by Everly Lucas
“Jesus, Claire.” His face lights up as his eyes take me in. “You’re stunning.”
My face heats. It’s funny the difference a single word can make—or the absence of one. He didn’t say I look stunning, he said I am stunning. If this were anyone but Ben, I’d be making my excuses and hailing the next cab back home. And, sure, part of me would love to do that, but here I stand, not running.
“You look…” I mentally run through all the superlatives in my vocabulary, but none measure up to the hotness I see before me. “I have no words for how you look.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he says with a shy smile, and I answer with an enthusiastic nod. “Come inside. People are dying to meet you.”
“No pressure at all,” I say under my breath. My sarcasm knows no subtlety.
“Don’t worry. They’re going to love you.”
He sounds so confident about that, he almost has me convinced. He also sounds excited to show me off. I’m not big on being the center of attention in these types of situations—or any type, really—but at least it’ll be temporary. This night is about his sister, not me.
Ben gestures for me to lead the way upstairs, and when we reach the living room, at least half a dozen heads swivel in our direction. Time to put my game face on, be engaging, and wow the crowd. I can usually keep that up for about thirty minutes before I need to retreat and regroup.
When Leah squeals and bounces my way, attracting a few more eyes, I shave ten minutes off that estimate. When she hugs me and kisses my cheeks, I subtract another five.
“Thank God you’re here. Mom keeps asking if you’re really coming or if I made you up to mess with her ‘poor old heart’.” Leah releases me but grabs my hands, stepping back to get a good look at me. “Fuck me, you’re stunning.”
“That’s exactly what I told her,” Ben says. “Minus the ‘fuck me’ part.” His face blanches. “I don’t mean, you know, fuck fuck. I just meant—"
Leah’s cackling puts him out of his misery. “I’ve never seen my brother flustered before. This is a pretty sweet moment for me.” She’s still clutching my hands. God, I hope she can’t feel how clammy they are. “We need to have lunch sometime and plot elaborate ways to make him uncomfortable.”
“Um, sure. Sounds like fun.” And it kinda does. It’d be awesome to hang out with a female for once, though it might be weird spending time with Ben’s sister when he’s not there.
The plotting part, on the other hand, sounds very un-fun. Anything that’d make Ben uncomfortable would no doubt cause me a shit-ton of discomfort, too. No, thanks. I’ve got enough of that in my life, as it is.
Ben’s hands cover his face in what I can only guess is an attempt to hide from this situation. If his hair weren’t tied back, I imagine he’d be raking those hands through it. Instead, he shoves them in his front pockets. “I’d like to go on record as being opposed to the two of you ganging up on me.”
Somehow managing a sober expression, Leah says, “Objection noted…and ignored.” Well, that settles that, then. Looks like I’ve got myself a girl date. “Now, come on. I’ll bet Mom’s pissing herself in anticipation.”
She releases one of my hands and tugs me across the room with the other, to where a small cluster of people stand staring at me. Ben stays close, not leaving my side, and I could kiss him for it. A hypothetical kiss, that is.
Time to dazzle. I just need to get through the introductions and engage in some polite conversation, and then I can disappear for a socially acceptable length of time.
Leah wraps her arms around her husband’s waist as I congratulate the happy couple. To say Henry is tall would be a massive understatement. For Leah’s sake, I hope their baby takes after her, height-wise, or delivery will cause permanent damage to her girl parts.
Next up is Seth Levitt, Leah’s father and Ben’s step-father. He’s smoking hot in a soap opera villain kind of way, and I have to take a steadying breath just to look at him. I greet him with a quick wave, but Mr. Levitt takes it to the next level by stealing my hand and kissing the back of it.
What the ever-loving…?
My eyes flit to Ben’s in panic, and he clears his throat, giving Seth a cold, hard glare. The older man has the good sense to cease and desist his hand-molestation.
Deep breath, Claire. We’re almost through with this part.
At last, I’m introduced to Ben’s mom. When I turn to face her, she beams at me like I hung the moon, stars, and sun. Karine is class personified and intimidating as hell, with her sleek bob, impeccable dress, and effortless perfection. She’s polished and poised and beautiful, and I’ll bet she’s one of those women who’ve had their shit together since birth. I’ll be lucky if I can get mine together before I die.
