Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Other way,” I said, pointing her toward the hallway.
“Right,” she said, making a beeline out of the room without looking at me. “Okay, have a good night. Bye.”
When she was gone, I shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, running a hand over my jaw and trying not to laugh.
Fuck. No more inviting Cheyenne Dempsey up to my room.
Years ago, clear back in high school, Griffin had made his three best friends—me, Enzo Moretti, and Beckett Weaver—promise we’d keep our hands off his little sister. He’d probably forgotten all about it, but I hadn’t. And I’d always been a man of my word, but damn.
Damn.
As I changed my clothes with the irresistible scent of Cheyenne’s perfume lingering in the air, and the memory of what her body had felt like beneath mine, I couldn’t help wondering if there was a statute of limitations on a promise like that.
I mean . . . those eyes. Those curves. Those lips.
Just . . . damn.
Two
Cheyenne
“I’m positive,” I whispered frantically to Blair in the kitchen. “I felt it. Then I looked right at it. I said, ‘Um, it’s big.’ Then I tried to escape through his closet.” Cringing, I shook my head. “It was so embarrassing!”
“I’m sure he was more embarrassed than you were.” Blair giggled as she dumped a big bag of barbecue chips into a bowl. “What did he say?”
“Nothing!” I poured two glasses of Pinot Grigio and plunked a few ice cubes into a tumbler for Mariah, who was waiting for us in the den. “What on earth could he say?”
“What did you do to turn him on?”
“I have no idea.” I pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and poured some into the tumbler. “Chose his outfit? Complimented his eyes? Bent over in front of him?”
Blair munched on a chip. “Those jeans do look amazing on you.”
“You think?” I glanced at my behind, which was where I felt like I carried every single one of the ten pounds I was always trying to lose.
Okay, fifteen.
“Definitely,” she said.
I took out a second bowl and dumped a bag of Skinny Pop in it. “I was still getting over my shock that he invited me up to his room in the first place. It was like my greatest fantasy coming to life. Except that there was a wedding picture of him and Trisha on the dresser.”
Blair looked surprised. “Still?”
I ate some popcorn. “Did I ever tell you, the night they got married, I cried myself to sleep?”
“Aww, really?”
“Yep. I’d been away at college for a year already. I’d finally lost my virginity to some dormitory asshole who vaguely resembled Cole but—it turned out—had none of his kindness or integrity. But anyway, I was nineteen and thought I was over Cole Mitchell once and for all. Then I saw him standing at the front of the church in a black suit, tears in his eyes, watching Trisha walk toward him, and it hit me—I’d never be over him. And he’d never be mine. I stayed as long as I could at the reception, then I came home and bawled my eyes out.”
“You’re killing me.” Blair ate another chip. “How many guys have you dated because they reminded you of Cole?”
“Ugh. Too many.” I shoved more popcorn in my mouth. “And they always turned out to be jerks.”
“Maybe you should date, like, the opposite of him.”
“I’ve done that too,” I said. “Believe me, I’ve put myself out there. I’ve dated plenty of guys. A couple times I even thought I was in love. But deep down, my heart was always secretly, stubbornly loyal to Cole. I keep waiting to feel that way about someone else. Because . . . shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t the guy I’m with be the one who gives me butterflies and makes my heart pound? If not, what’s the point?”
She sighed. “I guess you’re right. I wish he’d open his eyes and see how great you guys could be together.”
“Ha. Do you know how many times I’ve made that wish? On every first star in the sky, every birthday candle I’ve ever blown out, every coin I’ve ever thrown in a fountain.” I ate another handful of popcorn. “But it’s no use. I feel like there’s this . . . Trisha-shaped hole in his life, and I’ll never fit into it.” I glanced at my behind again. “I think my butt’s too big.”
“Oh, Jesus.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know for sure.” She sipped her wine. “It’s been eight years since Trisha died, right?”
“Nine. She had severe hemorrhaging after a placental abruption while delivering Mariah.” I spoke quietly so the little girl wouldn’t hear me.
“God, that’s so sad.” Blair picked up her wine glass and took a sip. “But nine years is a pretty long time. Think he’s been celibate all those years?”