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I clench my teeth as she takes it, looking at him like he’s her fucking hero. “Thanks.” She walks back toward the stairs, not looking at me again. “See you guys downstairs.”
I watch her go, my stomach sinking into the goddamn floor.
Kade’s voice is light with humor. “You could’ve just told her.”
It takes a second, but finally, I say, “So could you.”
I retreat back into my room, slamming the door between us.
It wasn’t Dylan’s fault for believing I fucked a girl who treated her badly. For believing I’d been a disloyal friend.
It wasn’t my fault she thought that, either.
It was Kade’s. I shouldn’t have had to explain myself, and even if I did, he still would’ve come out of it innocent.
Because as it happens, I would hate for her to think he’d been a disloyal friend, either. I didn’t tell her because it wouldn’t have made me feel better to make him look bad in her eyes.
I was so fucking stupid.
I gaze out the window as Dylan stands just inside her closet door, with her shirt off. She thinks she’s shielded behind the closet door between us, but there’s a mirror on the wall. Her hair is out of its ponytail, and I can almost feel it on my fingers as I run my hand up her skin. The cool strands caress my knuckles.
She turns, her breasts bare in the mirror.
I drop my eyes.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen her. I accidentally walked into the bathroom at my house when she was cleaning up after we went swimming. The room was thick with shower steam. She still doesn’t know the door had been opened at all.
Still doesn’t know she’s the only one I’ve ever seen like that.
When I think about touching someone, it’s always the same body I see. Teardrop breasts. Full and firm. The skin looks so soft, with a tight waist, curving beautifully the farther down I let my eyes go. My fingertips hum, and so does my mouth, because God, I want to touch her with more than just my hands.
Slowly, I raise my eyes again, watching her stare at herself in the mirror. Her head tilts like she’s studying her body or something. She doesn’t know how many people would love the feel of her.
For a moment, I see myself standing behind her, both of us shirtless, and I’m about to touch her, but when I look up at us, into the mirror, it’s him. It could be me, but she’ll see Kade. Everyone does.
Even I do sometimes.
Grabbing my towel, I throw it over my shoulder, heading for the shower, but my phone vibrates on the bed.
I flip it over, seeing Ciaran’s name.
In person, I call him Grandpa, but for some reason it felt weird to have him listed like that in my phone once I moved in with Farrow. He sees him as Ciaran Pierce—Irish Mobster.
I answer, holding the phone to my ear. “Everyone’s calling to check on me today,” I say. “I’m still alive.”
My grandfather doesn’t hesitate. “What’s this about you not going to the barber for your weekly appointment?”
I throw down my towel. Farrow called him? Really?
“It’s not an appointment,” I retort. “It’s some old guy shooting the shit in his garage all day who’s good with a razor. I needed some time alone.”
“So, Samson Fletcher has twenty dollars less in his pocket this week, because you’re wallowing under your perpetual teenage black cloud of ‘Life just sucks so badly?’”
I close my eyes.
Jesus Christ.
“I’ll go.” I exhale. “I’m going now.”
