“Yeah?”
“You sticking with the coy shit?” he asks.
I clear my throat.
“He might not realize you’re into him. But everyone else does.”
“It’s not your—”
“He’s my brother.”
“And you care?”
“Got money on it.” He smiles, unfazed.
“You have money on…”
“Can’t tell you. It won’t be a fair bet.” His eyes flit to the stairs. “He’s into you too.”
“He’s in love with her,” I say.
“He’s not over her, sure. Doesn’t mean he’s in love with her.” Holden raises a brow. “Don’t get me wrong. I think you should ditch the loser. Get over him the fun way.” He motions to his bedroom.
“With you?” I ask.
“You don’t like me. No risk of catching feelings.”
It’s a good point, actually. He’s full of shit, but it’s a good point.
“If you come to your senses, let me know.” He looks to the stairs as Forest reappears in slacks and a button-up shirt. “If you don’t… good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’ll be here if you get your heart broken.” He winks. Turns to Forest. “If you ever need an easy fuck, I’ve got you covered, Skye.”
Forest’s fingers curl into fists. He doesn’t notice it. But Holden does.
I do.
My fake boyfriend is jealous of his brother’s advances.
It’s not much.
But it’s something.
Chapter Thirteen
Forest
The place is straight out of a home and garden magazine. Hardwood floors. Exposed brick walls. Happy family spread over square tables.
Mack in a short ivory dress, her red hair pulled into an elegant updo, shiny pendant hanging from her neck.
That feather turning into birds on her shoulder.
The heart on her wrist.
The one I did.
The one that now bears his name.
Diego in a curvy script. Right above the skeleton lock. The one that matches the key on my forearm.
Besides the fresh ink—there’s something on her other shoulder, some mix of flora and fauna—she looks exactly the same.
Pretty brown eyes. Slim figure. Fire-engine red hair.
She stands. Shoots us a serene smile. “Forest.” She extends her hand. “You look good.”
I shake. “You too.”
She turns to Skye. “You… It’s been forever.” She moves around the table. Offers Skye a hug.
Skye’s light eyes fill with confusion. Then she blinks and presses her lips into a smile. “It has.” She doesn’t hug her cousin. She offers her hand.
Disappointment streaks Mack’s expression, but she still shakes. Motions to the bottle of wine on the table. “It’s not as sweet as a Moscow Mule, but it’s not bad.”
“Thanks.” Skye motions to the chair across from Mack.
What the hell is she getting at?
She looks up at me. Kicks the leg of the chair. Motions come on.
Oh, fuck, I need my head in the game.
I need to sell this.
But my heart is beating like a war drum.
My stomach is churning.
My mouth is sticky.
Mack is right there. Next to Diego.
He’s dressed this time—in slacks and a polo shirt—but that doesn’t keep my thoughts in line.
His hand in her long hair.
Her crimson nails on his back.
His name rolling off her lips.
Yes, Diego. Harder. Harder, baby.
Fuck, I’m going to throw up.
“Forest.” Skye wraps her arm around my waist.
It soothes me. Pulls me into the moment.
This room is all different. Dimly lit, rustic, homey.
Not our bright bedroom.
There’s no red comforter. No spinning fan. No stereo playing sexy pop songs.
I still can’t listen to Britney Spears without—
“What do you want to drink?” Skye rests her head on my shoulder. Runs her fingers along my side.
It’s over my shirt, but I still feel it everywhere.
Her touch feels so good. I need more of it. All of it.
And not the way I normally do. Not in a friendly way. Not even in a sexual way.
Something more than that.
“Whatever you’re having, princess.” I force the words from my throat.
“Princess, huh?” Mack raises a brow that’s unusual.
“My goth princess.” I pull Skye a little closer. But it’s not for the ruse. It’s because she’s a life raft. Because I need her. “You look beautiful today.”
She looks up at me with a warm smile. A real smile. “You told me.”
“You don’t want to hear it again?”
“I always want to hear it again.”
I brush a stray hair behind her ear. It’s funny. Her hair is usually neat—it’s cut in a straight line, just below her chin—but today it’s messy.
It’s begging for my hands.
God, she feels so good. She’s not supposed to feel this good.
“You look handsome too.” Her fingers brush my button-up shirt.
I step backward. Pull out Skye’s chair.
My body goes cold immediately. I miss the contact. I need it.
But I can’t.
She deserves someone who can offer her everything, who can give her their heart.
Her eyes hold on mine for a moment, then she turns to her parent’s table. Exchanges hellos with her dad—he’s always asking me to call him David—and her mom.
Then Mr. And Mrs. Davis.
I nod my own hellos.
Skye takes a seat.
I follow her lead. Let the adults drift into the periphery.
Not that I’m a kid.
I haven’t felt like a kid since Mom’s diagnosis.