Page 48 of Pucking Forbidden

“Everything worth doing complicates things,” she counters.

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You’ve never even had a boyfriend,” I point out.

“Excuse you!” she exclaims. “That is not the point.”

“It kind of is,” I shrug.

She huffs. “Just because I don’t know how to attract men doesn’t mean I can’t recognize when one is clearly into you.”

My heart starts to race, but I try to ignore it and act like her words have no effect on me. “He’s not.”

“Hadley,” she snorts.

“He’s not!”

She sighs dramatically. “You are exhausting.”

“And you are delusional,” I hiss back.

“Fine,” she relents. “But when you inevitably fall in love with him, I will be saying ‘I told you so’ at the wedding.”

I purse my lips together as sweat breaks out along my forehead. “That’s not happening.”

My voice sounds steady enough, but the second the denial leaves my mouth, my traitorous mind betrays me and vivid images flash behind my eyelids before I can stop them. I see Julian leaning over me in my kitchen, his massive, broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world. I imagine those heavy arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against the solid wall of his chest.

A fierce blush creeps up my neck.

My chest tightens when I think of that intense, piercing gaze…and his hands. God, those strong, calloused hands that could crush a hockey stick but are so gentle when they touch me.

A sharp, sudden tingle pools deep between my thighs, a heavy, aching warmth that leaves me momentarily breathless. I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the throw pillow tighter against my stomach to try to dull the sensation.

“We’ll see,” she hums.

“Whatever,” I grumble, hating how easily the image of Julian in a suit waiting down the end of an aisle pops into my head. “Julian and I are not a thing.”

As confident as I sound, I can’t ignore how bitter the words taste on my tongue.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: GIRLFRIENDS

HADLEY

A few days after my conversation with Lainey, I head over to Rylee’s house, having been invited to hang out with the girls. This is one of the reasons I wanted to come to Denver, after all. I want to get closer to these girls, and since it’ll just be us, it should be less overwhelming than the bar was.

When I arrive at the house, I’m struck by how cozy and warm the place is with its light wood accents. It’s lived-in with baby things scattered around, blankets draped over the couch, and toys tucked into corners.

I stand in the entryway for a second, smoothing my mint green shirt and taking a deep breath of the air that smells like vanilla and laundry detergent.

On one hand, a smug little spark of pride flickers in my chest. Look at me, I think. I’m not at some sticky-floored frat party like my peers or cramming in a library cubicle like I usually am. I’m about to hang with older friends who own homes and have actual human beings dependent on them. I feel sophisticated, like I’ve bypassed the messy trial-run of my twenties and jumped straight into the "grown-up" version of life.

Then, I see a stray pacifier on the coffee table, and the intimidation hits me like a physical weight. These people have mortgages and diaper bags. I still have to call my dad to ask how to get the oil changed in my car. My heart does a nervous little skip against my ribs. I feel like a kid playing dress-up in her mother’s heels, terrified that if I say the wrong thing or hold the baby the wrong way, they’ll see right through the act.

“Hi!” Rylee calls out once I’ve stepped through the front door. She comes breezing out of the living room, looking effortlessly chic in an oversized, cream-colored cable-knit sweater and leggings, her blonde hair thrown up into a messy topknot. She has Ciara bundled against her shoulder, holding her securely with both hands.

“Hi,” I say, slipping off my shoes. Oddly, I don’t hear Millie’s little footsteps pounding to meet me.