“For the shirt,” he says, his words staccato’d. “If you could text me when it’s ready, I’ll arrange to pick it up.”
Oh. Right.
“It’s a four hundred dollar Baccarin,” he adds. I can’t help but feel it’s his bruised ego’s way of making me feel like an expensive shirt matters more to him than seeing me again. “And I’d like it back.”
Without another protest, I dig my phone from my bag and hand it over. When he returns it, I discover he’s programmed his name as ENEMY DEAREST.
“There,” he says. “Now your parents will never know.”
My stomach somersaults—this isn’t about the damn shirt.
But my resolve hardens to steel.
I can’t get caught up in flattery. I can’t lose myself in the temptation of the forbidden. I can’t sacrifice my loyalty in the name of curiosity or cheap rebellion.
“I’ll get you your shirt back,” I say. And then I leave, navigating the dark hallways and shiny staircase and floating toward the sound of the party until I’m bathed in fresh, humid night air.
A minute later, I find Adriana waiting by the gate.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“I should ask you the same thing,” I change the subject.
Her cousin’s silver Honda rolls up and we climb in. And for the rest of the ride home, she tells me how Isaac was only using her to make his ex-girlfriend jealous, how the second she showed up, Adri became chopped liver. And then her cousin drove us around town for a solid hour, blasting music as she chain smoked Pall Malls with all four windows down.
But I couldn’t even appreciate the distraction—because all I could think about … was August—a forbidden enigma of a man with a penchant for defiance and unapologetic honesty.
He’s different.
And I can’t stop wondering what might have happened had Adriana not busted into the room at that precise moment.
Would he have kissed me?
Would I have enjoyed it?
And then what?
I shake the thoughts from my head and focus on the sappy breakup music blaring from the tinny speakers behind me. Entertaining these curiosities is frivolous and reckless. No good can come from playing the “what if” game.
No good will ever come from a Rose and a Monreaux in the same room together. We were born into two opposing forces. Sharp against soft. Dark against light. Love against fear. We were raised in completely different worlds, with differing priorities and a distinct belief system instilled into us from day one.
It won’t happen again—the two of us alone together. Drinking. Flirting. Getting caught up.
I won’t do that to my parents, to my family’s tragic history, or to my heart.
I have too much to lose.
Chapter Five
August
* * *
I’ve planted myself near the grotto, vision fading as I finish yet another beer. Two girls make out, tongues and all, but I can’t even appreciate it because all I can think about is Sheridan.
I’d consider tonight a disappointment, but I’d hardly call it a failure.
She has my number.
And my shirt.
I’ll see her again … soon.
“Hey, you doing all right?” One of my so-called friends, Trey, gives my shoulder a squeeze, pulling me out of my drunken trance. “Feel like I haven’t seen you all night.”
“Get these people out of here.” My words are thick in my mouth. I need to down a glass of water, pop some Advil, and go to bed. “Party’s over.”
I push myself up and stumble toward the house, my body numb. Though it’s nothing new. I don’t tend to feel much of anything—sober or not.
“But it’s still early,” Trey calls after me.
I wave my hand, trekking inside.
Trey’s an old pro at this, clearing out crowds, knowing when I’m done.
By the time I get to my room, the music has been killed. The stadium-quality security lights have come on, and muffled voices grow more distant by the minute.
Wrestling my phone from my pocket, I toss it on the bed before peeling off my clothes and landing in a heap on top of the covers. With heavy eyes, I fight drowsiness and wake my screen. I tap in my code and pull up every last social media account I own, running up searches of my elusive Rose girl.
Much to my surprise, nothing is private … though she’s not exactly active. Only a handful of photos display across three apps, hardly any of them from the past year.
Sigh.
I drop my phone on the pillow beside me and close my eyes. If tonight was any indication of what I’m dealing with, I’m going to have my work cut out for me.
But God damn, will she be worth it.
A smirk claims my lips when I think about the look on my father’s face if he were to know I’d had Rich’s daughter on our property—and worse—in my room. I imagine him screaming, red-faced, about what a liability that would be for us. But this isn’t about defying orders. This isn’t some rebellious itch I need to scratch.