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“Did you ever meet him?” Weston asks. I arch an eyebrow, confused. “The guy who doesn’t care?”
I’m shocked he remembers my exact words from the woods. Even more surprised he’s asking about them. I start to wish he actuallydidforget our last encounter. Admitting to him most people don’t pay attention to anything about me, aside from my last name, was one of my more vulnerable and less flattering moments.
I shake my head wordlessly.
“That’s good to know,” Weston replies. And then he leans down and kisses me. Every muscle in my body freezes. I stop breathing. Even the flow of blood through my veins seems to slow to a trickle.
I’m being kissed.
A boy is kissing me.
And not just any boy. Weston fucking Cole.
His kiss is sweet, almost hesitant. Not at all what I expect. Or rather, what I would have expected if I’d had any premonition this moment might happen. Which I didn’t. I’m too shell-shocked to do anything but imitate a statue and savor the tingles.
Until his hot tongue traces the seam of my lips, and he tugs me closer.
I gasp, allowing him access to my mouth, and he doesn’t hesitate to take full advantage. Every sensation intensifies. I’m drowning in the best way, overcome by heat and exhilaration and lust. My hands wander into his soft hair, and he groans. His mouth becomes even more insistent, and I finally let my tongue tangle with his.
Weston Cole conquers me. And I let him.
I try to remember why this shouldn’t happen. That’s he’s part of the enemy. That he leads the enemy. But his lips are demanding and persuasive and warm against mine, and I can’t muster the willpower to string a coherent thought together, much less leave them.
He’s the one who breaks our kiss, and we stand there, both taking greedy gulps of the damp night air.
I’m dazed. Delirious. Drunk. Dizzy. Disappointed. That wasn’t my first kiss, but it’s the first time I’ve cared one’s ended.
Weston half smiles when he looks at my face, and I wonder what he sees there. He produces a red cylinder and holds it out to me.
I grasp it automatically.
“See you around, Maeve Stevens.” This time he not only says my last name, he also emphasizes it slightly. It’s a reminder; I’m not sure whether it’s one meant for me or him. I survey his expression, but there’s no hint of the cockiness or derision he displayed in the kitchen. Is this his way of telling mehedoesn’t care about my last name?
Weston turns and heads back across the grass toward the patio, leaving me staring down at the can of cola in my hand.
I eventually wander back inside the house. Maggie’s still standing in the same spot by the fireplace.
“Hey, I was just about to come look for you! What took so long?” she asks when I reach the group of cheerleaders.
I can’t tell her the truth. That Weston Cole kissed me like his life depended on it and then I stood in the backyard for ten minutes in a daze because I’m pretty sure kissing him is what the aftermath of several shots of liquor must feel like.
“There was a long line for the bathroom. And then I grabbed this.” I hold up the can of cola.
Maggie nods, accepting my answer without hesitation. “We can leave soon,” she promises. “I just want to hear the rest of Skyler’s story about her college visits.”
“Okay,” I respond, opening the can of soda and taking a long sip. I don’t bother listening to the narrative being told, barely cognizant of theooohsandaaahsfrom Maggie and the other girls.
I have more pressing problems than where an Alleghany cheerleader is planning to continue her education.
Weston Cole kissed me.
And I want him to do it again.
CHAPTERTHREE
WESTON
Beads of sweat roll down my forehead as I force my shaking arms upward again.
