26. Renee

I don’t really know what I expected from Weston’s apartment, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Sutton’s place is feminine and lovely, a mixture of marble and glass with fur pillows and plush rugs, overstuffed furniture and tastefully tarnished mirrors. She has crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and fresh flower arrangements delivered every week.

Weston’s place is more like a sports car. Sleek. Glossy. Decorated with steel and glass and leather. His floors are black. His walls are dark gray with silver accents and moody art pieces over dark wood furniture. It’s like a caveman in a tuxedo Animoprhed into a penthouse.

For the first couple minutes after Hunter lets me in, Weston isn’t anywhere to be seen. But I can smell his cologne, so I know he’s not far.

I try not to breathe in deep. Not while Hunter is watching me, anyway. Last thing I need is him telling Weston that I was sniffing his air in great heaping lungfuls.

But the effort to breathe like a normal person isn’t that invisible, I guess. “You okay?” Hunter slides past me, handing me one of Weston’s beers as he sits beside me on the sofa.

“Uh, yeah. I’m good.”

That might be a slight exaggeration. I’m not quite “good.” I’m actually in a fight for my life here. Sweat rolling between my boobs, pulse doing a Travis Barker impression on the inside of my skull, and my bladder screaming for relief even though I literally just peed five minutes ago.

I fake a smile that comes out more like a grimace and stand. “Where’s the bedroom?” Oh, fuck. “I mean bathroom.”

He laughs. “Your inner stalker just went Freudian, huh?”

I shoot him a glare. “Where?”

“Right there. Have at it.”

In retrospect, I should definitely have known where to look. The floor plan is the same in both our places. I pinch my nose between my fingers and launch in on a silent mental pep talk about keeping my shit together as I stomp there.

I’m muttering under my breath, head down, as I push open the bathroom door…

And promptly freeze in my tracks.

Because Weston Scott is emerging from the shower. And when I say “emerging,” I mean he hasn’t yet gotten to the part where he wraps a towel around his waist.

So he’s dripping wet and naked as the day he was born.

My eyes bulge like a Looney Tunes character, full-on awoooga style. I’m pretty sure my tongue hits the floor.

He’s gorgeous. I hate the bastard, I despise his guts, but my God, even I can’t deny that he is just an absurdly stunning piece of man. His abs ripple, his arms gleam, his hair is slicked back with water and shining like it’s gilded.

And his dick… It’s a weapon of mass destruction.

More like weapon of ass destruction, cackles the evil Sutton voice in my head.

“Holy shit” slips out from between my lips. I didn’t mean to look at his dick, I really didn’t, but now, I can’t stop.

I take in one shuddering breath.

Then I take one more look because I’m not perfect.

Then I turn tail and bolt out of the bathroom. Turns out I don’t have to pee anymore.

Red-faced, I go back and sit on the sofa by Hunter. I stare straight ahead and don’t say a word. I don’t know if he knows exactly what happened, but he’s smirking like the cat that just ate the canary, so part of me thinks that he planned all this to perfection. Even if he didn’t, it’d be impossible to miss my abject mortification.

It’s even more obvious when a scowling Weston comes walking out of the bathroom, dressed, hair still wet, a droplet ready to fall off of one long curl at the back of his neck. I stare at it and wait for it to fall, but that damned thing is just hanging in there, waiting for me to flick it away, to touch it, to curl that lock around my finger.

Probably not one of my better ideas, all things considered. I tuck my hand under my thigh so it doesn’t get any ideas.

“How was your shower?” Hunter teases, grinning evilly.

I take a tentative sip of my beer. I’m about to offer up a meek “fine” when Weston answers first.

“Every stalker’s dream come true, I’d say.”

I quickly finish my beer. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come here. I most definitely should not have come here.

Chuckling to himself, Hunter flips on the TV, then immediately groans. “Ah, nuts. Game’s rained out.”

I glance out the window. It’s raining. I don’t know how I didn’t see it on my way over. “Oh. Well, bummer. Guess I should get going.”

I start to stand up, but Hunter reels me back down. “Sit your ass right there. We can watch soccer.”

Weston, now seated in an armchair and glaring at me with violence in his arms, finally speaks up. “What are you doing here, Renee?” he rasps.

“Oh, I’m…”

Hunter grins at his friend. “I invited her.”

“Did you send her into the bathroom, too?” Weston cocks his head and narrows his eyes. I’ve seen this look before. It’s the one that immediately precedes a Go fuck yourself.

“She had to pee.” Hunter shrugs. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You broke my bedroom shower and you didn’t call the repair guy.” Weston’s gaze narrows further. “You knew exactly where I was.”

“Musta slipped my mind. My bad.” Hunter shrugs again and goes back to drinking. “You like soccer, Renee? How ‘bout chips? Here, help yourself.”

“Oh, thanks.” I take a chip from the bowl he’s offering and nibble. “I know a little bit about soccer. My boyfriend—erm, ex-boyfriend—Felix, he loved it.” Which means I got to watch a lot of it. And be told about it ad nauseam. And have soccer parties. And wear soccer shirts. And hang out with lots of other sweaty drunk guys who genuinely enjoyed doing those activities. “So, yeah—I hate soccer.”

He laughs. “I don’t mind it. It’s?—”

Weston clears his throat. “Fuck soccer. It’s like hockey without all the good stuff. No sticks, no skates, no ice. And the goal is huge. You could drive a car into that thing. Anyone could score.”

I frown. “That means more area a soccer goalie has to protect. Takes skill.”

