I don’t remember folding up my clothing. If memory serves, I left them in a heap on the floor. The thought of Beck picking up my garments and taking the time to straighten them before setting the pile on the counter sends a shiver scampering down my spine. Why would he bother? Unwilling to linger on those thoughts, I yank Beck’s comfy T-shirt off and replace it with my bra and shimmery gold tank. Then I tug the skirt up my thighs.
I glance at the mirror, assessing the damage. The reflection that greets me is just as I suspected.
Total mess. I look like I’ve been put through the wringer. Even though I know it won’t do any good, I rake my fingers through my hair, attempting to smooth it down. After a moment, I give up.
When I leave the bathroom, Beck is dressed in khaki shorts and a black Ramones T-shirt. My pulse skitters as I take him in. I need to pull myself together and stop making such a big deal out of what occurred. People hookup all the time. I don’t want to read too much into the situation.
His attention shifts to me. “What are you thinking?”
Unwilling to share my innermost thoughts, I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“That’s doubtful.” With three long-legged strides, he swallows up the distance between us. “If I know anything about you, it’s that your brain is always working.”
He’s right, but I’m still not sharing them with him.
When I remain silent, he reaches out and strokes the side of my face. I’m tempted to lean into his touch, but I stop myself at the last moment. The attraction surging through me is so much more than what it once was. It’s like the floodgates have been opened and there’s no closing them.
“You didn’t answer the question,” he comments.
And I’m not going to. Somehow, he’s already burrowed his way inside my head. I need a bit of distance to wrangle these feelings back under control where they belong.
“All right, I see how it is.” He flicks the tip of my nose with his finger. “Ready to head downstairs and check out the damage?”
Relief floods through me when he changes the subject instead of pressing for more. “Yeah.”
The amount of regret and loss that flicker through me when he steps away is disconcerting. I’ve always suspected it would be like this with Beck. It’s the reason I’ve given him a wide berth.
When he turns his back to me, I press my hand against my lower abdomen as if that alone will still the butterflies that have winged their way to life inside me. Then I follow him out of the bedroom and into the long stretch of hallway.
Professional family photographs dating back to when Beck and his older brother, Ari, were toddlers dot the light gray walls. By the time we reach the curving staircase, I have a handle on myself. I pause and survey the spacious entryway and a slice of the living room.
My brows rise as I take in the party’s aftermath.
Oh, boy.
“You coming?”
I blink and realize Beck is waiting at the bottom of the staircase.
“Yeah,” I mutter, racing down to join him.
The foyer of the Hollingsworth mansion is elegant and stately. There is a sea of black-and-white checkered marble tile and a chandelier suspended from the ceiling that probably costs as much as a high-end car. White Doric columns break up the space between the foyer and the living room.
What seems out of place are the beer bottles and red cups crowded on the antique credenza. One cup has been tipped over. The wood where the liquid has settled is discolored and cloudy. Caroline will flip out when she discovers the damage. Every piece of furniture in this house has been carefully selected from European craftsmen.
I inspect the living room and find the mess to be just as extensive. More beer bottles and red cups litter the coffee table and floor. A wadded-up shirt, a pair of flip-flops, and a bra have been abandoned by their owners. Couch cushions are strewn about. What the hell were people doing? Building a pillow fort?
I shake my head and blow out a breath.
“Huh,” Beck murmurs, rubbing his shadowed jaw, “I thought the damage would be worse.”
“Really?” I glance at him. “This seems pretty bad. It will take hours to clean up.”
“This is nothing,” he replies dismissively.
The idea of allowing a bunch of random people from school to destroy my parent’s house is unfathomable.
“Should we check out the kitchen?” he asks, interrupting those thoughts.
“Do we have a choice in the matter?”
“Nope. It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid. We need to do it quickly so it’s not as painful.”
I groan as we step into the two-story kitchen. I’ve been here enough times to know that under normal circumstances, this place is spotless. It’s so clean you could eat off the floor. That’s no longer the case. In fact, I’d rather vomit in my mouth than eat anything off the floor.