Like her daughter, Karine takes my hands and kisses both my cheeks. Ben’s entire clan is seriously touchy-feely. Makes me appreciate his restraint with me a hundred-billion times more than I already did. He strikes me as a big hugger, and from what I remember, he’s damn good at it.
“My dear, it is so lovely to finally meet you,” she says, flashing me her toothpaste-commercial-worthy grin and stepping back to stand at her son’s side. Her accent is so soothing, so musical, I want to curl up in her lap and listen to her talk all night long. She could read the Farmers’ Almanac, and it would sound like a lullaby. “My children have told me so many wonderful things about you. I must say, they did not exaggerate.”
Turning to Ben, she whisper-gushes to him in French. “Elle est si belle!”
I recognize belle, at least, so I know enough to be flattered. And to blush.
Karine beams at Ben, and he smiles down at me. Suddenly, it’s too much, all this praise and excitement over my presence at the party.
With at least a dozen people milling about on this floor alone, the AC has no hope of making a dent in the tightly packed body heat. The air clings to the dominant scents of mustard and rosewater and sits heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Sounds are lazy and muted, my palms are damp, and there’s a greenish haze around the edges of my vision.
Worst of all, my inner voice bombards me with questions it knows I don’t have the answers to. Who does Ben’s mother think I am to him? More importantly, who am I to him? Did our relationship change without me noticing? Did I encourage that? In hindsight, my eyes always linger on his too long. And I definitely shouldn’t stare at his lips as much as I do. Or at all, really. That’s not how friends look at each other.
Sure, we spend a lot of time together, but that time-spending is platonic, not romantic. Plus, Andy’s almost always with us. And, okay, we text a lot, but it’s never flirty. Is it? Is my heart starting to overrule my anxiety? Would that be such a bad thing?
One thing I know for sure—my fifteen minutes are up.
Fifteen
Claire
My capacity to be social-butterfly girl having officially been exhausted, I eke out one last polite smile and excuse myself under the guise of needing to use the little girls’ room. Taking the narrow wooden staircase up to Ben’s master suite, I almost make it to the top when I have to close my eyes and slump against the wall, completely drained.
I never got into the whole superhero craze. It’s the hero part that turns me off, what with all the hard work and unavoidable notoriety. No, thanks. Superpowers, on the other hand, I can totally get on board with.
When I was six, I thought walking was the most boring thing ever, so I wore a cape each time I left the house, just in case I developed the ability to fly. A few years later, I read Matilda for the first time and started staring at random objects, convinced I could move them with my mind. And in high school…well, what pimply redhead with excessive orthodontia wouldn’t kill to be invisible?
These days, more than anything, I’d love the power to clear my mind. Wipe every last obsessive, disruptive thought from it, leaving only total silence. I think the scientific term for that is brain dead, but I call it bliss.
No super
powers here, though, just a fully functioning brain. Or a malfunctioning one. I’ll leave that for the experts to decide.
Shoving off the wall, I clear the final step and have a fucking heart attack when I see a tall, broad silhouette blocking one of the windows.
“Andy?”
At the sound of his name, he looks over his shoulder, wearing a heart-stopping smile meant just for me.
Simply put, the man steals my breath, leaving my lungs empty and aching. In the dim light of the room, he’s dark and handsome from head to toe, with his glossy black hair, black dress shirt, and charcoal gray pants. Until this moment, I thought only my grandmom and black-and-white movie stars used the word debonair, but Andy DelVecchio is very much here and now and debonair as fuck.
His beauty both lures me in and screams danger, kind of like the first time we met. Only I didn’t know him then, and he didn’t know me. I’m starting to think we were better off that way.
“Peach.” His deep voice caresses my nickname, making my heart stutter, and my hand flies to my chest, clutching my literal pearls. “I saw you down there. You really are an angel tonight,” he says, gesturing at, well, all of me.
My knee-jerk response is to reject and deny his words, but instead of keeping that response to myself, my impulsive mouth sets it free. “I’m no angel. Trust me.”
