Julian
IT’S FRIDAY AT last, and tomorrow is a unicorn: a Saturday without any commitments. Sure, that could change at any moment, but I’m at least looking forward to the possibility of enjoying a rare day off.
The unit is dark when I enter it. To make sure I’m alone, I sweep through each room, ending my house check at Ashley’s open door. I poke my head inside and find a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere. Makeup brushes and lids peppering the dresser. And a bright white bath towel on the floor. Someone was in a hurry this evening, but where did she go?
We haven’t seen much of each other this week, and I have no idea whether she’s due to travel for work soon. She should have left a note or texted me to let me know where she would be. There’s no need for us to keep tabs on each other, of course, but she doesn’t know LA well, and I’d hate for her to be out alone at night. Dammit, my mother has invaded my body, and it’s not cool. Get a grip, Julian. She’s a grown woman, and she can take care of herself.
After showering and reheating leftovers, I sink into the couch with my plate in my hands and a beer on the side table. I’m five minutes into the local news when Ash gets home—and my jaw drops.
Ashley’s like a little sister to me.
Ashley’s like a little sister to me.
Ashley’s like a little sister to me.
Nope. She’s not. At all.
That explains why the curvy outline of her body taunts me. Why I’m entranced by the way her flowery skirt swishes around her firm thighs as she walks. Why I want to be the silk tank top skimming her body and softly draping over her full breasts. I want. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the feeling. Pure, unadulterated want.
“Hey, there!” she says in a cheery tone. “Looks like you’re in full relaxation mode.”
My gaze travels with her to the fridge, where she pulls out a beer bottle. She grabs the opener off the counter and makes quick work of the cap.
“Fun night?” I ask.
She drops her shoulders and pouts. “It sucked.” Then she tosses her head back and takes a long sip. When she’s done, she says, “The guy couldn’t stop talking about himself. I don’t even think he asked me a single question. And he wore yellow socks with naked boobs on them, the Neanderthal. Let’s mark this day as the last time I let a coworker set me up.” She plods across the room and plonks down next to me. “Why is dating so hard?”
Ever experience a moment when you wonder whether you’ve awoken from a monthlong cryogenic sleep? Yeah. That. Because . . . Ashley’s dating? Since Tuesday? And I’m supposed to act like this is an expected turn of events?
But it is, my inner rational person says. She can do whatever she wants, and apparently what she wants is to date. So why the fuck am I unhappy about it? No, I should just be supportive here. “It’s like going trick-or-treating, that’s why.”
She shifts sideways and frowns at me. “Trick-or-treating? Explain.”
I turn my body to face her and wedge a pillow between us—for comfort. “Okay, do you remember when you went trick-or-treating as a kid? You were excited about it. Talked about it for days. Planned your costume, your walking route. Got so excited about the candy you’d get to eat.”
She waves her hands around in frustration. “Yeah, yeah. I remember all that. But how does that relate to dating?”
“Well, when you went out, you didn’t know what you’d get. Some neighbors gave you crappy treats. Tons of Whoppers or Tootsie Rolls. The stuff no one would trade other candy for. That’s your Neanderthal with the boob socks, right there. And you learned not to go to those houses in later years, right? But first you have to get the Whoppers or Tootsie Rolls or whatever before you scratch that house off your list.”
She puts a hand over her mouth and laughs, and then she wiggles her butt into the sofa cushion, settling into a more comfortable position. “This is fascinating. Do go on.”
“Okay, then there were the sickening neighbors who didn’t even give you treats. They gave you a fucking trick. I mean, what the hell? Yeah, you know it’s a possibility, a risk of jumping in the trick-or-treating pool, you might say, but no kid wants a trick rather than a treat. A trick and a treat, yes, but a trick instead of a treat, hell no. So those folks, those are your cheaters, and they’re the worst of the worst, but yeah, they’re out there, and all they want to do is steal your joy.”
Her gaze clouds. “I hate those fuckers so much.”
“And then there are those neighbors who lure you in. They give you treats every year, but one year, after they’ve lulled you into a false sense of security, you turn around to walk down the front steps and they trick you. You feel so betrayed, right?”
She nods enthusiastically. “Right, right. It’s like a sucker punch.”
“But then there are the houses that give you the primo candy. The Kit Kats, the M&M’s, the Twizzlers.”
She leans over and slaps the pillow between us. “I love Twizzlers.”
“You might even get lucky and get the king-sized versions of your favorite candies.”
She wriggles her eyebrows. “Oooh, I love the king-sized versions.”
