Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,344

this. He may think he’s just playing the overprotective friend card, but that’s not how I see it. This is an instance of another person in my life thinking they know what’s best for me.

“What? I thought—”

“That I need you to come in and save the day? I don’t! I can take care of myself!”

“Oh really?” He crosses his arms over his chest. I’m so upset, I don’t even have time to take in how beautiful he is in just a pair of swim trunks, his chest glistening with perspiration, his chiseled abs disappearing into a V. Just like Damian’s arrogance turned me off, I find myself turned off from Drew because of the same thing. “If you call letting some guy put his hands all over you taking care of yourself—”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I wanted him to put his hands all over me?” I spit out, not caring how far from the truth those words are. “But no! Now, because of you, no guy will ever want to touch me again. They’ll all be worried about Drew Brinks finding out and breaking their nose.”

“I’m sorry, Brook.” His tone softens as he steps toward me, but I back away, collecting my things. “I thought—”

“Well, stop,” I bite back harshly. “Just…” I shake my head. “I already have one ridiculously overprotective father. I don’t need another.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and hurry toward the bus stop, trying to erase the memory of how he looked at me.

But I can’t.

Chapter Two

DREW

The heat of the day begins to wane as I shuffle down the street I grew up on. Not much has changed in the past eighteen years. A few houses have gotten a fresh coat of paint or new owners, but the feel of the neighborhood is still the same. Everyone watches out for each other here. Everyone knows each other’s business, which is why word about Damian Murphy’s broken nose seems to have spread faster than a drop of oil in a puddle of water. I spent the afternoon on damage control, thanks to my aunt’s insistence I apologize in the hopes he doesn’t file charges. I’d like to say I regret my actions, but I don’t.

I’m not quite sure what came over me. I’d been hanging out with a few of the guys, playing volleyball, when one of them commented about how hot Brooklyn looked in her bikini. The instant I stole a glance at her, it felt like all the air had been sucked from my lungs. I tried to stop staring, but couldn’t. You’d have to be blind to not have noticed the change in her body over the past year, but she always wore relatively conservative clothes, barely showing any skin. That wasn’t the case earlier. When I saw Damian Murphy, notorious flirt and player, approach her and proceed to touch her, I lost it. A new sort of protectiveness came over me, one I couldn’t quite explain.

One I still can’t.

The usual sounds of the neighborhood surround me as I continue down the same route I’ve walked more times than I can count—children laughing and playing, the five o’clock news blaring out open windows, the sizzle of burgers and hot dogs on a grill. Summer’s here and I’m both happy and sad at the same time. I’m done with high school, but unsure how to feel about embarking on the next journey of my life—college.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the star hockey player. First in the town league, then in high school. In a few months, I’ll board a plane for the University of Minnesota, where I received a full athletic scholarship and a starting position on their Division I hockey team. I may no longer be the best player, although my father tells me otherwise, considering I’ve been given a place on the World Junior Championship team and my name’s in contention to be selected for the Games next year. Still, I’ll be battling for attention among dozens of other players just like me. What if I’m not as good as I’ve been led to believe? What will I do then? For as long as I can remember, hockey’s been my life. It’s the only thing that helped when my mother disappeared from my life right after my sixth birthday. I don’t know what I would do if I no longer had it.

I slow my steps as I approach my destination. Brooklyn’s house looms