We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,5

warmth pressing close at my back. He smells like chlorine and cigarette smoke, topped with a heavy dousing of canned AXE body spray. The teenage boy standard.

“Make some room, fellas. Valentine’s my new teammate and she’s about to own your asses,” he says, steering me through the huddle of male bodies. They part in a Red Sea of baseball jerseys.

I look up at Ryan, mouth twisting wryly. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“Too late. I have extremely high expectations. Plus, you can’t be worse than my last partner. I’m pretty sure he’s puking in the upstairs bathroom at the moment.” He winks playfully, blue eyes glittering in the low light. “Now, it’s pretty simple. You see those cups?” His gaze moves toward the other end of the marble countertop, where ten cups are set up in a triangular formation.

I nod.

“You’re going to sink this ball—” He presses the plastic ball against my palm. “—into one of them. Easy.”

“Spoken like someone who has never watched me attempt any athletic activity. Ever.”

He laughs and I feel something inside me brighten.

Maybe I’m not entirely socially stunted, after all.

“Don’t stress, Valentine.” Ryan’s shoulder nudges mine. “I’ll help you get the hang of it.”

Stepping behind me, he slides his arms around my body and takes my hands lightly in his own. His chest brushes against my back as his head bows over my shoulder, the long flow of his hair tickling my neck.

Something nervous skitters down my spine, then pools in the pit of my stomach. I’ve never been this close to a guy before — besides Archer. And he doesn’t count. We’ve been invading each other’s personal space since long before we could even spell the phrase just friends.

“Now,” Ryan says into my ear, his voice husky. “Aim for the center cup. Then toss gently. It’s all in the wrist.”

“All in the wrist,” I echo dumbly, as if I have any concept of what that means. “Right. Got it.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my earlobe. I squirm a little. My skin suddenly feels too tight.

No wonder I’m a virgin. An attractive guy can’t even permeate my safe little proximity bubble without sending me into a tailspin.

“Are you two playing pong or hide-the-sausage?” one of the jocks across the island calls, impatience plain in his voice. “Throw the damn ball or find a bedroom.”

“Shut the fuck up, Chris,” Ryan snaps, releasing my hands and stepping back a pace. “Ignore him. You’ve got this, Valentine.”

I suck in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and eye the triangle of cups. They’re about six feet away — not an impossible distance, but definitely not close enough to inspire confidence in my abilities.

Sending up a small prayer, I make my shot. The rest of the party fades out of focus as I watch the small white plastic orb sailing through the air. No one is more stunned than me to see it sink into the centermost cup with a decided thunk.

“Hell yeah!” Ryan yells, sweeping me into a breath-stealing bear hug. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“Beginner’s luck.” I shrug out of his hold, laughing breathlessly. His enthusiasm is infectious — I find myself smiling as he hands me a second ball.

“Toss again.”

I do, this time missing by quite a wide margin. The ball bounces across the kitchen floor, then disappears beneath the Viking range. Biting my lip, I glance up at Ryan. “In my defense… I did warn you about my lack of hand-eye coordination.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You hit that first cup perfectly. You’re a total natural, you’ll see.”

“What’s the big deal?” a feminine voice cuts in, laced with annoyance. “She sank one stupid ball. Anyone can do that.”

Sienna steps up next to Chris on the other side of the marble island. Her eyes are almost as sharp as her collarbones when they lock on mine. Her mouth — coated in bright pink lipgloss that matches her crop top — is twisted in a condescending smirk. I can’t help noticing that her bleach-blonde hair is thoroughly mussed, as though someone’s been running his hands through it.

Archer.

My smile falters.

Sienna grabs the white ball from Chris’s hand and tosses it adeptly into one of our cups.

“Nice shot!” Chris cheers, his eyes never shifting from Sienna’s cleavage. He’s drooling so much, a Saint Bernard would be grossed out.

Without missing a beat, Sienna picks up another ball and — in a move I could never in a million years replicate — tosses it behind her back, like a contortionist. It