“Just laugh it off.” She gives my arm an affectionate squeeze as we head out the door.

Then I remember the picture of Ashton that Kacey just sent me. I know it’s juvenile but I hold my phone up, a vindictive thrill making me smile. “Take a look at this, Reagan.” By the time we arrive at our table, tears are streaming down our cheeks, we’re laughing so hard.

Connor’s green eyes flicker with a mixture of surprise and amusement as he holds out my chair for me. “What’s so funny?” If Ashton’s earlier comment affected him one way or another, I can’t tell.

“Oh, nothing,” I say casually, downing what’s left of my drink and picking up the fresh one that someone ordered while I was gone, intentionally ignoring Ashton’s watchful gaze.

“Show him, Livie,” Reagan announces with an impish grin, adding, “You know what they say about payback . . .”

Grinning, I hold my phone up.

I’ve never heard three grown men howl like Connor, Grant, and Ty do when they see the picture. Clapping his hands, Ty bellows, “We need to get that blown up and put on our wall!” Then he mimics the look on Ashton’s face, making a low guttural sound and pointing to his roommate, who has no clue what’s happening because I intentionally held it out of his view.

A bulging arm stretches out in front of me to grab my phone but I’m ready for it, hitting the power button and tucking the phone into my pocket. Drawing my straw into my mouth, I take my time sucking back my drink. The guys are still laughing as I place it down and fold my hands over my knee. I hazard a glance in Ashton’s direction to see that playful twinkle in his eyes as he chews the inside of his mouth. Thinking about all the ways to get even, no doubt. Part of me is downright terrified of what’s about to come out of his mouth because it will likely make me shrivel up into a fiery ball of humiliation.

“Hi, Ashton.” Looking over my shoulder, I find a gorgeous Latina woman batting long, made-up lashes at Ashton. I instantly recognize her voice as the one from the bathroom, only now she’s got the “come-home-with-me” sultry tone dialed to max.

Ashton doesn’t turn to acknowledge her right away. He takes his time, slowly twisting in his chair, his arm coming up to rest on the back. When he’s finally facing her, his eyes graze over her curvy, fit body.

I roll my eyes, the desire to slap him upside the head overpowering.

“Hello?” Ashton finally says and, by the inflection at the end, I can’t tell if it’s a do-I-know-you hello or a why-are-you-bothering-me hello. She must be wondering that too, because her tongue darts out to nervously lick her red lips. “We . . . met last year. I’m over there if you want to swing by for a drink later.” She gestures to our left with a flirty flip of her long, curly black hair, but I notice that her voice is a tad less sultry, a touch more unsure now.

Nodding slowly, he gives her a polite smile—not his flirty smirk—and says, “Okay, thanks.” Then his arm slips down and his body shifts so he’s facing our table again. He takes a sip of his drink as he checks his phone.

I look behind us to see the girl leaving quietly, her exhibitionist ego that much smaller than when she arrived.

I should feel bad for her. He wasn’t outright mean, but he certainly wasn’t friendly.

I know I should feel bad for her.

But I don’t. I don’t want him going home with her. Or anyone.

So instead, I feel a bubble of relief surge inside my chest. A bubble that makes me blurt out a stupid thing like, “I heard her talking about you in the bathroom.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. Why the hell would I tell him that?

“Oh yeah?” Ashton’s eyes flicker to me. “What’d she say?” From the way his eyes twinkle with a spark of recognition, I see that he does remember her, and that he has a good idea about what she would have said.

I take another very long sip of my drink. Ashton’s gaze drops down to my mouth and I stop, lifting the glass to hide my lips. His smile widens. He enjoys making me uncomfortable. The guy is so damn confident, it makes me sick. I have no interest in aiding that by telling him the truth. “That she’s had better.”

Where did that come from? My subconscious evil twin?

I guess it’s the right answer, because another round of laughter explodes at the table. This time Grant is the one smacking his hands against the table noisily, threatening all of our drinks. Try as I might, I can’t help the wide, stupid grin that I feel stretching over my face as I watch Ashton’s cheeks brighten.

Finally. I may still die from embarrassment tonight, but at least I’ll go down swinging.

I have no clue what to expect next. Ashton’s shining eyes are so hard to read most of the time, aside from knowing they mean trouble. So when his hand latches onto my knee and slides up and down my thigh—not too high to be completely inappropriate, but enough that uncomfortable heat shoots through me—I assume an agonizingly slow torture, like stringing me up naked in front of a crowd.

“I knew you had it in you, Irish,” is all he says, though. Leaning over the table, he calls out, “So, Connor . . . do you think you can make it through a few drinks without pissing in my shoes tonight?”

My head whips around in time to catch Connor’s brow arch with a flash of surprise, his cheeks turning rosy. He clears his voice and peeks at me as he mutters, “That was Ty.”

A hand slaps the table. “I do not, nor have I ever, urinated in anyone’s shoes!” Ty exclaims indignantly.

“Oh, yeah? What about my boots?” Grant counters with a bitter edge to his voice.

“Those ugly red fur things? They were asking for it.”

“I had no winter boots for a week during exams because of you, fuckhead! I almost froze to death!”

“Speaking of freezing to death, remember the time Coach found Connor buck naked and ass up in one of the boats the morning of the big race?” Ashton reminisces, stretching in his seat, his arms lifting to hold the back of his head as he grins. “You almost got kicked off the team.”

“Oh, I heard about that!” Reagan folds her hands over her mouth to cover her gaping mouth. “Man, was my dad pissed.”

I’m giggling as I glance at Connor, who winks at me before retorting, “Not nearly as bad as the time you were handcuffed, stripped, and robbed by that transvestite in Mexico.”

I manage not to spray anyone but myself as my drink explodes from my mouth a second time.

Ashton reaches over and yanks my glass out of my hand, his fingers skating across mine, sending a shock through my body. Every touch from him seems to have that effect. “Someone get Irish a bib.”

The guys spend the next two hours highlighting stories of their drunken debauchery—most involve waking up in public places naked—as I allow myself to relax. And believe that maybe being around Ashton won’t be so unbearable after all. By the time the band begins their set, we’re all feeling the effects of alcohol and every last piece of dirty laundry has been hung on display—Ashton and Connor’s in particular. They seemed to be trying to match and raise each other all night.

It’s hard to talk over the band, so we sit back and listen. Connor’s arm is thrown over the back of my chair, his thumb strumming against my shoulder with the beat of the music. It’s a local alternative band, playing mainly covers but a few of their own songs. And they’re really good. I’d be able to focus if Ashton’s leg didn’t keep brushing up against mine. Short of throwing my legs over Connor’s lap, I can’t seem to get away from it.

When the band takes its first break and the boring satellite radio music comes back on, Connor leans over and says into my ear, “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to head out now. I have an early class tomorrow.”

Glancing at my watch, I’m shocked to see that it’s close to midnight. With a big bubble of disappointment rising, I reach back to grab my jacket.