Page 2 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

I appreciate my best friend’s efforts to reintroduce me to the dating scene, but between the skull-chiseling throb in my head, the exhaustion creeping up my subconscious, and the sourness in my belly from one too many drinks, I don’t have the patience nor the interest.

Though before I can protest, her mane of red curls is flouncing over to the sad sack who’s been singled out like unsuspecting prey, and I watch as she plays up her coy act, even going as far as whispering in this stranger’s ear.

Judging by their flirty body language, Mystery Man probably has a better chance of getting with Irelyn than with me.

I’d be all in support of that, you know?

I don’t need to get my pussy wet to have a good time.

I’m perfectly content living vicariously through Irelyn while she regales me with her exciting tales from the bedroom .

One time, she tried pegging an astrology dude with one of those selenite wands and the tip broke off in his ass. Pretty sure those things aren’t made for internal use. They had to rush to the ER and everything.

Much to my dismay, Irelyn ignores my telepathic message to ABANDON SHIP, giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up from the other side of the room.

Oh my God. He’s coming over here. What do I do? I can’t make a break for the door because he’s two strides away from me. Should I fake a heart attack? That could work, right?

Before I have time to come up with an escape plan, my unidentified admirer sidles up beside me, disarming me with a megawatt grin that reveals unnervingly straight teeth.

Nerves wreak havoc on my feverish body, and my throat is suddenly the consistency of sandpaper, chafing the words that fight tooth and nail to leave my mouth. “Did my friend pay you to come over here?”

“Nope. I’ve been waiting all night for this opportunity,” he drawls, his smoke-cured voice soaked with a honeyed lilt that singes one hell of a hole through my belly.

That’s not a normal reaction, and I’m not even ovulating.

“To buy a lady a drink?”

“To buy you a drink.”

He looks to be around my age, and he’s insanely handsome.

He’s got fluffy, dirty-blond hair that’s parted down the middle, and it should be a crime to gift men with such voluminous hair genes.

His bone structure is angular and defined—the cut of his jaw so sharp it could probably rive through granite.

Not to mention that he’s donned a plain shirt, which does an excellent job of highlighting the impressive muscle distribution roiling underneath the thin cotton.

His biceps are the size of my goddamn head, and I’m blessed—or cursed—with an unobstructed view of his corded arms, no doubt a result of a strict workout regimen.

His broad, mile-wide shoulders stretch the fabric of his T-shirt as my unabashed ogling is drawn to the taper of his waist, then to the thick masses of his giant thighs, then to whatever military-grade weapon he’s packing underneath his jeans.

Shit. Why am I staring at his crotch?

My cheeks flame with what I’m guessing is a pretty apparent blush, and I redirect my attention to my glass. I swish the drink in my hand, watching miniature whirlpools form as glaciers of ice cubes buoy to the surface.

“Out of everyone in the bar, why me?” I inquire.

God, even his smell is intoxicating. Notes of leather dance in the air, underpinned by currents of bergamot that hotwire my hormones and prepare my lady bits for some kind of ruinous reckoning. There will be no reckoning, okay? None.

“Because it seems you’re the only girl in this sports bar who couldn’t give two shits about the game,” he replies, nodding to the retina-scorching, flat-screen television hanging above our heads, which broadcasts a rerun of the Minnesota Mustangs’ game from last season.

“The Mustangs are one of the best teams in the league.”

Great. He’s a hockey kiss-ass, just like everyone else in this town.

I never saw the appeal of hockey—it’s just a sport where guys on skates have to huck a puck into the opposing goal.

There’s nothing impressive about it. And since I’ve been exposed— thank you, Dad —to washed-up athletes with God complexes who generally stink of ball sweat and lies, it goes without saying that I’ve developed a warranted hatred for the hockey player species.

Just then, hoots and hollers erupt from every direction, and a divorcé with an obvious toupée slams his drink down with so much force that the entire counter jars from the impact.

He’s halfway out of his seat, yelling colorful profanities at the ref who can’t hear him and inciting the restless mob congregating around him .

Why did I have to move to the biggest hockey town in Minnesota? Why? I’m a good person, I don’t deserve this.

“It’s not the game I don’t like. It’s the obnoxious players,” I explain.

The blond with enviable cheekbones ponders me for a second, and then a full-throated chuckle rumbles through his chest.

“You seem pretty sure in your assessment.”

