The Dare (Briar U Book 4)
Chapter 4

Knock.

Knock.

Knock!

KNOCK!

The last pound on the door jolts me upright. I squint and shield my eyes from the beams of light streaking across the room. What the hell?

It’s daylight. Morning. My mouth is dry, a bitter taste thick on my tongue. I don’t remember falling asleep. On a yawn I stretch my limbs, feel the muscles releasing. Then another sound stops my heart.

Snoring. Beside me.

Fucking fuckturtles.

Sprawled out on his stomach, Conor lies shirtless and in only his boxers.

“Hey! Open the door! This is my room!”

More knocking. Pounding.

Shit. Rachel’s home.

“Get up.” I shake Conor. He doesn’t stir. “Dude, get up. You need to leave.”

I don’t understand how he’s still here or when I fell asleep last night. A quick glance shows I’m still dressed with my shoes on, so why the hell is Conor practically naked?

“Get the hell out, assholes!” Any minute now Rachel’s going to start trying to kick the door down.

“Come on, get up.” I give Conor a stiff smack to the small of his back, which makes him jump in a bleary confusion.

“Mrrrmmm?” he mumbles incoherently.

“We fell asleep. My sister’s home and she wants her room back,” I whisper urgently. “You need to get dressed.”

Conor falls out of bed. He stands a bit unevenly, still muttering nonsense under his breath. Cringing, I unlock and open the door, where an irate Rachel stands fuming in the hall. Behind her, the entire house is awake, loitering in their pajamas and bed hair with mugs of coffee and cold Pop-Tarts. Sasha is nowhere to be seen, so I assume she wound up finding a concert in Boston and crashing with her friends in the city.

“What the hell, Taylor? Why was my door locked?”

I spot Abigail’s cruel smirk among the faces crowding the hall. “I’m sorry, I—”

Without letting me finish, Rachel shoves open the door and bursts inside, allowing everyone a good look at Conor shirtless, buttoning his jeans.

“Oh,” she squeaks. Her ire is quelled almost instantly by the sight of Conor’s immaculate body.

I don’t blame her for gawking. He’s exquisite. Broad shoulders and defined muscles. The perfectly smooth, inviting planes of his chest. I can’t believe I slept next to that and don’t remember any of it.

“G’morning,” Conor says with a smirk. He nods to the other sisters outside the room. “Ladies.”

“I didn’t know you had company,” Rachel talks to me but stares at him.

“My fault,” he says easily, then pulls his shirt over his sculpted chest. He steps into his shoes. “Sorry about that.” To me, he winks on his way to the door. “Call me.”

And just as suddenly as we became two unlikely allies, he departs. Every single gaze remains glued to the taut ass hugged by his jeans, until finally he’s out of sight, heavy footsteps thudding down the stairs.

I gulp a few times before speaking. “Rachel, I—”

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Marsh.” She looks surprised, of course. But also impressed. “Next time you slay a dragon in my room, be out before breakfast. ’Kay?”

“Sure. Sorry,” I say with relief. The worst is averted, I suppose. I live to fight better battles. And whether I courted it or not, whether this pries another thin sliver of my dignity from me in favor of my social standing, at least for today all these girls will live vicariously through my supposed exploits.

Then there’s Abigail.

While the others return to their morning cartoons and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, she lingers at the top of the stairs waiting for me. I want to push past her, ignore her, maybe trip her a little down the steps. Instead, like a dumbass, I stand there and meet her eyes.

“You must be pretty satisfied with yourself,” she says, arching one perfectly tweezed brow.

“No, Abigail, just tired.”

“If you think you proved something last night, you’re wrong. Conor would fuck a wet sock if it smiled at him. So don’t think this makes you special, Tay-Tay.”

This time I do brush past her. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And he didn’t make a single move?” Sasha demands on Sunday morning after I’m done filling her in about Friday night’s exploits.

Unlike me, Sasha still lives in the Kappa Chi house, so she came to meet me for breakfast at Della’s Diner in town. Usually she’s too lazy to come to Hastings and coerces me into meeting at one of Briar’s dining halls, but I guess my vague text to her yesterday—“I’ll tell you when I see you”—was insufficient in satisfying my best friend’s curiosity. At least now I know what it takes to drag her lazy ass off campus: dirty details.

Or lack thereof.

“Nope,” I confirm. “No moves whatsoever.” I’m not worried about Sasha blabbing to any of the Kappas. I trust her implicitly, and there was no way I was going to allow my closest friend to think I’d hooked up with a notorious jock playboy. She’s the only one who even knows I’m a virgin.

“He didn’t try to kiss you?”

“Nope.” I slowly chew a bite of whole-wheat toast. I always order the same sad breakfast items at Della’s: brown toast, egg-white omelet, and a small fruit bowl. If “calorie counting” was a career option, I’d be richer than Jeff Bezos.

“I find this shocking,” she announces. “I mean, his reputation precedes him.”

“Well, he did flirt a bit,” I admit, reaching for my water glass. “And he pretended he liked my body.”

She rolls her eyes. “Taylor, I guarantee he wasn’t pretending. I know you think men only get hard-ons from stick women, but trust me, you’re wrong. Curves drive them wild.”

“Yeah, curves. Not rolls.”

“You don’t have rolls.”

Thankfully, not at the moment. I’ve been diligent about eating healthy since the New Year, after overindulging during the holidays and putting on nearly ten pounds. In three months I’d shed about nine of those ten, which I’m happy with, but I’d love to lose more.

My ideal body goal is somewhere between Kate Upton and Ashley Graham; I tend to fluctuate between the two, but if I could get down to Kate size I’d be thrilled. I truly believe that all body types are beautiful. It’s only when I look in the mirror that I forget. My weight has been a source of stress and insecurity my entire life, so maintaining it is a priority for me.

I swallow the last bite of my omelet, while pretending not to notice how fucking delicious Sasha’s breakfast looks. A mouthwatering stack of chocolate-chip pancakes bathed in a sea of sugary syrup.

She’s one of those fortunate girls who can eat anything and not gain a single pound. Meanwhile, I take one bite of a cheeseburger and gain ten pounds overnight. That’s just the way my body is and I’ve accepted it. Cheeseburgers and pancakes taste great in the moment, but they’re not worth it for me in the long run.

“Anyway,” I continue, “he really was a gentleman.”

“Still can’t believe that,” she says through a mouthful of pancakes. She chews quickly. “And he told you to call him?”

I nod. “But obviously he didn’t mean it.”

“Why is that obvious?”

“Because he’s Conor Edwards and I’m Taylor Marsh?” I roll my eyes. “Also? He didn’t give me his number.”

She frowns. Ha, that shut her up fast.

“Yup, so whatever fantasy romance you were concocting in your pretty head, you can forget about it. Conor did me a favor the other night.” I offer a shrug. “Nothing more to it than that.”

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