I peer over at Cassidy and drop her hand. “You staying the night?”
A sleepover was Georgia’s plan. It’s a four-bedroom, providing plenty of room for everyone. Archer and I are crashing in our bedrooms, which leaves the master and guest bedroom.
Cassidy nods. “Sure am.”
“What are the sleeping arrangements?” I ask everyone.
Lola yawns, stretching out her arms. “Grace and I are crashing in the master.” She shoots a glance at Cassidy. “We can squeeze your tiny butt in there if you want?”
Cassidy laughs. “That might be a little too uncomfortable. I’ll take the couch. No biggie.”
“Eh, I’m taking the couch,” Finn says. “Silas and I flipped for the guest room, and I lost.”
“You can have my bed, Cassidy,” Silas offers. “I’ll crash on the floor.” He winks at her, sending a streak of jealousy through my blood.
“Nah, take my bed,” I interrupt. “It’s more comfortable than the guest bed, and I’ll crash on the floor.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Cassidy replies, biting into her lower lip—a lip that I now know the taste of.
For someone who’s talked plenty of shit about being in my bed, she sure seems shy about it now.
“The floor is comfortable,” I add. “I like sleeping on it.”
She rolls her eyes. “You are such a liar.”
“Punish me for my lying by taking my bed then.” I smile. “You know I’m the perfect gentleman.”
“Okay,” she dramatically groans. “But don’t say it’s my fault when you’re sore from sleeping on the floor.”
Chapter Ten
Cassidy
“Oh my God, you’re such a bullshitter,” I say, laughing when Lincoln drops down to pull out a bed from the couch in his bedroom.
He smirks. “What?”
“You were acting like such a gentleman, offering to give me your bed and sleep on the floor, when in actuality, you have a damn pullout bed.”
“Hey, I’m giving you my bed, aren’t I?” He places his hand over his heart. “I’d say that’s a damn good gentleman. I could be making you sleep on the pullout, which isn’t nearly as comfortable as my Tempur-Pedic.”
“I can take the pullout.” I hate inconveniencing people.
“No, you’ll take my bed.” He shakes his head. “There’s no changing my mind.”
Dropping my overnight bag onto the carpet, I size up his bedroom. “This is cute.”
It screams I played lacrosse, come from money, and haven’t been here since my high school years with its plaid wallpaper, black furniture, and blue bedding.
He raises a brow. “Cute?”
“Definitely an adolescent teen’s bedroom.”
He advances the few steps to the closet and gathers sheets and a blanket. “No judging. I didn’t stay here much growing up.” He stops, a flash of regret on his features, and scratches his scruffy cheek. “I didn’t spend much time with my family back then, so my mother didn’t bother renovating rooms that weren’t being used.”
“Why didn’t you hang out with your family?”
Even though my family could have a two-part special on Dr. Phil, we’re close. My mother held mandatory dinners, and I regularly came home from college on the weekends. My parents’ marriage might’ve been messy, but my mother made sure to build a strong support system within my siblings.
I stroll around the bedroom, as if I were in a museum, and inspect everything. Grabbing a framed photo, I hold it up. “Is this your dad?”
His face is unreadable as he nods and stares at the photo. “Yeah.”
I eye the man’s features. “He and Archer are spitting images of each other.”
“Yeah, they were nearly twins.”
Unlike Lincoln, Archer has broad shoulders, thick hair that reaches his neck, and a wide face. Lincoln is slimmer with short hair, and while they both sport facial hair, Lincoln’s is cleaner cut. The similarities between his father and him are limited. While Archer took after their father, Lincoln resembles more of his mother.
I gulp, setting the photo down, and snag another of him in a tuxedo. His arm is wrapped around a girl, who is sporting a frilly, gaudy-as-hell pink dress.
“Girlfriend?” I jerk my head toward the photo.
“Prom date.”
“Did you bang her?”
He cracks a smile. “None of your business.”
“Secrets don’t make friends, Callahan, and if I recall correctly, that’s what you keep saying we are. Friends. So … let a friend know.”
He shakes his head. “It was prom. I was a stupid teenager. So, yes.”
I love that he’s honest with me. After what happened with Quinton, honesty and trust are my biggest turn-ons. Quinton did a lot of fucked-up things to me, and the biggest takeaway from it was, trust is an important component of a relationship.
Well, behind not dating a criminal.
The next photo I pick up is of Lincoln in a lacrosse uniform.
Shocker.
“You were hot.” I smile. “I so would’ve dated you in high school.”
He stops in the middle of making up his bed and wrinkles his nose. “Only in high school?”
“Shut up.” I return the photo to the dresser. “You know I’d date you so hard right now. And don’t bother saying the same because I know if I were old, like you, you’d date me so hard.”
“But unfortunately, you’re too young for me.”
“And you’re too dumb for me for saying that.”
He winces. “Ouch.”
My chest tightens, but I’m strong enough to maintain a straight face. We’re joking, being good ole buddies, ole pals, but it pains me every time he mentions our age difference, when he calls me too young. It’s not like he’s Hugh Hefner and I just graduated from high school. Yes, there’s a slight age difference but nothing too out of the ordinary. Hell, Georgia is years behind Archer.
