“Nah, I’m good.” I raised my half-full bottle of beer I’d been sipping since I’d gotten there. “But thanks.”

He smiled and then moved off, circling his arms around Teresa’s waist. She cocked her head back against his chest as she placed her hands on his arms. His face softened.

Yeah, I was a wee bit envious of Teresa, too.

I’d never been in a serious relationship. There hadn’t been any dates in high school. The scar on my face had been a hell of a lot more vibrant then, something no miracle makeup could camouflage . . . and high school kids, yeah, they could be unforgiving when it came to very visible flaws. And even if someone could look past that, with the way my life had been back then, there hadn’t been room or time for a date let alone a relationship.

Then there had been Jonathan King. He was in my history class freshman year, really cute guy and we’d hit it off. For obvious reasons, I’d been reluctant to go out with him when he asked, but damn, he’d been persistent and I’d finally said yes. We’d gone out a few times, but as the relationship progressed and he, being a totally normal guy, had made a move on me one night, when we’d been alone in my dorm, I’d been stupidly convinced that since he could see past the scar on my face, he’d been able to see past everything else.

I’d been wrong.

We didn’t even kiss and we sure as hell didn’t go out again after that, and I hadn’t told anyone about him and that disastrous night. I didn’t think about him. Ever.

Well, except for right now, damnit.

As I watched the Hot Guy Brigade being all hot, I was totally aware of the fact I was boy crazy due to my lack of . . . well, of boys in my life.

“Got it!”

My chin jerked up as Ollie rounded the couch, his girlfriend, Brittany, trailing behind him, her eyes rolling back so far in her head I thought she might pass out as she shook her head.

Ollie approached the coffee table and leaned down, holding some kind of box tortoise in his hands. My brows rose as the little guy’s legs wheeled. What the . . . ?

“It’s not a party until Ollie breaks out the turtle,” said Jase, and my lips curved up in a grin.

Cam sighed as he leaned around Avery. “What in the hell are you doing with Raphael?”

“Correction.” Ollie placed him on the table. With one hand, he brushed his shoulder-length blond hair back behind one ear. “This is Michelangelo, and I think it’s pretty fucked-up you don’t even know which one is yours anymore. You’ve probably sent Raphael into a depression.”

“I tried to stop him,” Brit said, folding her arms. The two of them looked like they finaled in the Perfect Blond Couple Award. “But you know how he is . . .”