“So, I ate fried chicken and waffles this week and I didn’t think anything could beat a New York City hot dog, but oh my God, was it good.”
He rolls onto his side, props his head in his hand. His smile is crooked and raises goosebumps on my arms. “You went to Roscoe’s.”
“I did. And guess what else?”
“What?”
“I got a side of gravy to go with it.”
His green-eyed gaze stops my breath for a second. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“I don’t know. Like you’d miss me if I walked away.”
“I will.”
Will. Not would. Because we both know my stay is temporary. I roll back onto my back, my head nicely cushioned thanks to him. “I’m sorry about the stupid story.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you go to college?” I ask out of the blue. I mean, I did just graduate, and I’m scheduled to start again in September so it’s a valid conversation topic.
“I enrolled for a semester, but I started getting more bookings around the same time. Between shoots and travel, it was impossible.”
“I imagine that’s a cool education itself.”
He’s still on his side, still staring at me. I hope he doesn’t notice the quick rise and fall of my chest as I continue to stare at the sky. “Yeah.”
We’re quiet once again. Out of my periphery, I notice him yawn. I’m about to tell him good night when he says, “Do you think if you could redo your bad days, it would make you a different person?”
His question makes me feel like I’ve been pushed out of an airplane without a parachute. I take a few freefalling seconds to contemplate what’s he’s asked. What I wouldn’t give to erase the worst day of my life. To have Mason back. But am I changed because of it? I’ve felt shame and regret, and on some days my feelings have shredded my insides. Yet who I am is the same, I think.
I roll my head to make eye contact, but his are closed. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Me either.”
“I should get Snowflake back.” At the sound of her name, she perks up.
“All right. See you later.”
“Should we walk you to your door first?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Nah. I’ll get up in a minute. I’m good to make it inside.”
“Thank you for the shirt.” I kiss his cheek.
That gets his eyes to open. And once again it’s like he can see right inside me. I hurry to my feet, picking up Snow’s leash. “Happy almost-birthday.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I speed-walk away, feeling his attention on my backside. When I get to my room, I change into my pajamas, crawl into bed, and fall asleep with flutters in my stomach.
…
Saturday afternoon I hurry downstairs to head to Vaughn’s party. Halfway down I realize I forgot his gift, and I turn to get it but find Amber at the top of the stairs. She takes in my white crocheted slip dress and shell-studded flip-flops and fiddles with one buckle of the vintage denim overalls she’s layered over a ribbed white tank top. They swim on her, so she’s rolled the legs to mid-calf. Well-loved white Chucks cover her feet. “I thought it was a barbecue,” she says.
I nod. “It is.”
She fingers the brim of her KU blue and crimson ball cap. “Maybe I’m underdressed for an L.A. barbecue?”
“You’re both overdressed.”
I twist to find Dixie standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing a tiny red bikini top—the kind held on by a tie around the neck and one at the back—and ripped cutoffs so short the front pocket linings hang past the frayed denim, and so baggy they show off matching red bikini bottoms. She’s holding a bottle of tequila and shaking her head like Amber and I are hopeless. “Get real, girls. Between the temperature and the drinks, everybody’ll be in the pool in an hour.”
With that pronouncement, she turns and strides to the door. The bikini is definitely a thong. I follow but glance back at Amber and murmur, “Don’t take fashion cues from a girl dressed like a Baywatch extra.” I glance down at my outfit and sincerely hope every other girl there isn’t in a bikini. “Or one who might be trying too hard. You nailed it. You look cute and casual. And besides,” I add as I pull the door closed behind us, “you’re a ten-second walk back here for your suit if you decide to swim.”
“You look great,” Amber offers. “The dress suits you. It’s summery and fun, but, you know”—she tips her head toward Dixie’s all-but-bare back and gives me a grin of pure mischief—“still leaves a little to the imagination.”
“Imagine this,” Dixie says, and flips us the middle finger over her shoulder. “You’re just jealous of my bikini.”
