Page 13 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I froze. Before I could think, before I could remember all the reasons this was a catastrophically bad idea—
Something electric ignited at the base of my spine, sparking through my nervous system like a live wire dropped in water.
My body seized control while my brain was still spinning.
I kissed her back.
Not gently. Not properly. Not with the restraint I’d been taught was appropriate for a Sterling.
My hand slid up to cradle her jaw, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Her surprised gasp opened against my lips, and I took the invitation without hesitation. Her fingers twisted in my shirt. My free hand found her waist, fingers splaying against the warm strip of skin where her shirt had ridden up.
My world narrowed to nothing but sensation: the softness of her lips, the subtle sound she made deep in her throat as my tongue touched hers, the way her body arched toward mine—unrestrained and more alive than anyone I had ever known.
Until…
A thunderous voice shattered the moment.
“Bryce? You ready?”
Gavin’s voice bellowed up the stairwell, and reality came crashing back with nauseating force.
My best friend. Her brother. The man who’d promised bodily harm to anyone who touched his baby sister.
“Oh God. I—Damn.” I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her graduation gown. “I shouldn’t have—Pip. I apologize.”
Petra rolled her eyes, composure snapping back into place with terrifying speed. “Relax. No biggie.” Her voice was cool, dripping with sarcasm, as if it had all been a joke. “It’s not like you’re into me. I kissedyou, Moneybags. It’s fine.”
We’ve never spoken about it since. Not once in seven years. I assume she didn’t tell Gavin—he would’ve taken a swing at me by now.
After all this time, it is impossible to hear this song without feeling the sensation of her lips on mine.
BRINGG. BRINGG.
The melody cuts off mid-lyric, ripping me straight out of the past.
Caller ID: Amanda Tenley. Her profile photo exudes polished confidence—pearl earrings, glossy blonde waves, and that serene, unbothered expression only girls raised on country club rules can possess.
I swipe to answer. “Hello, I’m almost ready. Just need a few—”
“You didn’t even notice, did you?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“I moved out, Bryce.”
I stand up so fast my head spins, and suddenly I’m seeing the room with fresh eyes. Her bedside table is bare. No silk sleep mask. No crystal-studded charger. No glossy stack ofVogue.
I bolt to her walk-in closet and throw open the door.
Empty. Completely bare except for a few stray velvet hangers. The rows of designer dresses, the color-coded shoe collection, the Tiffany-blue jewelry boxes—all gone.
“I didn’t think you were serious.”
“I’ve been waiting for your call for three days, Bryce.” Her voice hardens. “I warned you that at twenty-eight, I’m approaching my expiration date. My mother has suggested cryogenic egg freezing more than once. You are aware of what she calls unmarried thirty-year-old women in our circle, right?”
I wince, already knowing the answer.
“Unfuckable.” The crude word sounds wrong in her cultured voice.
