The Dare - Elle Kennedy Page 0,19

hooks by the door. “Everyone put your dicks away,” he announces. “We’ve got a guest.”

“Grain bowl?” I ask, confused.

“Team nutrition rules. We’re all eating like mice. No wasted calories.” He sighs.

I know the feeling.

He leads me around the corner into the living room, where three men of imposing figures are spread out on the couches, two playing Xbox.

They’re still in their suits from the banquet, albeit in various stages of disarray, with ties undone and shirts untucked. Together they look like a GQ cologne ad that ostensibly attempts to portray the aftermath of a fashionable boys’ night out in Vegas or something. All that’s missing is disembodied female legs in heels draped over their shoulders, and maybe a pair of lacy red underwear elegantly slung over the armrest.

“Guys, this is Taylor. Taylor, these are the guys.” Conor strips out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the back of a chair.

For a moment I’m transfixed, watching the way his muscles push against the crisp white fabric of his shirt. His chest straining against the buttons. He may have just ruined me for suits.

In unison the guys reply, “Hi, Taylor,” like we’re all in on a joke.

“Hi, guys.” I wave, now feeling awkward. All the more so because it’s hot in this room and I really, really want to take off my sweater.

But the dress I’m wearing must have shrunk in the wash yesterday, because my tits have been attempting to jailbreak out of it all afternoon. It’s discouraging to walk around a room full of former White House officials, Nobel laureates, and Fortune 500 CEOs, and find that they still haven’t perfected looking a woman in the eyes since their fraternity days.

Men are a failed species.

“So you’re the one.” Hunched forward with a game controller in his hand, one of the roommates raises an eyebrow at me. He’s handsome, with the kind of dimples that leave bodies in their wake.

I recognize him from the banquet as the dude standing with Conor’s team captain. He’d beat Conor home, but that’s my fault—I needed to hit the ladies’ and the lines had been atrocious.

“What one?” I ask, playing dumb.

“The one who sent Con to his knees and turned him into a slobbering, love-professing fool?” Mr. Dimples eyes me expectantly, waiting for me to fill in the gaps.

“Oh shit, that was you?” another guy demands. “Can’t believe we skipped out before the big show.” He pins an accusing look on the guy beside him. “Told you we should’ve stayed for one more drink.”

“No interrogating my guests, Matt,” Conor grumbles. “Same rule applies to all of you.”

“Are you our new mommy?” The third guy cracks open a beer, smiling with stupid puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t help but laugh in return.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Conor kicks Matt off the smaller of the two couches and gestures for me to take a seat. “This is why you dumbasses don’t get visitors.”

Their house is huge compared to my little apartment. A big living room with old leather sofas and a couple of reclining chairs. A massive flat screen TV with at least four different game consoles hooked up to it. When Conor said he lived with four roommates, I expected to walk into a nightmarish cave of man smells, pizza boxes, and dirty laundry, but the place is actually pretty tidy and doesn’t smell at all like feet and boy farts.

“Yo, visitor?” A fourth face appears in the doorway that separates the living room from the kitchen. “What do you want from Freshy Bowl?” he demands, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Grilled chicken salad, please,” I call back without delay. I’m very familiar with the menu of one of Hastings’ only healthy eating choices.

“On me,” Conor murmurs when I reach for my purse so I can chip in.

I glance over. “Thanks. I’ll get the next one.”

The next one? As if this rare occurrence of me having dinner at Conor Edwards’ house will ever fucking repeat itself? There’s a better chance of Halley’s comet showing up a few decades ahead of schedule.

And I’m not the only one marveling over this unforeseen turn of events. When Sasha texts a few minutes later and I inform her where I am, she accuses me of pranking her.

While Conor and his roommates debate over which movie to stream, I surreptitiously text my best friend back.

ME: Not a prank, I swear.

HER: You’re actually at his HOUSE????

ME: Swear on my signed poster of Ariana Grande.

That’s the only pop star Sasha allows me