Amber laughs. “Dixie, I may, on occasion, be jealous of your perky B cups, but I promise I don’t envy the bikini.” In a not-so-subtle aside to me she says, “I couldn’t wear that thing even if I wanted to. I’d never get my boobs strapped into a triangle top.”
Though we have different maternal genes to thank for it, we’re in a similar situation in the boobage department. I give her a smile of commiseration. “Me, either.”
“You two kill me,” Dixie huffs. “Making everybody wonder, ‘Will they or won’t they?’ is totally the point of wearing a triangle top.”
Cars are parked bumper to bumper in the driveway next door. The steady beat of music beneath the ebb and flow of conversation confirm we’re not too early. Both grow a little louder when Vaughn opens the front door.
“Hello, Birthday Boy,” Dixie says, handing him the bottle of tequila.
He hears her, because he takes the alcohol, but his eyes are locked with mine. “Happy birthday,” I say, then realize that damn it, I forgot his present. I’m about to tell him I’ll be right back, but the way he’s looking at me makes all my limbs forget how to work, and I’m frozen to my spot. Amber rescues me by murmuring, “Happy birthday from me, too,” and handing him a small wrapped box she produces from a pocket of her overalls. “It’s a Jayhawks bottle stopper. In case you have leftover tequila.”
“Thanks.” He spares a quick glance at my sisters. Then, with his eyes back on me, says, “Come on in.”
Dixie goes first, and then Amber, because I’m still kind of stuck, but finally my feet get the memo and I step inside Vaughn’s house for the first time. It’s sleek and modern. Definitely some designer’s idea of a bachelor pad, but not a reflection of Vaughn’s personality if you ask me. I have this sudden flash of Becca standing by the low-slung leather sofa in some Armani/Casa showroom, saying, “This would be perfect for the living area.”
“Dix!” Dylan calls from a slider leading outside. “Get that sweet ass of yours out here and tell me what you think of my peach daiquiri. You too, Ginger.”
“Ginger?” Amber questions. “Since when am I Ginger?”
Dixie rolls her eyes. “Since birth. Come on.” She takes Amber’s arm and heads toward the epicenter of the party. It looks like a big crowd—heavy on the X chromosome—is on the back patio.
Vaughn leans forward to say something in my ear, but the doorbell rings and he pulls back. He hesitates for a second like he’s considering making a run for it and having whoever is at the door let themselves in, but his hosting duties kick in. “Give me a minute?”
I nod. He can have all my minutes.
The group of new arrivals looks like High School Musical the College Years, and Vaughn is quickly swept up into their momentum. He tosses me an apologetic glance and a one-more-minute signal with his index finger as he’s led away. I wave my arm to let him know it’s okay. It is his birthday party, after all.
Left on my own, I’m tempted to keep to myself and take a look around. I’m given no such luck when Dylan pops back into the house, notices me still in the entryway, and shouts, “Kendall! We’ve run dry. Bring your sexy self over here and help me make another pitcher.”
I laugh. He waits until I’m in motion, as if he knows better than to trust me, before he s
teps away. I come upon the kitchen to find him grabbing a bowl of fresh peaches. He tosses his free arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go, babe, you’re up next.”
We step outside onto a large redwood deck. The sun is low in a violet-crimson sky, but the air is warm and summery. Dylan keeps hold of me until we reach a built-in bar with a blue-flecked granite countertop. “This is Kendall,” he says to the friends gathered there.
“Hi.” I give a quick wave. “Hellos” ring out in return.
The blender whirrs, and a minute later I’m handed a glass filled to the rim. Dylan says, “Here. Tell me that’s not the best damn daiquiri you’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m sure it’s great. It’s just that—”
“Come on, Midwest. It’s Vaughn’s birthday. You accepted the invite, which means you’re duty bound to celebrate.”
Even without hours of mandatory alcohol awareness classes under my belt, I’d recognize peer pressure, but it doesn’t mean he’s not right in his own convoluted way. This is Vaughn’s day, and I am here to participate in the festivities. We’re all adults, drinking at a party is a social norm, and I’m not driving. I can relax and enjoy a cocktail if I want.
