My gaze whips to Emery, who suddenly looks nervous and has wide eyes. A second later, it’s ripped from my hand, and she’s crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash can.
Well, now my curiosity is really piqued. Obviously, she didn’t want anyone to see that list or she wouldn’t have reacted that way.
I cross my arms over my chest and grin. “What was that, Emery, and why am I number five on it?”
My questions are met with silence. Emery’s lips are pursed in a flat, thin line as Holland looks back and forth between us.
“Wait, is that the scorecard you told me about while I was on vacation?”
“Jesus, Holland, SHUT UP,” Emery cries, her cheeks red. She’s obviously flustered.
“Scorecard?” I ask.
Holland covers her mouth in a giggle. “Oh, this isgood. I wanna see how this plays out. Go on, Em, tell him what it means.”
Emery shakes her head, crossing her arms across her chest. “Absolutely not.”
“Yeah, Em, tell me what it is,” I goad her, a smirk on my lips.
“No.”
She tries to brush past me into the living room, but my hand wraps around the warm skin of her bicep, stopping her. “Tell me, or I’ll ask Reed. I’m sure he’d love to know too if he doesn’t already.”
She groans, dropping her head back against her shoulders in frustration, staring up at the ceiling, and my eyes lower to the swell of her tits that are protruding from the top of the tight sports bra containing them. I pull my eyes away, before I get distracted by her fantastic rack, and focus back on the scorecard, as Holland called it.
“Spill it, Davidson.”
Her eyes narrow.
“It’s a scorecard. Of the players we’d…” her voice lowers, “sleep with in order of looks and fuckability.” She looks like it pained her to say it out loud to me, which makes it even better.
I shake my head and laugh. Until I realize…
I’m number five on Emery’s fuckable scorecard. Last.
FuckingLAST.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“Wait, and I’m fuckingfive? That’s last!” My eyes bulge. No fucking way did I come in after HudsonandAsher on this list.
At this point, I’m barely registering Holland laughing so hard behind us that she’s doubled over on the counter.
I’m fucking flabbergasted, and you know what, quite fucking offended as well.
She shrugs. “Sorry.”
Except she doesn’t look sorry at all. If anything, she looks… pleased.
“So, you’re saying, you’d sleep with Hudson and Asher before me?” You can hear the disbelief in my tone, and all she does is shrug again.
“Look, we drank a shit ton of Dom, and made the list for shits and giggles. I honestly wouldn’t sleep with you, even if you were number one on that list, Graham.” She smirks smugly, taunting me with her words.
Wow, cut me fucking deep, why don’t you. Not that I haven’t thought about fucking Emery Davidson before now, because I have. Many, many times. More times than I’d like to admit, since she’s my best friend’s little sister, and obviously would rather drink bleach than touch me.
But, if anything, it just made her hotter.
In a fucked-up way. Obviously, I need therapy, but I'm a ‘Never Back Down from a Challenge’ kind of guy.