Page 7 of The Worst Kind of Promise
She sighs. “I’ve been working through this by myself for a long time.”
Fuck the professionalism.
I take her hand in mine, interlocking our fingers, doing my best not to crush her bones in the process. “I hate that you’ve been carrying this all by yourself,” I confess, the words like ash on my tongue, sickening my palate.
I’m half-surprised she doesn’t pull away from me.
“Kit—”
If I wasn’t currently holding Faye’s hand or two thousand miles away from home, I’d be beating the ever-living life out of my punching bag. “I wish you would’ve told me, Faye. I wish I’d been there for you. You don’t have to do this all by yourself. You shouldn’t.”
“I’m used to it,” she insists, the gloss over her eyes barely there, but visible enough to make me want to dry her unfallen tears.
“You shouldn’t have had togetused to it,” I retort.
Sensing my poorly veiled anger, she withdraws her hand, exchanging the comfort to pluck her necklace—a nervous habit she’s seemingly perfected whenever I’m around. Her fingers twist aimlessly in the silver chain, so much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a line of discoloration around her throat.
The sight of her so helpless, so broken, barely hanging on by a thread…it’s a fucking sucker punch to my gut.
“Things like this happen, Kit. A lot of girls have to live with this.”
I’m not sure if that’s a poor attempt to get me to calm down, but it only riles me up more. Before I regret saying the wrong thing, I opt for a word vomit that I’m partially certain will have Faye running for the hills the first chance she gets.
“Come back with me to California. Just for the summer,” I say.
PROCEED WITH CAUTION
FAYE
Did those words come out of Kit Langley’s mouth? Did any words come out of my mouth?
I don’t think they did. In fact, I think I snorted. Like, a full-on pig snort.
“What?” I exclaim, feeling my heart leap into my throat.
His words, albeit straightforward, aren’t easy to digest. This is a serious proposition. Short-term commitment, even platonic, isn’t in Kit’s wheelhouse. If he invites a girl back to the house, it’s for one reason, and one reason only. Being in the same square footage as him for months…it doesn’t seem like a good idea.
What if I fall for him more than I already have? Not just head-over-heels, but head-over-body, tripping until I fall into a sad pretzel shape on the ground. What if I accidentally walk in on him showering? Yes, that scenario is hypothetical, but it’s not unlikely. I’m not strong enough to resist whatever freaky mojo the gods have blessed Kit with. He’s like catnip, and I desperately want to rub myself all over him.
I’ve seen the Hemsworth body Kit has, with an insane amount of abs and enough muscle to make him pop out of any normal shirt like dough from a Pillsbury can. And don’t get me started on his endless, droolworthy tattoos. Those renowned tiger eyes on his forearm have given him his hockey nickname of “Big Cat,” and his reputation definitely precedes him. He’s a force to be reckoned with on the ice, with skill, strategy, and strength that can’t be matched by any other player in the league.
I won’t physically be able to resist him. And I can pretty much hypothesize that I won’t be able to resist him emotionally, either. All this coddling…it’s not Kit. He’s never shown me this much compassion. I don’t think he’s ever shownanyonethis much compassion. I thought I would like it, but I don’t. I feel like he sees me as some problem he needs to fix.
Not to mention the fact that if I do agree to go with him, my brother will be curious as to why I’m really staying. I always let him know if I plan to visit him beforehand.
“Let me take you back to California. We can tell the guys that you got some time off work and wanted to come up and visit. You can stay in my room, and I’ll take the couch.”
This whole idea doesn’t even scream proceed with caution. It screams: TURN BACK NOW BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.
Unable to bring myself to outrightly reject his offer, I do the next best thing and try to dissuade him.
“Kit, this sounds ridiculous.” Exasperation slithers between each drawn-out syllable, and that schoolgirl part of me is wishing he’ll call my bluff, sweep me off my feet, and kiss me with enough passion to set off a Fourth of July fireworks show.
He doesn’t do any of the above. Just frowns.
God, even his frown is attractive. No matter how tightly he cinches his lips, that bottom one will forever be in a plump, protruding pout. It should be illegal to be this handsome.
“Why? We’re friends.”