“I’ve spent enough time with guys like that to know that they’re all the same,” I gripe, prickling with impatience and a newfound intolerance for men who’re so horny that they’d stick their dick into an electrical outlet just to feel warmth.

Either this dude is a masochist or he’s concerningly oblivious. He doesn’t retreat with his tail between his legs like he’s supposed to—no, I’ve somehow spurred him to continue his precarious tread on “Do Not Pass Go.”

He sucks his teeth. “Maybe you should try being with a man for a change.”

I humor him, a vixenish grin stealing purchase over my lips, no better in hiding my amusement than my hooded gaze that scans him in a lazy perusal. “Those are some pretty big words.”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I have the faculties to back them up.”

Oh, I’ve noticed.

“You’re wasting your time,” I warn him, and maybe it’s his unparalleled persistence or the fact that I’ve never had a man-made orgasm in my twenty-one years of life, but my out-of-service area downstairs begins to smolder with lust. Lust that could so easily be satiated by this stranger’s head between my thighs as he worships the very ground I walk on.

“A waste of my time would be walking away from you.”

He’s got some wit, I’ll give him that. No guy has ever worked this hard to get my attention before .

“If you think I’m gonna drop my panties for you because you’re some pretty rich boy, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

Selective hearing is a disease, people.

“Pretty annoying,” I scoff, praying that he doesn’t clock the way I squeeze my legs together.

“Give me the night and I can change your mind,” he promises in an irresistible timbre, bridging the distance between us with his mountainous body. His lips look soft and moisturized—a considerable feat since most men are allergic to hygiene products.

Would a little taste be so bad? It’s not like I’ll ever see this man again.

Come on, Merit. You wanted an excuse to wind down before school, and the world is offering you one on a silver platter.

Irelyn’s right, isn’t she? You never do anything for yourself.

You never venture out of your comfort zone because you’re too afraid of hurting Mommy and Daddy.

When will you stop enabling them? When will you start living your life?

I shouldn’t be doing this.

That’s the thrill of it.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I whip it out to deal with the ill-timed distraction.

My nosy neighbor chuckles. “Is this when your friend calls to bail you out?”

Jesus, this is embarrassing.

“Sorry, I have to text my parents to let them know I’m okay,” I tell him, twiddling my thumbs over the virtual keyboard.

Them checking in on me every hour is a buzzkill, especially when my parents are prone to thinking of the worst-case scenarios. Did I fall down the Grand Canyon? We’re nowhere near the Grand Canyon, but anything is a possibility in their minds.

“It’s nice that they care.”

“It’s overbearing. ”

He shrugs. “Some of us would kill to have overbearing parents.”

Looking down at my cryptic thumbs-up emoji in response to a consecutive flood of questioning bubbles, something strange thrashes in my belly. Guilt, maybe.

“I never thought of it like that.”

Composed of sultry sex appeal and Sauvage, this man is solely responsible for blending my brain into mush. “Just trying to keep you open-minded. Another thing I’m great at aside from cherishing women.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “And what makes you think I’m interested in being ‘cherished’?”

Mystery Man—whose stool is butted up against mine—cages me with an outstretched arm, though he still gives me the option to run if I want to.

He leans in so close that I can memorize the constellation of sun-faded freckles over his cheeks, that I can smell his minty breath and the lack of alcohol that apparently isn’t impairing his judgment. “Girls don’t say no to me.”

“I’d love to be the first.”

“Then say it.”

My traitorous gaze drops to his lips, and the hunger that rears inside of me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. So profoundly animalistic—a long-suppressed desire to sink my teeth into something soft and never let go until copper inundates my taste buds. Predatory. All-consuming.

I thought I was being calm, cool, and collected, but my voice suffers a humiliating crack. “I…”

I still don’t even know this guy’s name, and he’s single-handedly rewiring all my man-hating genes—which were instilled in my stone heart when my hockey-playing ex cheated on me.

As if the proximity isn’t bad enough, he uses his knee to nudge open my legs, sliding into the space as I part them unresistingly.

His touch stirs a tornado of butterflies in my belly, and I’d deduce that they’re hell-bent on total-world destruction.

I’m sweating in places I shouldn’t sweat, I can hear the rush of my blood in my ears, and I can feel my heart begging to burst through the dam of my chest.

“You can’t, can you? Because secretly, deep down, I think you like making me work for it. And sweetheart, I love a challenge.”

Oh, fuck me.