I move slowly as I lower my mouth to hers, giving her a chance to pull away. She doesn’t. And maybe part of me knows she wants this kiss for all the wrong reasons, that I’m some tale she’ll tell her spoiled girlfriends at parties—the night she kissed the bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks.
But I don’t care enough to let that stop me, and when I lower my mouth to hers, I don’t care about anything at all. Not anything but this. This kiss. This moment. The feel of her soft lips under mine and her sweet little exhale that feels a lot like relief.
I bring my hand to her jaw, and she opens to me with a gasp and threads her fingers through my hair.
She doesn’t taste like bubblegum. She tastes like the fruit punch and champagne, sweet and heady. Intoxicating. And she doesn’t kiss like she’s looking for a story to tell. She kisses me like she never wants to stop—as if she wants to stay here in my arms all night. It makes me feel like Superman, but I have to end this moment.
Her eyes stay closed for a long beat. I take advantage of the moment to study her face, the sooty smudge of her lashes on her flushed cheeks, the dark curls my clumsy hands pulled free, the perfectly smooth skin where her shoulder meets her neck.
I want to kiss her there.
The thought hits me so strongly that I back away before I can give in to it. I shouldn’t be here with her. I shouldn’t be doing this. But I won’t regret one second. “Good night, Brinley,” I whisper, forcing myself to back away another step, even as every instinct begs me to stay close.
She opens her eyes slowly, bringing her fingertips to her lips as if she wants to hold the memory of the kiss there. “Thank you, Marston.”
I crack a rare smile. Brinley Knox, spoiled little rich girl, just thanked this delinquent punk for kissing her. This night has certainly taken an unexpected turn. “My pleasure.”
“Can . . . can I see you again?”
I might’ve been tempted if she hadn’t looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was here before asking. That one little glance is all the reminder I need of who I am and where I stand. “Better you don’t.”
“Why?”
I arch a brow. “Because I’m not like him.” I shift my gaze toward the balcony and the idiot ex below. “If you were mine, I’d never let you go.”
Chapter Three
Brinley
Present day
Marston Rowe still makes my insides flutter when he looks at me. He still makes my pulse buzz and my imagination run wild.
It’s easy to tell yourself you’ve exaggerated the effect someone has on you. We do that with our memories—smooth them, finesse them, make people into two-dimensional versions of themselves. I’ve watched my parents do this with my sister until their memories of her were hardly recognizable to me. Instead of the kind, joyful, but humanly flawed girl she was, they remember a saint, a perfect daughter, and then criticize me for my failure to measure up to that fictional version of her.
In some ways, I thought I did that with Marston. Maybe a single touch from him didn’t make my heart beat faster. Maybe seeing him again wouldn’t make me want to turn back time. But he’s everything I remember, validating every instinct that had me seeking him out and making all my reasons for not doing it sooner weigh heavily on my mind.
I push into the bathroom in front of Savvy, rushing past women touching up their makeup at the long counter and the ones washing their hands at the sinks. I race into the first open stall I see, and my heel snaps under my foot.
“Shit!” Before Savvy can say or do anything, I shut the door and throw the lock behind me.
“Brinley? Are you okay?”
I lean my forehead on the cool metal stall, my breaths short and jagged. “Fine. I just need a minute.” I dig through my purse and find the bottle I’m looking for. If any moment called for anxiety meds, this is it. I clutch the bottle in my hand.
“Sweetie,” Savvy says softly. Under the door, her black heels come into view. I can imagine her standing there, one hand on the stall, one clutching the tight muscles at the base of her neck, worry forming three little lines between her brows. “Talk to me.”
“What did I think was going to happen?” I’m asking myself more than her. “What was I thinking?”
“I don’t know, honey. What are you talking about? Your shoe?”
I laugh, but it comes out high-pitched. “Marston. Fuck the shoes.”
“Did something happen while you two were at the bar? Did he say something that upset you? Do you want to leave?”