I head back downstairs, planning to retreat to my room. Selene will ask about Steven if she sees me, and I don’t want to ruin her night by telling her what happened. I’ll make her feel guilty about setting me up with a douchebag later. Tonight is her party, and I don’t want to mess it up for her.
I slip through the kitchen to get another beer, then pause and think better of it. Instead, I grab a plastic cup and mix an impromptu cocktail. Vodka, over ice—and I may or may not tip in a little extra after I pour in two shots. I add some cranberry juice from the fridge. There. That ought to keep me company while I listen to the happy people out here, starting their new year off right.
“Hey, Ky,” a gravelly voice says behind me. “Where you running off to?”
“Hey, Braxton,” I say.
Selene’s twin brother looks so much like her. They have the same dark eyes, olive skin, dark hair. But where Selene is tall and slender—she’s a fucking Amazon warrior at five-eleven—Braxton is six-foot-four-inches of thick, solid muscle.
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Where’s your, uh … date?”
“Found someone else to hang out with.”
Braxton’s expression darkens. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug. Despite the fact that I wasn’t into Steven, being ditched still stings. But I don’t want Braxton to know that. “Whatever. He was boring anyway.”
Braxton moves a little closer and I catch a whiff of him. I swear, the guy must have a cologne called Weak Knees. I always feel fluttery in the stomach when he’s around, always need a minute or two to find my grounding. It must be why he gets so much ass.
“He left you alone right before midnight?”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal.”
I glance around, looking for Hope, but she’s nowhere in sight. I want to ask Braxton how much longer I’ll have to deal with her murder glares, but I don’t. It would violate our unspoken pact, the other tenet that makes our friendship work: we don’t talk about our relationships, especially if we don’t like whoever the other person is dating—which is pretty much always. When a relationship ends, the pact is nullified, and the gloves come off. But prior to that, our dates are off limits.
This came about because the people we date are never comfortable with our friendship. Hope isn’t unique in that. No one minds Selene—Braxton’s girlfriends want to impress her and become her BFF. My dates see how hot she is, and try to hide it when they stare, but they don’t mind me spending time with her. But Brax always seems like a threat, and apparently so do I.
Why his girlfriends see me that way, I have no idea. The women he’s with are always more like Selene than me—tall, model gorgeous, with great clothes and perfect hair. I’m just … me. I’m happy with how I look, but I’m not going to grace the covers of magazines or anything. I’m average height, and a little too curvy for my taste these days (did I mention I am no longer in my early twenties?). I do have a nice rack, but I’m not crazy gorgeous or anything.
But Braxton? I get it. I don’t blame any guy I date for being uncomfortable with our friendship. Braxton is big and powerful, and not just physically. He’s one of those people who fills whatever space he’s in. His personality is as big as his biceps—maybe bigger.
And he’s fucking gorgeous. I can admit that to myself, although I’d never tell him. He has a strong jaw that he keeps covered in light stubble. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black, and when he stares at you, it’s like he can see through to your soul. He’s just the right type of muscular—big and strong, without looking like a meathead. He has a set of gorgeous tattoos down his left arm, adding to the bad boy thing he does so well. Women stare at him wherever he goes, and he knows it. Women are putty for him.
Except me, of course.
Mostly.
“That sucks,” he says. “You shouldn’t start the new year without someone to properly kiss that sweet mouth.”
Hope is definitely not around, and Braxton is definitely drunk.
I smile and take a sip of my drink so he’ll quit looking at my mouth. I hate it when he looks at me like this; I feel like I can’t breathe. “That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll be fine. It’s a stupid holiday anyway. Who fucking cares? It’s just a calendar flip. It’s not like a new year has to mean anything.”
I’m lying through my teeth. I’ve been looking forward to this night for the last month, feeling like this coming year will be different. I’m going to get my shit together and start living life on my terms. Set goals. Find a better job. Achieve things I can be proud of. Maybe find love—real love, with a future. Not this dating bullshit, with the games and uncertainty.
I’ve been planning to make this a year of change, a year of figuring out my shit. Which is probably why the fact that I’m about to sneak off to my room and start the new year by myself, nursing a strong drink, brings the sting of tears to my eyes.
Someone yells, “One minute!”
Braxton gets closer. “You need someone to kiss tonight, Ky?”
I force out a laugh. “Why, you offering?”
He meets my eyes and, for a second, I think he’s serious. My smile drops and my heart beats too fast.
“There you are,” Hope says, slipping her hand around Braxton’s arm. “It’s almost time.”
He steps back, his expression mischievous. He was totally fucking with me. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.