This is bad.
Oh God, this is so bad.
What the fuck did I just do? Did I honestly just almost have sex with my sister’s fiancé? One floor below where she slept? What is wrong with me?
I’m a terrible, awful, wretched person.
Not to mention a horrible sister.
I mean, really, who even does that? Who kisses the man her sister is planning to marry?
The guilt wraps around me like a thick, scratchy blanket. It covers my head, tightens around my chest, suffocates me. It’s like being locked in a car in the blazing summer heat with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning turned off. No matter how hard you bang on the glass, the door won’t open. No matter how loud you shout, no one can hear you.
Lying in my bed, I hold a pillow over my face and open my mouth, prepared to unleash the ghastly sound into the soft fabric. But nothing comes out.
I can’t scream.
I can’t release the shame.
Because as dreadful as I feel about what I did, as wracked with guilt as my soul is right now, I don’t regret it. I can’t bring myself to regret it. It just felt too right.
If I had the chance to do it all over again, I know, without a doubt, that I would do it exactly the same.
That I wouldn’t take it back.
And that makes me feel infinitely worse.
I toss the pillow to the side and lie deathly still on my back, listening for creaks in the house. Signs that Grayson is still awake. That he’s just as restless and distraught as I am.
It’s been over an hour since he walked out of that kitchen. And as hard as I try, sleep just won’t come. My pulse is too erratic, too unpredictable. My body is alive. On fire. More awake and more energized than it’s been in a long time.
The playback of our brief yet mind-blowing encounter in the kitchen is broadcasting in HD inside my head. His arms around me, lowering me onto the cool marble countertop. The sultry bliss of his lips dancing with mine, his tongue searching my mouth, his palm running over my breasts.
No. Stop.
For heaven’s sake, Lia.
It’s wrong to even remember it. It’s wrong to crave it all over again.
And yet, it’s impossible to not.
The taste of Grayson Walker is more delectable than I ever imagined. His body pressing down on me was more intense than any of my fantasies. The weight of him made me feel safe. Like he was an impenetrable human shield guarding me from the world. From everything.
All these years, I’ve been lying here, in this very bedroom, dreaming about what it would be like to kiss him, to savor him, to be devoured by him. And as powerful as those desires were, as vivid as my imagination can be, it was like I was watching him in a grainy black and white movie on a tiny screen.
But being with him—really truly having him—is IMAX 3D.
The old floorboards let out a quiet groan and my heart flutters.
Is it him?
Is he awake?
God, what I would give to know I’m not alone in this agony.
I imagine Grayson growing tired of his insomnia, standing up, and pacing the length of Alex’s room. I picture him running his fingers through his thick caramel-colored hair, tugging at the ends, wanting so badly to burst through my door and tell me it wasn’t a mistake.
That he, too, would do it all over again.
But then reality starts to set in. The reality of being me. Of living for 22 years in the shadow of the beautiful, sexy, desirable Alex Smart. And my picture shatters into a thousand pieces.
He’s not awake.
He’s not thinking about what happened.
To me, it was the most amazing, erotic, memorable moment of my life. To him, it was probably just a momentary lapse in judgment. One that should never be repeated.
He felt bad for me, that was it.
I was having a pity party and he, being the nice, decent man he is, tried to save me.
Again.
Of course, that’s all it was.
I’m suddenly angry at myself for letting my imagination get carried away. For fantasizing, even for a second, that this could somehow mean something to him. Tomorrow morning he’ll probably pretend like nothing happened. We’ll share another awkward glance over the breakfast table and he’ll ask me to pass the biscuits and that will be all he says to me for the rest of their trip.
How could I be so stupid?
This is just the kind of thing I do. I spend the majority of my young adult life pining after someone I can’t have and then I go ahead and almost have sex with him on our kitchen counter. While my sister—his fiancée—is only one flight of stairs away.
Obviously I can never have him. Obviously we can never be together. So what, in God’s name, made me think that kissing him—that letting him undress me, caress me, explore me—would be a good idea?
That’s the problem.
I wasn’t thinking.
I’m never thinking.
That’s how I end up in all of these messes. It’s like I have a special place in my heart for hopeless drama.
Just like Danika said. My life is a reality show. And not the good, respectable kind. The ones that follow around fishermen and hard-working Americans. I’m talking about the trashy, low-budget, cable kind.
A light catches the corner of my eye and my head whips toward my nightstand.
My phone.
It’s lighting up.
I pull it from the dock and unlock it with a swipe of my fingertip, squinting against the brightness of the screen.
And soon as my vision adjusts, I see his name.
Grayson Walker.
He texted me.
My stomach rolls. I click the message, holding my breath as I read.
Grayson: Are you awake?
Oh God. He is awake. He didn’t just follow Alex up the stairs and collapse into bed without a second thought about what we did. He’s thinking about it.
Although, more than likely, he’s just feeling guilty. His conscience is nagging at him. And now he’s probably texting me to make the “pact.”
The one that all cheating couples make after an indiscretion.
A secret promise never to utter a word to anyone about what went down.
And it’s fine. Really. It’s the smart thing to do. Just acknowledge that it happened, swear to each other it didn’t mean anything, and move on with our lives. Nothing can come of this anyway, and I’m not out to hurt my sister or ruin her happiness.
She’s my sister. And I love her.
I blow out a gust of air and tap back a response.
Me: Yes.
He’s quick to reply.
Grayson: Are you okay?
No. I’m most certainly not okay. My biggest fantasy in the world just came true and instead of rejoicing, instead of reveling in the afterglow, I feel sick.
I feel stupid.
I feel young.
But of course, I don’t write any of this. I just write:
Me: Yes. You?
The wait is excruciating. And, in my opinion, longer than it should be. Two minutes pass and there’s still nothing. Did he fall asleep? Did my sister wake up and grab his phone?
No, I would know if that happened. I would, for sure, hear yelling.
So what on earth is taking him so long?
I tilt my ear toward the wall behind my head, listening for movement. Then I glance back at my screen, making sure my text went through. It did.
I practically shake the phone, willing it to light up again.
Finally, it does.
Grayson: No.
My breath catches in my throat.
No?
That’s all he has to say? After his tongue was flicking against my nipple. After his hands were clawing my body.
And now I have no idea how to respond. Should I press him for more information? Should I just leave it at that and try to go to sleep? Yeah, like that’s possible at this point.
Fortunately, I don’t have to decide. Another text pings through.
Grayson: I feel horrible about what happened.
There it is. The guilt. The mind-numbing, helpless hangover of a dreadful mistake. And now he’s asking me to make it stop. Begging me to toss down a “Get Out of Betrayal Free Card.”
Tell me it’s okay.
Tell me it didn’t mean anything.
Tell me it’ll never happen again so I can go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow with a clean conscience. So I can kiss Alex good morning and not feel like a fraud.
Bitterness rises up in me, threatening to consume me. To eat away at my flesh.
All the places where he touched me—where his fingers grazed my skin, setting it ablaze with fire and curiosity—are starting to grow cold. Like a massive cloud drifting over me, blocking my heat source, casting my entire body in a wintry, lonely shadow.
Fine.
If that’s what he wants—an acquittal—then that’s what I’ll give him.
With rigid, angry fingers, I tap out a reply.
Me: Don’t. Everything is fine. It didn’t mean anything.
Then I switch off my phone, toss it on the nightstand, and roll over, determined not to lose one more second of sleep over Grayson Walker.