His lack of responding to my messages is driving me insane.
I pull out my cell again and tap on the message I sent him. It shows me it’s been read but still no response. Fucking asshole!
“Can I ask you something?” I question, controlling my voice and pushing aside my irritation. “Since you’re my sister-in-law and all.”
The endearment keeps her smiling. “Sure.”
“How did you know you wanted to marry him? What pushed you past your doubts? I mean, surely, you would have had some doubts?”
“No doubts,” she answers confidently. “He made me smile, laugh, and feel alive. I’ve never felt all those three things in one moment. When he asked me to marry him, I agreed because if he could make me feel that way for the rest of my life then what a life to live.”
My gaze shifts toward my brother, angrily slamming the ball and cussing at his poor shot. Logan stands behind him, heckling and calling him soft. I wonder if Alessandra feels that way now, witnessing the darker side of my brother. I just can’t see what she sees—someone who makes you smile, laugh, and feel alive?
I want to ask her specifically what makes her feel alive. It can
be interpreted in so many ways.
Have I ever felt alive? Surely, I must have.
Yet, as I try to think of the moments when I felt alive, I can only think of when Wes proposed. Our relationship has been calculated from the moment we met, and maybe that’s what has allowed the doubt to creep in. We’re both programmed to feel or act a certain way, and by now, it’s become second nature.
“Are we going to kick his ass or are you going to stand there acting all girly?” Logan hisses from across the table, watching me intensely with his eyes fixed on mine.
“Who you calling a girl?” I slam my palm onto the table on purpose, holding back the pain which ricochets up my arm.
“The person standing across the table wearing a dress with pussies all over it.”
Lowering my eyes, I gaze at the pattern on my dress—it’s navy with scattered kitten faces. The halter neck combined with flared skirt make it very vintage. The designer’s known for thinking outside the box—something I admire about her clothing.
“Kittens. And I’ll have you know that an upcoming designer gave me this dress as a present. I happen to love it,” I answer defensively.
“Shit, Emmy…” Ash laughs. “Maybe you need to switch teams. Team pussy.”
Logan raises his hand to his mouth, trapping in his laughter. “If you can’t beat ’em eat ’em.”
Ash erupts into laughter, smacking his hand against the table. Logan’s no better with his snide remark and arrogant laughter only irritating me more. Just like always, they gang up on me, teasing me relentlessly about anything and everything. Some things never change, and for once in my life, I kind of missed this—letting my hair down and just being me. Pussy dress and all.
I brush it off like it doesn’t bother me, walking across to the other side of the pool table. Grabbing the spare cue, my eyes dart back and forth analyzing the game. I have zero chance. The orange ball’s too far left and I’m not that good of a player to rebound it off the side and into the pocket. The blue one’s an inch away from the black, which is positioned so close to the pocket I’ll end the game for the both of us.
Fuck. I don’t like to lose either, especially to my dipshit brother.
Leaning down, my body angles along with the cue, my eyes focusing in on the orange ball. I have a small chance of making the shot, and just when I’m about to push forward, I feel Logan’s body lean on the back of mine. Resting his hand on top of my own, the warmth engulfs my skin as he applies pressure and directs my aim to the blue ball. “Aim for the blue ball,” he whispers in my ear. “Toward the left, nice and slow.”
The muscles in my stomach spasm in fits of laughter. I accidentally press back into him, connecting with his crotch. My laughter is impossible to contain, my body almost falling limp onto the table.
“Do you know how funny that sounded?” I let out between breaths. “Aim for the blue balls, nice and soft?”
I slow my breathing, still unable to hide my grin from his lame request. I think I’ve calmed down enough until Logan brings my body up and against his. His grip is tight and the heat of his skin is wrapped all around mine in this uncomfortable position.
“I said aim for the blue ball. But hey… nice to know where your mind is at.”
The smartass applies pressure on my hand, pulling back slightly then forward as we watch the white ball roll slowly toward the blue ball avoiding any movement from the black.
I want to jump with excitement, but I’m well aware his crotch is firmly against my ass and he’s far from soft.
Oh my God... what the hell is happening? It’s got to be the beer mixed with the martini. I must be imagining things. Logan is gross. Has been since we were little. He’s the same boy who thought dumping slugs in my socks would be fun.
Shit! He had slugs all over his hands and now you’re letting him touch yours?