“I already spoke to my parents,” she says. “They’ve spoken to the Argylles and bought a table.”
My eyes widen. Plenty of people have expressed interest but this is the first time I’ve heard that someone has actually paid. Peyton’s family, the Barrington-Smythes, are a big deal—old money—and the fact that they’ve bought a table will definitely start the ball rolling.
“Thanks, Pey,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s amazing.”
She shrugs. “It’s a good cause. But I have an important question to ask you.”
I narrow my eyes as I smile down at her. “Sure. What?”
“Do you have a date for it yet?”
Her question takes me by surprise, and I take a breath to answer, but stop. I don’t. I haven’t even thought about it. My eyes dart to the wall separating me from Wes and I shake the thought away. That’s not going to happen. Being my date to the fundraiser is a lot more than ‘casual’ and ‘no strings’. My heart thunders as I realize the implications of even considering it. Would I go to the fundraiser ‘with’ Wes? It would mean coming out to the whole school. The thought doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, but it’s a moot point, because it's not going to happen.
“I didn’t realize it was such a hard question,” Peyton teases, running both her hands up my chest. “It’s kind of a yes or no thing.”
“Sorry,” I say. “No. I don’t.”
Her gray-blue eyes light up. “Will you be my date, Sol?”
This is one of the things I like about Peyton. She approaches life like she plays lacrosse: at full speed and taking no prisoners.
“Sure,” I say, letting my hands land on her waist. “It’s a date.”
She grins and rises on her toes to press her lips to mine. It’s only a quick kiss, and I make no effort to deepen it. After seeing Wes with that guy, I’m in no mood to hook up. Maybe after a few more drinks, but right now, I’m in wallow mode.
After a second, perhaps sensing I’m not going to take it further, Peyton moves back, pressing a kiss to my jaw before squeezing my arm and disappearing back into the crowd. I sigh and take another sip of drink, shuddering as it burns down my throat.
It’s then that I feel eyes on me, and I turn to the large open entrance to the kitchen and find Wes standing there, looking fine as hell in a long-sleeved black t-shirt and gray pants. Behind his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes are unsmiling, his mouth a thin line. I raise my eyebrows, but he turns and walks away.
What the fuck?
WES
I shouldn’t have come. It was a stupid fucking idea. Not only are there more people in this goddamn house than humanly possible, I now have the image of Sol kissing someone else seared into my brain. Shoving my way through the crowded hallway to the front door, the icy night air steals my breath. I don’t stop, though, shoving my hands in my pockets and hunching against the cold as I start down the path toward the halls.
It’s my own damn fault. I get that. I’m the one who said we were nothing more than a hookup. A frustrated growl builds in my chest. Sol’s the one who dangled the proposition of a blow job in front of me this morning, though. Why the hell would he do that and then fuck around with someone else? Did he change his mind? Was it some twisted ploy to get me to show up so he could hook up with someone else in front of me?
Even as the thought manifests, I push it away. Sol’s not like that. I might not know a lot about the guy, but I know he wouldn’t do something so underhanded. So cruel. My golden boy doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. My. No. Not ‘my’. Sol Brooker isn’t ‘my’ anything.
“Wes! Wait up!”
My eyes close briefly at the sound of Sol’s voice, accompanied by the crunch of frozen gravel as he jogs after me. Reluctantly, I slow my pace, turning as I hear him behind me.
“Where the hell are you going?” he asks, his words punctuated by bursts of white cloud between us.
“Home.”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
“I didn’t get all the work done I wanted to today. I shouldn’t have come.”
Sol watches me with narrowed eyes and I drop my gaze. Which is a mistake, because then I find myself staring at the deep vee of his t-shirt, his chest so fucking lickable. My fingers clench in my pockets, itching to smooth out over the expanse of muscle, knowing his nipples will be rock hard and sensitive from the cold.
“Liar,” Sol says softly.
My eyes snap back to his. “Excuse me?”
“You saw me with Peyton and stormed off. Are you jealous?”