“Cheers,” I say and lift my glass.
The first thick, icy sip slides down my throat easily. It’s sweet and tangy but super strong. I’ll need to pace myself so I don’t feel like I can’t handle this.
“How’d I do?” Dylan says, grabbing a redhead walking by and bringing her under his arm. She giggles and snuggles against him.
“It’s good,” I tell him, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s got his tongue down the girl’s throat.
“Hey,” Vaughn says, coming up beside me. My body immediately relaxes and leans toward him. “Sorry about ditching you. I see you’ve got a drink.”
“I do,” I answer with confidence I don’t entirely feel, but I want him to know I’m okay indulging in Dylan’s specialty.
As if on cue, Dylan hands Vaughn a glass. How he poured while his mouth is still attached to the girl at his side, I don’t know.
“Come on.” Vaughn takes my hand—sending a ridiculous amount of pleasure through me—and leads me to a sitting area where several party guests are lounging on a semi-circular sectional. Vaughn sits and tugs me onto his lap even though there’s an available spot next to him.
He flashes a smile that is so beautiful my heart stops.
“Happy birthday,” I say and lift my glass to clink with his.
“It is now.”
I’ve never actually believed eyes could mesmerize, but there’s no other way to describe my reaction to Vaughn’s. The opaque green around his pupils lightens to a translucent shade as bright and rare as beach glass before deepening to a thin dark outer ring.
His gaze holds me hostage. I can’t look away. Part of me is overwhelmed with panic, but another part of me is buzzing with euphoria I can’t blame on the drink. I’m under the Vaughn influence, and I don’t want the light-headed sensation to end. With Brit’s advice on replay in the back of my mind, I want to revel in it.
“Thanks for last night,” he whispers as I try to get comfortable on his lap and not spill my drink. Or let anyone around us notice my hand is shaking.
“You’re welcome.” And where should I put my arm? Around his neck or keep it wedged between us? He settles me closer, and I’ve no choice but to drape my arm over his shoulder. The side of my boob rests against his chest.
“Hey.” He slants his mouth so it’s right at my ear. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
He certainly does.
But keeping calm is impossible. My dress is thin and I can feel him inside his classic-fit dark-blue shorts. I force myself to stop wiggling.
“How was Paris?” a girl asks from across the sitting area.
“Bonne,” Vaughn tells her.
Talk continues after that to trips his friends have planned over the summer. I sip my cocktail and listen to the conversation. Vaughn finishes his drink, puts his glass on the low round table at the center of the sitting area, and then rests his hand on my thigh, fingertips underneath the hem of my dress.
A bomb of arousal goes off in my body. I clench my legs together to stave off the tingles making their way between my thighs. My panties were already wet, but now I suspect there are more obvious signs of what he’s doing to me. I’m sure a flush covers my cheeks and neck.
I scramble to my feet. “Point me in the direction of the bathroom?”
“I’ll take you—”
“Don’t be silly.” I stop him from rising with a hand to his chest. “I can find it.” I desperately need a few minutes alone to get my overactive hormones under control.
“There’s one off the kitchen,” he says.
“Great. Thanks.” I hurry away, only to be stopped by Dylan at the built-in bar.
“Kendall! Hold up. Your sister says she can make a better daiquiri than me, and I need you to be the judge.”
“Princess there doesn’t know the first thing about a good drink,” Dixie says from behind the blender without sparing me a glance.
“I don’t know, Dix, she approved wholeheartedly of mine already, but if you want to chicken out…”
“You do know she’s a bartender, right?” I ask Dylan.
“What?” He stares at Dixie. “You bartend?” She winks at him. “Pass me a taste.” He beckons with his fingers, palm up, indicating he wants a drink right this second.
Dixie pours with a flourish and then slides the glass across the granite. Dylan downs a large gulp. “Fuck me, that’s exceptional. You’re hired.”