Why I blurt that out is beyond me. It’s not my usual M.O. to open myself up to further discussion about my flaws. They exist. They’re obvious. No need to poke at them.
Stepping farther into the room, I perch on the edge of Ben’s bed, crossing my ankles and folding my hands in my lap. Andy sits beside me, so close our thighs almost touch. I freeze, keeping a watchful eye on the two inches of space between us to make sure they don’t get any radical ideas, like shrinking or disappearing altogether.
“Nobody’s perfect, babe. Some people just come closer to it than others. Benny’s practically a saint, and you…” His rich, brown eyes meet mine, and I can’t look away. I’m trapped by his gaze, with no real desire to break free. “Like I said, you’re an angel. You’ve just got a few broken feathers. That’s all.”
Try a few hundred.
“Ben might be close to perfect, but I’m…” I trail off, shaking my head to finish the thought. Best to keep sidestepping that conversational landmine. “You should hear the way he talks about you, though. It’s embarrassing, really. He’s all, ‘Andy’s super talented.’ ‘Andy’s so much cooler than I’ll ever be.’ ‘Andy’s the absolute shit.’”
Okay, so I’m paraphrasing a bit, but the sentiment is pretty accurate.
Andy’s booming laugh fills the room with pure, concentrated awesomeness. It’s impossible to hear that sound and put up a decent fight against fangirl-level giddiness. I dare anyone to try. It can’t be done.
I watch his hand comb through his dark, silky hair, then drop into the small but precious gap between his leg and mine. When his knuckles graze my outer thigh, every muscle in my body stiffens. He jerks his hand back.
The shame on his face causes me real, physical pain because there’s nothing I can do to take it away. I can’t touch his cheek, I can’t hold his hand, and I certainly can’t tell him it’s okay. We both know it’s not.
For better or worse, I’m incapable of lying to Andy. Something about his bold, fearless nature strips me bare. Bare and exposed, like my cleavage. Stupid breasts…
“Benny’s got it backwards, believe me,” Andy says, getting us back on topic. The topic of Ben—our mutual friend, whom we both like and respect. “I don’t know where I’d be without the guy, and I’m not just sayin’ that. I’ll never be able to repay him for all the things he’s done for me, but I’m gonna spend my life tryin’.” After a beat of heavy silence, his voice takes on a note of finality. “I can’t ever betray him.”
His words bypass my brain and shoot straight to my heart, but I refuse to pay any attention to the ache they cause. No good can come from it.
“What about you?” he asks. “You must really like my boy, if you’re willin’ to put up with my obnoxious ass all the time.”
My throat constricts, and I have to swallow a few times before I can answer. “Ben’s amazing. How could I not like him?”
Truth is, I more than like Ben. I’ve more than liked him since day one, when I couldn’t bring myself to kick him off my blanket at the park. He’s witty and kind and gentle, but with an underlying passion that draws me in and refuses to let me go. Everything about him is magnetic, and I’ve been stuck on him from the start.
“He likes you, too, you know.”
Andy’s gaze goes all hot and intense, and I get the uneasy impression he’s willing me to hear something he’s not saying. That maybe Ben’s not the only one who…
No. If he won’t say it, then I don’t need to stress myself out over it. Especially since that’s not something I could handle hearing. Not now, not ever. But because thoughts are stubborn things, mine refuse stray from the man sitting next to me.
“Want to know a secret?”
“Lay it on me.”
Is this stupid? Yes, it is. Definitely stupid. But I’m going to do it anyway. “The morning we met? I didn’t hate you.”
He looks genuinely shocked. “Is that so?”
“Yep. I mean, sure, I wanted to punch you in the mouth a few times, but you were…entertaining.”
That full mouth of his curves into a dazzling smile, and I want to kiss myself for making that happen. “I’m glad I could amuse you, Ms. Templeton.”
“Yeah, me too.” Time to get to the point. “So, what happened?”
His always-expressive eyebrows draw together, and my fingers twitch, wanting to smooth out the new creases there. “You’re gonna have to elaborate on that, babe.”
