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Timothy nods like he agrees, which is frustrating as hell. He glances around the room, but Jessie’s gone. “Can you make sure she’s all right?”
“No.” I walk off as he’s accosted by his mom.
Jessie won’t want to see me. She won’t get any comfort from my presence or my words—if I had any to say beyond ‘I’m sorry your brother is a real dickhead sometimes.’
I stick around long enough to drink one toast to Timothy and Mina. Considering how my marriage spun out, publicly crashing and burning, I’d rather not be a cloud hanging over his good news anyway. I give Celia a quick peck on the cheek and bid everyone good night. The congratulatory slap on Timothy’s back turns into an awkwardly long bear hug, and by the time I escape, I’m wrung out.
Addison dragged me through the tabloids, feeding them gossip about my supposed infidelities while she was busy screwing around. Her betrayal and the subsequent divorce took a toll on me. I’m not ready for a wedding—even Timothy’s.
It’s not all Addison’s fault, if I’m being honest. While I’ve made bank by doing the Warwick films, those movies are a success despite me, not because of me. I’m sick of critics panning me and late-night comedians joking about my “smolder” being one step below a Derek Zoolander “Blue Steel” look.
I’m currently “taking a break,” my publicist citing my divorce and a need for privacy and time to “find myself.”
I haven’t found shit. I have a career I stumbled into, a house I didn’t choose, and people to tell me what to do nearly every hour of the day. I should be grateful—most people who go to LA never make it big and I did it with no talent beyond a camera-ready face—but instead, I’m restless.
At least I have the Foleys. They’ve always made me feel welcome and loved. Except Jessie.
A massive hard-shelled suitcase sits at the bottom of the stairs. Bright pink and plastered in faded stickers—snark and butterflies—it has to be Jessie’s. Since she’s having a shit night and it’s only going to get worse when Celia or Amanda corner her, I grab the handle and lug it up the stairs.
I’m in pretty good shape from the Warwick movies but Christ this suitcase is heavy. What the hell did she pack in it? Free weights? Is something insidevibrating?
A balcony overlooks the great room, and I pause for a moment when I reach the top. There’s still noise and bustle below, most of it coming from Timothy.
Cousins, aunts, and uncles mill about and it’s all cozy. Homey. My parents’ house was empty and dull. They were always busy, always traveling, always chasing success. Pushing me to be like them. I didn’t have brothers or sisters to help shoulder the burden. It all came down to me.
I escaped to the Foley house so often that Celia gave me a key and the spare room on the first floor. After the accident that took my parents when I was twenty-four, it became the only place I thought of as home. Being under this roof again feels like a warm hug. It’s safe, comforting, and accepting. I need this, not some tropical getaway where I know no one and everyone thinks they know me. I’m glad Timothy talked me into coming home, even if it means facing Jessie.
Leaving the suitcase in front of her door, I head down the hall to Timothy’s old room. He claimed the first-floor guest bedroom this year, citing more privacy since Mina’s coming tomorrow. She’d changed her flight to attend some fashion event with a designer friend. Probably a good thing, considering the scene with Jessie.
I’ve never spent much time upstairs. Timothy wasn’t the kind of guy who wanted to hang out in his room when he had the whole world outside to explore. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve been up here.
It’s large and comfortable, done up in a creamy shade that sets off the dark wood of the exposed rafters, accented in deep greens. Celia’s redecorated since he moved out and nothing of his remains, but the watercolor of the lake hanging over the bed is Jessie’s. I don’t need to look for her signature. I remember her painting it the summer before we graduated from high school. She accosted me with a paintbrush when I wandered too close. I grabbed her wrist and her eyes went wide, her breath catching. Naturally, I ran away.
Her room is next door to Timothy’s, and I’ve only been in there one time. Which I’m not going to think about. That wasn’t the worst night of my life, but it wasn’t far off.
I leave my clothes in a heap on the floor, climbing into bed naked. My hands slip under the cool pillows and I stare at the ceiling, unable to close my eyes.
Unable to kick Jessie out of my head. The only thing that chases away the hurt in her eyes is thinking about her lips closing over that bite of pie. The shape of her breasts under her soft-looking sweater.
It’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. That’s my problem. I stopped trying to screw my way out of how my divorce made me feel, and now I can’t stop thinking about how Jessie’s red, red lips would look wrapped around my cock.
Beautiful. That’s how they’d look.
I reach under the covers and give myself a half-assed stroke. It’s electric. I tighten my fist. I haven’t fantasized about Jessie since we were teenagers and she was one of a too-large and constantly rotating cast. It doesn’t mean anything if in my head I’m peeling her sweater off, licking and sucking on her tits before diving between her legs. Making her beg. Watching her drop to her knees in front of me.
Imagining her hot wet mouth sliding up and down my cock instead of my hand is going to get her out of my system and make the next thirteen days tolerable.
God, she’d be good too. Her lipstick smeared on me, her amber eyes hungry…
I shoot my load in record time, all over my stomach, because I’m too caught up in the image. When the sensation finally ebbs, I let out a shuddering breath and stare blankly at the ceiling for a solid minute.
Shit. That was wrong in so many ways, but wow, was it good.
I reach for the nightstand with my clean hand.
No tissues.
Groaning, I drop back onto the mattress. With Celia insisting on doing my laundry, I can hardly clean myself off with a sock, like some teenager.