“Wrong. I’m here to enjoy this party.” To prove her point, she tosses back a shot.
“I meant at The Cabana. I’m down a bartender and could seriously use your help.”
She puts a hand on her hip, arches her brows. “You seriously can’t afford me.”
“Come by the club tomorrow morning and we’ll talk.” He takes another sip of his drink. “I can sweeten the deal with a fringe benefit.”
“Dylan, I’m sure your benefits are impressive”—sarcasm coats her words like sugar on a daiquiri glass—“but I don’t sleep with my boss.”
“My benefits are legendary, actually, but I meant stage time, Dix. I don’t mix business with pleasure, either. I was talking about a weekly gig in addition to bartending. However”—he shrugs and grins—“if you’d rather sleep with me, that’s your call.”
Her gaze cuts left. I track it to where Matt’s standing against the rail, monitoring the exchange with a dark, broody look on his face. A muscle flexes in his jaw as he watches Dixie consider her options, and a random question pops into my head. Exactly how did Dixie and my hot neighbors celebrate her open-mic win last week?
Finally, Dixie pours herself another shot, clinks the glass against Dylan’s, and downs it. “See you tomorrow at the club, boss.”
People watching the exchange laugh and give Dylan shit about having his “epic” benefits rejected. Matt takes a long swallow from his beer before turning to brace his forearms on the rail and stare at the pool. I continue on my way. Undercurrents are flowing like riptides out there, but I can’t tell which way they run. I’m too off-balance from Vaughn’s dizzying scent and the imprint of his hand on my thigh. I enter the kitchen to take a moment to just breathe.
Ducking in an empty alcove, I call Brit for a quick pep talk. She picks up on the first ring. “How’s the party?”
“Good, but things are moving at warp speed.”
“Things meaning hands all over each other?”
“His hands, yes.”
“Kendall, it’s okay. All of it is okay. You’re entitled to have fun. Kiss a guy. Put your hands on him. Enjoy a summer fling. It’s normal.”
“I know.”
“And if you don’t go for it, you’ll regret it.”
She’s right. I will. “Thank you for the reminder.”
“Just call me Dr. Brit! Now go do everything I would.”
I chuck
le. “That could take a while. I’ll call you later,” I say in lieu of good-bye.
“You better.”
I hurry down the hall, close the bathroom door behind me, and flip on the light switch. The small room is decorated with a wide sink console that has several drawers with an open shelf at the bottom. I splash some cold water on my sweaty palms, and feel some semblance of control come back. One daiquiri and I’m a tiny bit buzzed—just enough to relax and live in the moment. Am I ready for Vaughn? I’m not sure, but I’m drawn to him in a way I’ve never felt…with anyone.
A knock on the door spurs me to get moving. I open it wide. “Hey,” a girl wearing a skimpy bikini top and tiny white shorts says. “You done? I really have to pee.”
“All yours.” I step around her into the hallway. My curiosity gets the best of me when I pass a half-open door. It’s an office with a large desk, bookcase, chaise lounge, and—my gaze snags on a framed black-and-white portrait of a young woman hanging on the coffee-colored wall. I can’t help but move closer. The shape of her face. Her smile. She reminds me of Vaughn.
“You found my hiding place.”
I startle at the sound of his voice. I’m caught, but I’m rooted to my spot, the picture keeping me in place. He comes up beside me, his arm brushing mine. The now familiar electric charge heats my skin.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No worries. I don’t mind hiding in here with you.”
Sitting on his lap might throw my hormones into overdrive, but these kinds of comments are going to get me in real trouble. Vaughn is so much more than I ever expected. His sincerity and depth keep catching me off guard. I glance at him and get his profile, his attention focused where mine just was.
“That’s my sister.”
“The one you mentioned last night.”
He nods. “Yeah. She died ten years ago.” He turns his head and I look up into his eyes, hoping he sees how much I care. How honored I am that he shared that.
“I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“She was working out when she suddenly collapsed. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was gone. It turned out she had an undiagnosed heart defect.”
Promise Me Page 11
