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“Never.” His mouth hitches. “Older.”
“It happens.” I meet his smile with my own, trying to ignore the way he’s looking at me. “People grow older, and wiser.”
“And locking yourself in a bathroom with a guy who has always wanted you is what you call wise?” he asks, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“That’s not what I was doing.” I don’t want to fight with Cruz. Whatever was happening just now felt nice. In fact, it made me wonder if someday we could learn to coexist, for the sake of our parents.
“It’s not smart, Ellery.” He takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “In fact, it’s probably the dumbest thing you could do. Guys like him only want one thing.”
“Oh I don’t know,” I shrug, “I can think of something dumber.” Falling for your stepbrother had to rank at the top of the list of stupidest shit ever.
He studies me for a moment and deciding it would be best if he didn’t read too far into the comment, I continue. “I’m sorry if it disappoints you that I don’t look the same, but how I look is the least of my concerns right now.”
“The way you look doesn’t disappoint me.” He shakes his head. “You’re you, and you’re—”
“Careful,” I warn.
“Stunning,” he finishes, which makes my stomach flip. “But I think that skirt and shirt may be sending the wrong message.”
“What message would that be?” I flash him a wry smile. “That I’m a fan of rock music? You’re right, that would be tragic.”
He shakes his head again, and I can see he’s trying hard not to smile. “You loved rock music once.”
“I loved a lot of things once.”
The space between us falls quiet and I clear my throat. “Look, I know what you’re getting at, but my swimsuit covers less skin than this. Not to mention there’s dozens of girls downstairs, flaunting all they’ve got.”
“Swimsuits are different,” he smirks, “and I don’t care what other girls are wearing.”
“How are they different?” I press, ignoring the second part of his comment.
“They just are.”
“So let me get this straight, guys can walk around, doing and saying whatever they want, but when a girl wears something that reveals a little skin, it’s our problem to worry about what message it’s sending?”
“If the message is intended for Royce Richardson, yeah, it’s a problem.”
I let out a little snort. “What I’m wearing has nothing to do with him.”
“Come on, Ellery. You know that’s not true.”
“It is,” I insist. The way Cruz is looking at me tells me he isn’t buying it, and I hate that he isn’t because he’s right. How I’m dresseddidhave something to do with Royce.
The truth was Royce had turned into a younger version of his dad, who was like every other man in our society—if you wanted something, you gave something. Seeing as I wasn’t about to give Royce anything, a look at my legs would have to do.
I nibble my lower lip, debating what else to say, when Cruz cups the side of my neck and leans in.
“I want you to tell me what the fuck you were you doing up here with Royce, and I want the truth. Don’t lie to me.” Gone is the warmth in his eyes and easy smile; in their place, a heat that underlies his words and touch.
“We were just talking,” I say for a second, or was it the third time? I can’t remember. Being this close to Cruz did something funny to my brain.
“Ellery, Ellery, Ellery.” He trails a thumb along my jaw, breath tickling my lips. It’s warm and sweet, like sugar and oak with a hint of smoke. I know the taste. Whiskey. Jack Daniels,specifically.
Shit, he’s drunk. I don’t want to talk to him while he’s like this.
“You need water,” I put a hand on his chest and try to pull back, “and I need to go. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
When I try to leave a second time he splays his hand on my neck and runs his nose down the column of my throat. “Why are you here?” he whispers.
