Exclusive sneak peek of THE RISK, the next standalone book in the Briar U series. Coming February 2019!
Brenna
My date is three minutes late. Now, I’m not a total bitch. Usually I’ll give guys a five-minute window. I can forgive five minutes of tardiness.
At seven minutes, I still might be somewhat receptive, especially if the lateness is accompanied by a heads-up call or text informing me he’s going to be late. Traffic is an evil mistress. Sometimes she fucks you.
At ten minutes, my patience would be running thin. And if the inconsiderate ass is both ten minutes tardy and didn’t call? Later, jerk. I’m walking right out the door.
At fifteen minutes, shame on me. Why the hell am I still at the restaurant?
Or, in this particular case, the diner.
I’m sitting in a booth at Della’s, the ’50s-themed diner in the small town of Hastings, which is where I’m calling home for the next two years. Luckily, I don’t have to call my father’s home ‘home.’ Dad and I might live in the same town, but before I agreed to transfer to Briar University (where he coaches the men’s hockey team), I made it clear I wouldn’t be moving back in with him. I already left that nest. No way am I flying back to it and subjecting myself to Dad’s overprotectiveness and terrible cooking again.
“Can I get you another coffee, hon?” The waitress, a curly-haired woman wearing a white-and-blue polyester uniform, eyes me sympathetically. Yeah. I’m pretty sure she knows I’ve been ditched.
“No, thanks. Just the bill, please.”
As she walks off, I pick up my phone and shoot a quick text off to my friend Summer. This is all her fault and therefore she needs to face my wrath.
ME: He stood me up.
Summer answers instantly, as if she’s been sitting by her phone waiting for a report. Actually, forget ‘as if.’ She totally has. My new friend is unapologetically nosy.
SUMMER: OMG! NO!!
ME: Yes
SUMMER: What. a. dick. I am so so so so sorry, Bee.
ME: Meh. Part of me’s not surprised. He’s a football player. They’re notorious douchecanoes
SUMMER: I thought Jules was different
ME: U thought wrong
Three dots appear to indicate she’s typing a response, but I already know what it will be. Another long-winded apology, which I’m not in the mood to read at the moment. I’m not in the mood for anything but paying for my coffee, walking back to my tiny apartment, and taking off my bra.
Stupid football player. I actually put makeup on for this jerk. Yes, it was just supposed to be an evening coffee date, but I still made an effort.
I bend my head as I rummage around in my wallet for small bills. When a shadow falls over the tabletop, I assume it’s the waitress returning with my check.
I assume wrong.
“Jensen,” drawls an insolent male voice. “Got stood up, eh?”
And then, to my horror, the very last person I want to see slides into the other side of the booth.