Page 30 of The Worst Kind of Promise
Hayes freezes in his tracks, ponders me, then lets out a long groan. “Of course it was,” he mutters, shaking his curtain of blond hair, not bothering to move the fallen strands out of his eyes.
When in doubt, blame it on Kit. Always.
“Just promise me something.” His voice adopts a brotherly tone, one that I only hear him use when things are serious. Skin snow white and sweaty, pulse lost somewhere in purgatory, tension bunched in every muscle, I regard him.
Promises got me into this mess—the worst kind of promise too. Promise is a strong word, a commitment, something I’m not capable of right now. I can’t promise myself not to fall for Kit. I can’t promise Hayes whatever he’s about to ask; I can’t do anything.
My stomach burns with guilt. “What?”
“If at any time you want to go back home, you tell me, okay? If you just need to get away, or if the guys are too overbearing. All I ask is that you talk to me about how you’re feeling. I know how you can get when an environment is too overstimulating.”
I barely even register that Hayes has acquired the SPF 50. I don’t pull out the list and cross it off. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
“Yeah,” I lie, my feet fumbling for friction as the rug gets pulled from beneath me. “I promise.”
13
LET’S GET PHYSICAL! (WITH EACH OTHER)
FAYE
The house empty, Hayes’ words on the back burner of my mind, yoga mat stowed safely under my arm, I head to the living room in search for an escape. Yoga will get some blood flowing to my head, right? I just need some time to myself…to think. Every day, it’s like I’m getting closer to telling my brother the truth. Close, toeing the cusp, but never fully committing to sticking my foot in the deep end.
Kit and I haven’t really talked since the first night. Sometimes I’ll catch him glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking. Sometimes I’ll be the one watching, and he’ll catch me before I have the chance to turn away. If we brush past each other, there’s always some hand on some body part—whether it’s intentional or not. But despite all of this, we haven’t spent time alone together. My brain knows it’s for the best, but my desert-dry vagina protests. The only time I’m ever wet nowadays is when I’m in the shower. I need to channel this sexual frustration into something, otherwise I’ll fucking explode—little, sad pieces of Faye splattered on the walls.
The guys are at the rink right now, so I have the house to myself for the first time since I arrived. It’s nice. It’s peaceful. I don’t need to chant a calming mantra to myself to lower my blood pressure.
Or maybe I do, because when I round the corner to the living room, I run into a solid wall of muscle, making me practically spring back from the impact. There’s a hand on my arm as I blink back blurry constellations, and when I look down at whoever is gripping me, the corrosive touch makes so much more sense.
Kit’s large hand assaults my eyes, stark, blue-gray veins snaking over the ridge of his knuckles like vines. My mouth dries up when our gazes meet, my heart pumping wildly in my chest.
“You’re here,” I squeak, my yoga mat unfurling and dropping to the ground. “What are you doing here?”
So much for a Kit-free afternoon. I battle the anxiety cresting inside me, the close proximity of our bodies launching my lust into full throttle. He smells good. I mean, he always smells good, but something about a day’s worth of musk has a pulse throbbing down below—insatiable, insistent, inconvenient.
Kit’s megawatt grin showcases those pearly whites of his. “I live here.”
“I mean, why are you here? Why aren’t you with the guys?” I don’t mean to sound so brash, but this is really putting a kink in my plans. I can’t get anything done with a tempting, six-foot-five distraction like Kit.
He leans down to retrieve my mat. “I came to check on you. But I see you’re…busy?”
I snatch it from him with a lip curl. “I am, yes.” I march my way to the center of the room, sprawling out my little slice of paradise—a slice that he’s disturbed. He pads behind me, not bothering to keep a respectable distance between us.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, clicking the television on as I search for a quick YouTube yoga session. I didn’t think I’d be sweating this much. I haven’t even done any yoga yet.
“Oh, really? Then why haven’t you stopped to look me in the eyes?” he asks, the rugged rasp in his voice turning my core molten, each stretched and heavily played syllable a methodical endeavor to make me tick like a waiting time bomb.
To spite him, I flash him a glare that could put him six feet under. “I’m looking at you.”
“I didn’t know you did yoga.” His bourbon eyes give me a once-over, dropping to my tight-fitting leggings and crawling slowly up my body until he reaches the slight V of my cleavage.
“I do it when I’m stressed.”
“You’re stressed?” A frown weasels its way onto his lips, concern clouding his expression. His worry would be heartwarming if it wasn’t for the irritation prickling the back of my neck. He knows damn well why I’m stressed.
Squatting down to the mat, I start stretching my legs out to my sides, my tense muscles groaning, and I second-guess if I should switch my workout for a hot bubble bath instead. I haven’t done yoga in months, and if Kit’s going to sit on the sidelines and watch me, I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of him.