He rolls his eyes. “You ever shoot a hockey puck? It takes skill. Any kid with a good leg can kick a soccer ball past a goalie. Here’s a tip: just aim for the part he isn’t standing in.” He cocks a brow like he can’t wait for me to disagree so he can tear me to pieces.

“You should listen to him, Renee. Westy here is a super sniper.”

“That’s not a thing.”

Hunter cocks his head. “Well, maybe not. But he does have a gun and he knows how to use it.”

I stifle a groan and bury my head in my hands as Hunter cackles and Weston smolders silently in the corner.

Then my phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, ignore the call, then silence the ringer and shove it back out of sight.

“Is Miss Popular too cool to answer her phone?” Hunter teases.

I roll my eyes. “I am not, nor have I ever been, ‘Miss Popular.’”

“Oh, I doubt that,” he pshaws. “I bet teenage Renee was a heartthrob. Straight-up adorable.”

“Believe me, I was anything but adorable. My private school didn’t allow makeup. Hair had to be pulled back into a tight bun. Socks to our knees, shirts buttoned to the throat. We were Stepford students. Utterly sexless.”

“I bet you were gorgeous.” Hunter’s voice drops low. He’s another of those guys who knows how to use his gifts to make a girl swoon.

Fortunately, I’m immune to his brand of poison. “If braces, bucked teeth, and zits mean gorgeous, then yeah, I was the Kylie Jenner of Wilton Preparatory Academy.”

When I glance at Weston to make sure he’s still ignoring us—a mistake by all accounts, because he looks really good when he’s burning up with silent anger like this—I discover that unfortunately, he’s watching me.

I tear my gaze away quickly. Last thing I need is to be caught gawking at him.

But even as I glance back at Hunter, my skin heats up at Weston’s sheer proximity alone. I am torturing myself with the memory of his hands on my body while the pool water lapped against our skin and we were pressed as intimately together as a pair of lonely souls could be without him being inside of me.

I almost moan aloud. Instead, I take a long drink of the fresh beer in my hand and turn my attention back to the game.

“I’m not buying it.” Hunter shakes his head and leans back on the sofa. I can smell his cologne, and as nice as it is—cedar and bergamot, I think—it isn’t Weston’s.

But Weston’s is here. It’s in the couch, in the walls, in the air. So now, I’m sitting here with an unfortunate fantasy looping in my head over and over, going gaga for a kiss that never should’ve happened.

“Oh, I could show you pictures. I won’t, but I could.”

No way in hell am I showing either one of them anything from those days. That shit is dead and gone. Forever.

“Aw, don’t be lame. We all have that one picture in our past we wish would go away but is probably going to follow us to the death.”

I arch a brow. “You have an embarrassing photo?”

“Well, no, not me, per se. I photograph very well.”

I chuckle. “Who would’ve guessed?”

He gives a one-shoulder shrug, probably trying for humble, but missing by a few yards. “But Weston’s eighth grade yearbook picture looks a little more like Harry Potter than was cool at the time.” He looks at Weston, who flips him off. “He didn’t really grow into his ears until he was a senior in high school.”

They have history. That’s news to me. Not that I’m trying to do some sort of deep dive, but I’m curious. “How long have you guys known each other?”

“Since second grade.”

As I’m about to ask more questions, Weston pipes up. “Are we going to watch the game or are you two going to yap?”

Hunter leans in and stage-whispers, “He’s still touchy about the ears.” I hide a laugh behind clearing my throat but smile at Hunter, who shoots back a wink. “We’re watching the game, Your Highness, but if you’d rather we take our conversation elsewhere, we can go to Renee’s place.”

He nudges me with a conspiratorial elbow. No way in hell are we going to Sutton’s apartment, but I don’t mind letting Weston think it’s an option. Hunter seems to agree on the general gist of my plan: rile up Mr. Scott by any means necessary.

Weston shoots his best friend a glare, throws up his hands. “You can talk. Just not about me.”

Hunter laughs as he saunters to the kitchen to grab a fresh round of beers. “You’re the boss, Westy.” He hands me a bottle dripping with condensation. “Here you go, beautiful.”

He’s a little bit smarmy, a little bit high, and a little bit drunk. Not generally a combination I would find attractive, but he’s also fun and funny and nice to look at. And with Weston nearby, I’m not in danger. Although I have no idea why I know that or feel it so strongly.

One beer becomes two and two becomes three. I’m pleasantly buzzed, enough so that it doesn’t even bother me when my phone rings again.

Hunter cocks an eyebrow and I shrug. I don’t owe him an answer to his silent question. But he glances from the phone to me and back when it rings and the screen has SATAN’S MISTRESS—DO NOT ANSWERas the contact name.

“Stalker?” he inquires.

“Probably a secret boyfriend,” Weston interrupts dryly. He says it with this rude, condescending tone. Like he’s the only one who was left horny and wet in every possible way after our pool makeout session.

I shake my head. “It’s my dry cleaner,” I lie. “We’re arguing over a wine stain.”

Then I sit back and watch the game, trying not to watch Weston watch me.

But by halftime, Hunter is asleep beside me. I look at him, but when I look back at the TV, it’s not the TV I’m seeing.

It’s Weston.

He’s looming over me, huge and broody, with that ever-present sneer that makes me want to smack him and kiss him at the same time.

He takes my hand and yanks me up.

“What’s wrong with you?” I yelp.

“You,” he snarls right back. “You in my house. You on my couch. You drinking my beer and saying my name and trying your damndest to push all my buttons and piss me off, it’s all just—fuck.”

He rips the beer out of my hand and sets it down hard on the coffee table, enough for some to slosh out on the glass surface.

Then, to my surprise, he snakes a hand around my waist, reels me into him, and kisses me like his whole damn life depends on it.