Yeah, I guess I was a tad on the vague side, but I’m trying not to hurt his feelings. I often get the impression they’re more fragile than he’d ever let on.
“You were, I don’t know…a total prick. Like, an in-my-face, push-all-my-buttons jackass.” That sounded way less harsh in my head. Attempting a quick recovery, I add, “What I mean is, you were just so Andy. But ever since then, you’ve been”—don’t screw this up—"a watered-down version of yourself.”
Well, that was a spectacular failure.
What is wrong with my mouth tonight? If I keep talking, maybe I’ll succeed in jamming both feet inside it. At least then I won’t be able to say more appallingly cruel words. This is just further proof that I vomit honesty when I’m with this man. Next time, I’ll come prepared with a full roll of duct tape to keep my trap shut.
Andy’s stare turns cold. So cold, it raises goosebumps all over my skin. I clench my jaw, hoping that’ll stop my chin from quivering.
“What makes you think you know me?” he asks, his words clipped and cruel. “Sorry to disappoint, but did you ever consider that this ‘watered-down version’ is the real me?”
It’s official—I can’t look at him anymore because he’s right. What the hell do I know? I’ve been in his life for all of five seconds, and I presume to know what makes him tick? God, I suck, and I need to go suck somewhere else and leave poor Andy alone.
I dip my chin in a half-assed nod. If I open my mouth to apologize, the tears welling in my eyes might think they have permission to jump ship. And they so do not.
Without looking at him, I stand on numb legs. I don’t even take a full step before Andy curses under his breath and wraps a strong hand around my wrist, tugging me back down. His skin is so hot, it burns where he touches me.
Also, holy shit, he’s touching me. Like, actual skin-to-skin contact. Andy’s skin to my skin, to be specific. He must realize this, too, because he loosens his grip. But instead of snatching his hand back, he twines our fingers together, and…I’m stunned. I can’t move, and my heart stops beating for a few terrifying seconds.
A single tear makes its escape before I clamp my eyelids shut, trapping the rest inside.
“Fuck. I shouldn’t h
ave said that. None of it was true. Not one word.” He gives my hand a good squeeze. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
Most of me doesn’t believe him, and part of me believes him but doesn’t know how to respond. So I stay silent.
“You’re right, Peach. I do keep myself in check when I’m with you. But it’s ‘cause I still feel like shit for treatin’ you the way I did that day. The way I talked to you, the way I—"
“Stop.” I can’t listen to any more of his apologies. Not when I’m the one who should be apologizing to him. “Sometimes I need a good shove, Andy. I’m a little fragile now, sure, but I’m working on it, and I know”—deep breath, Claire—"sometimes I need help with that, okay? So, just be you. Be sweet all you want, but not too sweet. And definitely don’t be boring. It doesn’t suit you.”
His lips curl into a roguish half-smile. There are few things on this earth as devastating as that smile. “You might regret you said that, babe.”
Oh, there’s no “might” about it. I just gave Andy DelVecchio full permission to test my boundaries. Masochism isn’t usually my thing, but despite knowing full-well this will end up hurting me in one way or another, I won’t take it back.
Between the mischief in his eyes and—oh, God—the way he’s licking his lips, the urge to kiss him is almost too strong to resist. My heart pounds for conflicting reasons, and I need to get myself the fuck away from temptation, like, yesterday.
“They’re probably thinking I escaped through the window or something, so…” Now would be a good time to stand up and exit the room, but, um…“You can let go, now.”
I flex my fingers, which are still interlocked with his. He looks at our joined hands, startled, like he forgot he was still holding on. His thumb grazes the sensitive skin at the underside of my wrist, making me shiver in bad places.
“I guess I’ll have to.”
And then I’m free.
Andy moves back to the window as I leave the room and shut the door behind me, eyes closed in sweet relief. I breathe in deep through my nose and shake out my hands, trying to force blood to flow back into them. That tension-filled encounter with Andy did nothing to help with my party anxiety, but I can either go downstairs and socialize with Ben’s family or back to Andy in the bedroom, where there’s a bed and loads of confusing emotions.