Of course Ash would go there. I draw back and wag my finger at her. “I think you’re distorting my analogy. Anyway, the thing about those primo houses is that everyone knows they’re a sure thing, so everyone rushes to those houses, and they end up running out of candy. So the key is to get to them first. Otherwise you might never get the candy you crave. Instead, you’ll be stuck with a jar of candy corn or worse, a granola bar.”
She pretends to shudder in disgust. “Granola bars make me sad.”
“So yeah. It’s not easy to date, but if you approach it with the right strategy and rely on what you learn from your experiences, you’ll eventually get the Twizzlers you want.”
She stares at me, her eyes unblinking. “Wow. Just wow. That actually makes sense, in a warped, not-everything-lines-up-logically kind of way.” She nudges my shoulder. “You’re a witty guy, Mr. Hart.”
Jesus. Did she think I had no sense of humor? I lean my forearms on my thighs and study my bare feet. I can be witty. When I’m around the right people. And apparently, she’s one of them. “Yes, well, I’ve probably maxed out my charm credits, so I’m going to be dry and humorless for the remainder of the year.”
She reaches over and sets her hand on my wrist. From this vantage, her whiskey-colored eyes dominate my mental picture frame. My heart pounds, a steady drum in my chest.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“For what?”
“For helping me put that terrible date in perspective.”
“You’re welcome.”
My voice is low and gruff, too many days’ worth of want and frustration packed into my consonants and vowels. I shake out my hands and stretch my neck to ease the tightness in my muscles.
She throws her head back against the sofa and puffs her cheeks out. “I just want to enjoy someone’s company, you know? Go to a nice restaurant from time to time. The movies. Have decent conversation.”
“You could do all that with me.”
With the back of her head still resting against the couch, she turns her head toward me. “Sex, Julian. I’d like to have sex, too.” It comes out as a growl, as though she’s rabid with the injustice of it all. “And not in fifteen-minute increments, either, because you’re too busy to fit me into your schedule.”
Ouch. I’m not a fifteen-minute man under any circumstances. To me, thirty minutes is a quickie. But pleading my case would be crude and pointless. “Can’t help you there.”
“Won’t.”
“Excuse me?”
She raises her head, and we stare at each other. “There’s no physical impediment to us having sex.” Her gaze dips to the area between my thighs. “That I know of.”
I swallow hard. She wants me. I want her. But taking that irreversible step is far from simple. “No physical barrier, at least.”
She sighs. “You know what? Never mind. I’m not entitled to sex with you, and I’m being an ass right now. Can we talk about something else?”
That’s an excellent idea, because there’s nothing more torturous than talking about fucking with a person you want to fuck but won’t. “Do you remember when your cousin Lydia put your training bra over her sweater and teased you about being flat-chested?”
I shut my eyes and cringe. Nice going, Julian. Mention an embarrassing moment from her childhood. That’s sure to break the tension.
She grimaces as she trots down memory lane. “God, Lydia was such a snot. I think she studied every mean-girl cliché she saw in a movie and tried to emulate each one.” She squints at me, smiles triumphantly, and presses her luscious tits together. “Meet Last and Laugh. They’re quite a pair.”
I gulp, my throat dry and scratchy. No, no, no, no. Do not look at them, Julian. Don’t do it.
While I’m focused on not looking, she snaps her eyebrows together. “And what in the world made you think of Lydia?”
“You’ll see her at the family reunion in less than two weeks.”
“Not if I can help it.”
I draw back. “You’re not going?”
The exasperation in her expression intensifies. “Of course I’m going. I wouldn’t miss my brother’s wedding for the world.” Then she widens her eyes and winces. “Dammit.”
I sit up. “Hang on. The reunion is a wedding?”
She drops her head to her chest. “They’re going to kill me.”
“Carter didn’t want me to know?”
“They wanted it to be a surprise for pretty much everyone except their immediate families.”
Her comment pricks my skin like a stick jabbing a tender wound. Right. I’m not immediate family. “Oh.”
She raises her head, her gaze soft and earnest. “Julian, whatever you’re thinking, don’t. Carter didn’t tell you because he wanted you to have plausible deniability with colleagues and industry folks. He didn’t want to put the pressure on you to keep this quiet.”
That passes the sniff test, I guess. But I can’t imagine how they expect to pull this off. “So everyone’s going to show up and they’ll say what? ‘Surprise, we’re getting married’? Is that how this is supposed to work?”
“No, they’re actually planning reunion activities. Football, a cookout, a trip to the spa. The closing brunch will be the wedding. The hope is that the paparazzi will believe it’s a reunion, get what they think they need, and leave town before the wedding day.”
