Page 57 of Need You to Choose Me

I dip my chin and follow him to the kitchen. “Thanks for the drink, Belle,” I call out, not hearing a reply if there is one because Clarkson guides us into the biggest fucking kitchen I’ve seen in my life.

The appliances are big, white, and polished. The refrigerator is one of those big ass doors that looks like a cabinet for some sort of aesthetic purpose I’ll never understand. And I’m pretty sure all the cabinet counters are marble.

He goes over to the fridge and starts taking trays full of food out to set on the giant island. There are stools lining two sides, with a sink big enough for me to take a bath in on the edge of it. Above the nook are wine glasses hanging from an expensive piece of wood with lights strung around the chains that keep it elevated.

“Did Belle decorate this place or you?” I ask, studying the long table off to the side with at least eight more chairs surrounding it. Everything looks too expensive to touch. “This place seems massive for two people.”

He closes the fridge with his foot and looks from the assortment of finger food to me. “She did most of the decorating. I don’t have time for that.”

“I can’t imagine she does either, running a business and all,” I comment casually. It’s more of an observation than anything, but his eyes narrow at my tone. “For the record, I don’t have a thing for her.”

His cheek twitches as he grabs the tray full of something wrapped in bacon. “Good” is all he says, passing the tray to me. “You grab those two and I’ll get these.”

He doesn’t say he’s interested in Belle.

But he doesn’tnotsay it either.

I smile to myself on the ride up to the rooftop.

All Clarkson says is, “Wipe that smirk off your face. I’m not in the mood for anybody to give me shit today.”

“Just Belle?” I ask jokingly.

His sigh is heavy.

Shaking my head, I say, “I won’t say anything. Like you said, we all have secrets.”

I can feel him watching me as I get out of the elevator first. He takes us to a table where drinks are set up already and sets the appetizers down.

Somebody calls out my name.

Another person asks how I’ve been.

It turns into a decent night.

But hours in, I find my mind wandering to a minty-eyed girl who isn’t here and won’t return my calls.

*

It’s three inthe morning when Clarkson and I dump Moskins into the spare bed. He makes an incoherent noise that sounds vaguely like a protest, but neither the captain nor I care.

“Thanks,” Clarkson says, closing the door behind the man who’s currently laying on his stomach and mumbling under his breath.

Everybody else started leaving when midnight came and went, leaving only a few people lingering. Moskins didn’t seemto notice the absence of people tapering off, and found some tequila from God knows where.

“No problem.” We find ourselves back in the kitchen, where empty trays and glasses and dishes are stacked on the countertops. “It seemed like a good night. Not that Moskins will remember that in the morning.”

A ghost smile tilts Clarkson’s face as he finishes the water he grabbed earlier, guzzling it and adding it to the dirty dishes. “That’s usually how these things go. You never came to the get-together I did at the start of the season. He was ten times worse. Puked all over the living room carpet. And the guest bed.”

I make a face. “And you keep having him back?”

“He’s part of the team.”

That’s dedication. “One of my frat brothers didn’t know his limit when it came to Captain Morgan sophomore year. Or junior. Or senior.” I shake my head. “You’d think after getting his stomach pumped twice he’d stop. You would be wrong. We all were.”

Clarkson flinches. “Rough.”

I nod. “So…” It’s so quiet compared to what it was mere hours ago. “Did Belle leave?”

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