Page 32 of The Beat Match

She curled her lip, shaking her head so hard she looked possessed. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No, you don’t get to laugh.”

He had no clue why he was laughing. Annie always made him laugh, but nothing about this was funny. He focused on the pavement, her cute ankle boots facing his black sneakers. Another laugh squeaked out.

Three seconds.

“Seriously? I’m about to give you the verbal lashing of your life, and you’re laughing? How could you not tell me you’re—”

He looked up. Her eyes were wide, her fingers drifting up to touch her lips as a rosy blush pinked her cheeks. Bingo. She was probably picturing his lips on hers, his fingers tugging on her hair, their hips lined up, bodies primed. Or maybe that was just his depraved mind.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’m…” He cleared the gravel from his throat. “I’m sorry, Anthea. I should have told you.”

Her eyes darted around, her fingers still on her lips. “You knew it was me. You knew, and you kissed me.”

She wasn’t gesturing and yelling, berating him for the Falcon lies, the secret life he hadn’t shared, his lack of respect with that kiss. Her lips were parted, her chest swelling deeper. Everything was changing between them. Because of the kiss? Before the kiss? He wasn’t sure, but there was something in her vulnerable gaze, the speeding of her breaths.

Was she fighting her feelings for him, too?

His body tensed in reply, as though he wanted just that. Which would make him a dick. Except for his one disaster, Weston had never had a girlfriend. He had arrangements with a few likeminded women, who preferred no-string hookups. Random nights between the sheets, no drama, no sleepovers. His one attempt to date with an eye on the future, he’d freaked out.

Three months into that relationship, Lila had told him she loved him, and his lungs had backfired. His chest had felt like it was rupturing. He’d pictured getting closer with her, opening up to her, allowing himself to love her. Only to lose her, being left so alone—his early losses returned tenfold—that he’d torn out of there, barely an excuse given as he’d busted onto the street, never to speak with her again.

Now he had friends with benefits. They were sweet and lovely, and demanded nothing he couldn’t give. He hadn’t called any of them in a while. The thought had sickened him slightly these days. Not as much as the hurt emanating from the one person he was trying to protect.

“I had to get you away from Duncan,” he said, grasping at straws. His best excuse for that kiss.

She flinched.

“He’s not the man for you,” he went on. “He uses women, sleeps with them and moves on. You should never have gone out with that guy.” And he needed to learn when to shut up.

The lie had come out easily, as lies did when mixed with truth. He had called her up on stage to get her away from Duncan, but he’d kissed her because he’d wanted to, and now she looked like someone had torched her scrapbook collection.

How would she look at him if she learned why Leo had really been shot?

“I’m sorry, Squirrel,” he said, at a loss.

* * *

I’m sorry, Squirrel. Sorry! After lying to her for months. Years, maybe. Sorry, after dragging her on the stage and kissing the daylights out of her. Sorry, after standing her up, then admitting the only reason the Kiss of the Century had happened was to control her and keep her away from Duncan.

And the “contrite” man was sorry?

Annie’s right eye twitched, her whole body one spasm away from karate chopping Wes in the neck. “Don’t ever call me Squirrel again, and maybe I was the one doing the using. Maybe I wanted to walk on the wild side and have fun with a guy as hot as Duncan.”

Wes’s nostrils flared. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t bait me, Anthea. You’re just trying to get under my skin.”

He was kind of right, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “You don’t know a thing about me. Not anymore. And I obviously don’t know a thing about you.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”