Promise Me

“What did she say?” I ask.

“She said she’s sorry for luring us here under the pretense that we’d each have the house to ourselves, but that she thinks it’s past time we get over our shit and act like sisters rather than strangers.”

“She did not say shit,” Amber says.

Dixie rolls her eyes. “That’s the gist.”

“Think we can do it?” I ask. Maybe, just maybe, my sisters can help me move forward for good. Brit’s tried. My mom. My therapist. Dr. Sutton says the only person holding me back is me. But love, guilt, and loyalty form a powerful glue, which is why my heart’s still stuck to someone who can’t give his back.

Chapter Four

Vaughn

The respectable-looking guy on my doorstep hands me a small, iconic blue shopping bag and a matching envelope containing a receipt. I say thanks for the quick delivery, tip him, and shut the door. Dylan’s dragged himself to his room, so I take a seat on the couch to inspect the goods. In the bag I find a blue box, a blank white card, and another small blue envelope. Too much? Maybe. But it’s also perfect. I hustle to the kitchen for a pen, then compose an apology.

Thank you for being my guardian angel. And for the sofa. I’ll trade you keys. Sincerely, Vaughn.

Satisfied, I tuck the card back in the envelope, place it in the bag, and make my way down the driveway, across our narrow side yards, and up the steps to my neighbors’ front door, all the while mentally reviewing the possibilities. Maybe she’s not home? Maybe she’s still asleep? Maybe she’ll slam the door in my face? I wipe my palm on my jeans and ring the doorbell. When I hear the click of the lock I dial up my best apologetic smile and get ready to talk fast.

But as soon as the door swings open my rehearsed greeting dies on my tongue, because it’s not Kendall or Dixie looking up at me with polite inquiry. This girl’s got shoulder-skimming ginger-blond hair and fair skin. Clearly, she hasn’t spent much time in the California sun. She’s buried her petite frame under boyfriend jeans and a slouchy blue KU jersey that verifies her non-native status. Her eyes widen as she returns my stare, and I’m guessing she recognizes me from the underwear ads, or the cologne commercial, or the music videos I’m featured prominently in, playing opposite a Disney star turned pop sensation.

“Oh my God. You’re…you’re…”

Not exactly a household name. Not yet. “Vaughn,” I say, and extend my free hand to greet her. “I live next door.”

“Wow. Definitely not in Kansas anymore,” she murmurs, and then realizes she’s left me hanging and grabs my hand as a flustered pink invades her cheeks. “I’m…um…uh…shoot. I knew this a minu

te ago.”

I laugh, because she’s already laughing at herself. “I know you’re not Kendall or Dixie, if that helps?”

“Amber,” she supplies, and slides her hand out of mine. “Sounds like you’ve already met my sisters.”

“Yes. Speaking of which, is Kendall around?”

“She is. Sorry, please come in.” She steps back and gestures me inside. “She’s in the kitchen. Let me get—”

“That’s okay.” I flash her a don’t-trouble-yourself grin and sweep past her. “I know the way.” I was raised better, and I can practically feel my mom thwacking me upside the head, but I don’t want to give Kendall a chance to have Amber run interference for her. I want to see her. I want to hand-deliver the apology.

“Ohh-kay…” Amber trails after me.

I stride into the kitchen and stop short. Last night is a bit hazy, but this morning a breathtaking backside in snug red shorts is aimed my way in vivid color and clarity. The owner of said backside is leaning over, checking something in the oven while humming “Bootylicious.” Without turning around, she asks, “Who was at the door?”

“Vaughn,” I answer.

My voice jars her. She jerks upright and spins to face me in a startled-cat move. The oven door slams shut, and the sharp bang echoes in the whitewashed calm of the kitchen. Suddenly, I’m face-to-face with her. Kendall. My guardian angel. A part of me wondered if those blue eyes I recalled from last night would seem as laser-beam intense in the cool light of day, or the curving mouth as unintentionally inviting, but the truth is my tequila-soaked mind didn’t do her justice.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to sneak up on someone who’s reaching inside a three hundred and fifty degree oven?” she demands, fluttering a hand over her heart as if to calm it. The move draws my attention to the very nicely filled out Winnie the Pooh T-shirt I wasn’t sure my dirty mind hadn’t dreamed up. It’s no dream. She’s real—every bitable curve, every lick-able expanse of skin, every exasperated crinkle in her brows.

“Sorry.” I know the sincerity of my reply is severely undermined by the fact that I’m checking her out like some kind of pent-up pervert, but the pajamas leave too much on display for me to settle for a view of the floor or the wall. Although she’s looking now, too, and her eyes lose a little of the irritation as she inspects my shower-damp hair and freshly shaven jaw. They turn warmer as her stare roams across my shoulders and down my shirt, following the buttons like a path that ends at the front of my jeans. Her attention lingers there as if she can see beyond the curtain of my shirttails to the hard-on twitching to life behind my fly. I wasn’t at my best last night—not even close—but at least this morning I’m showing her I clean up well. The way she bites her lower lip tells me she’s noticed.

I clear my throat. “I wanted to thank you for the sleepover.”

“Oh, hey. Why am I still standing here?” Amber’s voice interrupts the awkward silence that follows what might not have been the smoothest opening line. “I have to go…um…make sure Dixie isn’t doing any…thing.”

Kendall makes an absent little sound of acknowledgment. As Amber’s quick footsteps fade away, the girl in front of me drags in a long, deep breath. The kind of breath that tells me she’s fortifying herself for whatever’s coming next. The kind that fills the lungs to capacity and expands the chest.

Do not look at her tits. Do. Not.