Page 22 of The Worst Kind of Promise
I flap my hand. “I bet it’s not. Hell, you could tell me you read porn, and I wouldn’t judge you.”
Faye grows deathly silent, evades my eyes, and blushes so brightly it looks like she’s glowing.
Holy shit.
My jaw drops open. I wouldn’t be surprised if my tongue lolls out either, because picturing shy, sweet Faye reading some of the dirtiest things in her books has my steel-hard cock stressing against the zipper of my pants. I adjust my legs as discreetly as I can, but I’m pretty sure my high-pitched, prepubescent-sounding voice gives me away.
“Didn’t know you could read that now,” I croak.
She continues to eschew eye contact. “Yeah, it’s very popular in romance books nowadays.”
“Mmm” is all I can manage. And not an, oh-that’s-so-interesting-tell-me-more “mmm” but a please-stop-talking-or-my-dick-will-explode “mmm.”
I have two hours for this boner to deflate. And then I’ll have two months of trying to convince her, Hayes, and myself that I’ve never been more unattracted to a woman in my entire life.
10
HOME SWEET HOME
FAYE
When we pull into the driveway, anxiety sneaks into my heart, conducting a cacophony of beats. I know that Kit said the guys were excited to see me, but now that I’m here, my feet are cold.
The house is as beautiful as always, except this time, the browning stalks I remember from my trip in November have evolved into beautiful blooms painted in pastel colors, with lush foliage covering every last bare swatch of land. It’s so hot that I’m certain I could fry an egg on the sidewalk, and the balmy air isn’t helping, either. My skin can’t decide between sweating Pennsylvania out of me or cracking from the glaring dryness. I forgot how hot California is.
Kit insisted on carrying my luggage in for me—saving me the wheezing that usually accompanies any heavy lifting I do. I told him I could at least grab a bag, but as usual, he declined. So much fornotgetting treated like a princess.
I’m not sure what’s waiting for me on the other side of the door. Knowing Hayes, probably just a hug. Knowing the rest of the guys, possibly a welcome banner, balloons, and a confetti popper waiting to temporarily blow my eardrums out.
Here I go. This is it. Faye’s Super Awesome Fun Time Summer starts now.
Opening the door just a smidge, I hesitantly stick my foot over the threshold, mentally preparing myself for the social stimulation I’m about to undergo. But much to my surprise, when I get all the way inside, my hearing remains intact, and my social battery doesn’t drop to red, get-me-out-of-here territory.
No one is here. No decorations. No…nothing. The whole house is empty.
Huh. Maybe they’re all doing something? I have to admit, it’s kind of nice not to be the center of attention. It’s nice to just…move all my things in without having to entertain an audience. No questions. Just complete and utter silenc—
Kit bursts into the living room like a hotheaded bull, his bulging forearms lined with bags varying in size and weight, my two suitcases gripped in each of his unnaturally large hands. Every bag hits the floor simultaneously, and the collective noise reverberates through the empty living room, making me cringe.
“Eight bags,” he grits out, catching his breath. A trip like that would’ve destroyed me, but Kit is barely even sweating. His arms are red, though. And veiny.Very veiny.Have they always been that veiny?
“I offered to carry some of them.”
He ignores me as a rumble rips through his throat. “The guys said they’d be here.”
I dance my fingers along the back of the couch, reveling in the cooled atmosphere and the lack of UV rays trying to burn my skin. The house is huge, but it seems even bigger without hulking hockey players inhabiting every square inch.
“I’m sure they’re just busy. Honestly, it’s nice not to have a welcome party,” I say, channeling relief through a deep exhale. “I don’t want to be treated any differently.”
A low-key summer sounds pretty nice. For once, my usual state of anxiety has ebbed to a hardly noticeable hum.
Kit tangles his fingers in a shock of midnight hair. “I’m sorry. I swear I told them our ETA.”
He brandishes his phone and opens up the Find My Friends app, where tiny little icons are scattered across the map, far away from the house.
“Kit, it’s fine, really. I don’t expe—”
A rambunctious clamor comes from upstairs, ear-piercing and house-rocking to the point where I’m sure the whole block heard what sounded like a mini earthquake juggling the furniture. My blood freezes, my heart does eighty in a sixty, and sweat breaks out in places I didn’t even know I could sweat.
