23
Gigi
I’d put the final touches on my hair and stepped back from the mirror to take in the full effect.
Hot.
That was all that came to mind.
My dress was tight and hugged me in all the right places.
My hair was in sexy, beach waves that had taken me forever to do without Jillian’s help. There were definitely many advantages to having a beauty influencer for a best friend.
Still, I’d done a good job, all things considered.
I even thought my smoky eyes turned out fantastic.
One quick spin and I grabbed my purse to head downstairs.
When I hit the landing, I heard Beau say, “Martin, how do you play this game?”
I checked the rideshare app on my phone to see how much time I had left. Hmm, just a few minutes until they arrived. I’d have to hurry up with my explanation.
Walking as quickly as I could on these heels, I found all the boys sitting at the kitchen table. The cherry game we’d played roughly a hundred times today was set up in front of them.
“There aren’t many rules. Cooper and Carson know how to play already,” I said, triple checking that everyone had the same amount of cherries.
“Wow, Gigi looks like a hoochie,” Cooper said, his eyes open wide as he stared at me.
Beau cut him off. “Coop, she does not. Don’t say that word, I don’t ever want to hear it come out of your mouth again.”
“Dad, he’s right. Mom said girls who wear short skirts and show off their boobs are hoochies,” Carson butt in to stick up for his brother.
“Would you both zip it? Gigi looks very pretty. And girls are allowed to wear whatever the heck they want. They don’t need male fashion police dictating their wardrobe,” Beau said, his tone cross and extremely serious.
Beau asked me a couple of questions about the game—which took me ten seconds to answer.
“Have a good time, boys,” I said before turning around and hustling to the door. My heels echoed through Beau’s house as I walked.
“Martin, hang on,” Beau said from behind me.
“My car’s almost here. Can it wait?” I asked, checking my phone again.
He spoke in French and said, “You can’t bring anyone home.”
“What?”
That was when I noticed how angry his face looked. “Are you seriously that dense? No bringing guys home. Here to my house,” he said, pointing down at the floor.
“Umm, okay,” I said, feeling more than a little uncomfortable at his statement.
“I’m not kidding,” he said, and from the serious tone in his voice I got that, loud and clear.
“I said, okay.”
His hands went directly to his hips. “You wanna fuck some asshole, you go to his place.”
Now that hit me deep. His words were like a dozen razors slicing into my stomach. “Okay.”