Fuck, I really wish I was sober.

“How many times did he hurt you?” My voice comes out more sharply than I mean it to, and Hannah’s head whips back around.

“What?”

I grip the edge of the table. “He hurt you.”

She shakes her hair back casually. “Not that badly.”

I toss back the rest of my fourth drink. Fifth drink? Who could say, really. Slamming the glass back on the table, I lean forward as far as I can until I see the gold flecks in Hannah’s green eyes. “He. Hurt. You. How many times, Han?”

“Just twice.”