Makes sense to me. Most paparazzi can’t afford to pay out of pocket and follow any one celebrity for long anyway. Still, I can’t help thinking that People magazine would be all over photos of Carter and Tori’s wedding. The publicity could be tremendous. As Carter’s friend, however, I understand why they’d want to avoid the circus. “It’s a great idea, and wild as fuck.”
Her eyes flicker with excitement. “I thought the same thing. And if any two people can pull this off, it’ll be them.”
“So how are you going to avoid Lydia?”
Everyone in the family knows Ashley and Lydia will never be best friends.
“Easy. I’ll show up for”—she makes air quotes—“ ‘the closing brunch.’ I’ll slip in and out and avoid Lydia or any of the other small-minded people who tortured me during my misspent youth.”
“But what about everything else? Football, the cookout. Your parents, Carter, Kimberly. Everyone will want you there.”
“There’ll be so much going on that they won’t even realize I’m not around. Besides, if I get there any earlier, I’ll be forced to talk to Lydia and the rest of my catty relatives. I don’t want to be a distraction, and if I see any of those people, I don’t think I’ll be able to be civil.”
Over the years, Ashley’s made a few comments about the shitty behavior of people in Harmon. I’ve taken them as snide observations about a place too small for her personality. But her reluctance to spend more than a single day in Harmon and her remark about being “tortured” make me pause. I’d already graduated from Weston when Ashley started high school, so my knowledge of that period in her life is incomplete. “What did the people in Harmon do, Ashley?”
Her face hardens, and her body tenses as though she’s steeling herself for the impending effect of her memories. “No one pulled my hair or took my stuff or anything like that. They just . . . said mean things about me. The common theme was that I was a slut, for being with one boy with loose lips. And when Carter left for LA, the joke around town was that I’d follow him after high school . . . and spend all of my time on the casting couch, doing what I do best.”
“This was high school? Shit. What dicks. People like that don’t know you, and they don’t deserve to. And they were jealous, of course.”
She shrugs. “Of Carter, maybe. And they took it out on me.”
“Look at you now, though. They’ll eat their words.”
She cocks her head at me and snorts. “I’m a flight attendant, Julian. I’ll be walking into the mile-high club jokes as soon as I arrive.”
“Oh, c’mon. Lydia’s older. Everyone’s older. They have to be over it by now.”
“You’d think so. But no. I went home for the holidays last year, and although I didn’t see Lydia, I did see the others. They’re less obvious about it . . . because, Carter. Still, the undercurrent of pettiness is there, and for obvious reasons I can’t avoid Lydia this time. Oh, and she just broke up with her boyfriend. Mom says she’s been a bear lately. And I’m sure she’s still holding on to her crush for you.”
I cock my head back. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she says with a bored expression. “She was miffed that you were the one boy who wouldn’t give her the time of day. You didn’t know?”
“She was a little girl. I wouldn’t have paid attention to her even if she’d been the only person in town, and she wasn’t.”
“You never noticed how Lydia always appeared at our house when you were stuck at Weston during a school break?” She slaps her hand on the sofa cushion when I stare at her blankly. “Oh my God, Julian, I suffered through sleepovers with her when you were around. Only then did she pretend to be my friend.”
“I had no clue.”
“Well, I don’t think she’s going to let you remain clueless when she sees you for the reunion. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. If she’s preoccupied with you, I might be able to suffer through her presence when I’m there.” She arches her back and yawns.
Don’t stare, Julian. Don’t you fucking do it.
She stands and pats my thigh. “Don’t look so traumatized. You’ll have a great time.” Stretching enough to expose her midriff, she yawns. “I’m headed to bed. Thanks again for cheering me up.”
“Good night,” I say.
“Sweet dreams,” she says as she shuffles away.
I make a valiant effort not to study her smooth calves, but I fail. Everything about her—her left-of-center smile, the rasp in her voice, the way she moves, our easy conversations—draws me in and slows me down. Makes me want to dive in and swim in her.
After she disappears down the hall, I collapse against the sofa cushion, exhausted by the strain of not giving in to our attraction. The prospect of spending four days in Harmon and interacting with Lydia has no appeal, but I’ll do it for Carter and Tori. And if Ashley chooses to swoop in and stay for only a day, that’s probably for the best anyway. We’re managing being in close quarters largely because one of us usually is gone. But if we spend a significant amount of time together, while I’m on vacation no less, I’ll do something stupid. No question about it.