That heartache of the topic hits harder now that we’ve kissed. I had known kissing him would be exciting, but it was more than I’d expected. It was perfection. Never before had just a kiss dragged out emotions so strong, a need so heavy, a compulsion to want to have everything with a man. Him kissing me verifies he feels the same way, but in true Callahan boy fashion, he’s hiding.
Now, he’s acting as if it never happened. Since we’re in a house full of people and I’m not sure where the conversation would lead, I decide to save it for later. If he says the wrong thing, it’s not like I can storm out of here and leave. Walking home or asking Grace to leave in the middle of the night aren’t options.
There’s a time and a place to talk with the guy I’m falling for. A time and a place to bring up the kiss. My stomach sinks at the realization that he might think said kiss was a mistake.
Kneeling, I unzip my overnight bag and yank my pajamas from it before snagging my toothbrush. “I’m going to change and get ready for bed.”
He salutes me as I stroll into the adjoined bathroom. With a large glass shower and a blue rug, it doesn’t provide as much character as his bedroom does. Walking out in a silky camisole and plaid pants—I packed casually but still kept a hint of sexiness—I find Lincoln changed into a white tee and gray sweats. I blush, taking him in, before noticing the candy pile on the bed.
“What’s this?”
Lincoln glances up at me. “Movies and snacks until we crash out … until you crash out.”
And just like that, the tension over our kiss unbinds.
Temporarily washes itself out of my thoughts at him remembering our movie night.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” It’s hard to contain my happiness as I plop down on the bed, stomach first, and allow my feet to dangle off the end as I inspect the candy selection. “AirHeads, Starbursts, Nerds, Junior Mints. Jesus, you hooked a girl up.” Rolling over, I bring myself up and rest my back against the headboard. “You planned for this, didn’t you?”
“I might’ve made a pit stop on the way h
ere.” He snatches the pillow on the pullout and fluffs it out. “You’re my sidekick, remember? We gotta look out for each other.”
I cock my head to the side. “How’d you know I’d be in your bedroom?”
“That I had no idea. I figured we’d hang out in the living room, but this is better.”
“Oh, really? Why’s that?”
“No one can jack our snacks.”
“Good point.” I snatch the Nerds, open the box, and pour the mini candies into my mouth. “I’ve had alcohol, and now, I’m about to sugar binge. I’m either going to be up all night like a crackhead or crash out in twenty minutes. There’s no in-between.”
“Hmm …” He taps the side of his mouth. “What was it you said before? If I were with you, you’d stay up all night?”
Ugh, I hate when my words come back to bite me in the ass.
“Who said that?” I look from one side of the room to the other. “I don’t know who said that. You got the wrong girl, buddy.”
Marching toward me, he plucks the AirHeads box off the bed, opens it, and grabs a blue one. “I say, you put your candy where your mouth is.”
“What does that even mean?” I stare at him with raised brows.
“I have no idea actually. It sounded much better in my head.” He chomps off the end of the AirHeads.
“I sure hope so.”
He collapses next to me on the bed and stretches out his legs. “What are we watching tonight?”
“I chose last time.” I chew on my lower lip. “It’s your turn, but I have a few rules.”
“Rules suck, but throw them at me.”
“No unrealistic action movies. Otherwise, prepare to hear me bitch about how it’s not physically possible for a forty-year-old with a dad bod to beat up three ninjas and sixteen gun-bearing men and then get away with the millions in cash from jumping building to building in a Corvette.”
“Babe,” he groans. “Nearly all action movies are unrealistic.”
“I guess that means all action movies are vetoed.”
He chuckles and points at me with his wrapper. “I see what you did there.”
“What?” I shrug innocently.
He shakes his head and lounges next to me. My breathing stalls at us being so close in a bed while the touch of his lips still lingers on mine. He allows me to choose the movie, and this go-around, I choose a romantic comedy. We make ourselves comfortable, selecting our movie snacks, and watch the movie.
As I do, thoughts of our kiss return.
Thoughts of how broken his face was when he confessed what he’d been thinking about while sitting on the lake dock, his feet dangling where his father’s ashes had been spread. As we stood, as he warmed me up in his arms, there was a spark—a spark that had been heating me from the moment our eyes met—and I saw desire flicker through like a flame.
There was a connection unlike anything I’d shared with someone before.
Not much time passes before my eyes are heavy and I’m fighting to keep them open. We haven’t even hit midway through the movie before I cave in to sleep.
I talk a lot of shit for a girl who can’t stay awake for an entire movie.
I wake up in an unfamiliar bed with a familiar scent.
A scent I wish I could bottle up and keep forever.
Moaning as my body slides along the expensive, chilly sheets, I rise to find the room Lincoln-free.
No Lincoln, but plenty of memories of our kiss last night. My spine tingles at the recollection. I cast a glance at the pullout bed, wondering if he slept there or in bed with me. We could’ve slept together. Granted, there was no intimacy happening, but it was kind of a date, right?
Lincoln could have pulled a move on me last night. He could’ve kept kissing me, laid me down on the dock, and I would’ve been down for whatever he wanted. He could’ve brought me into his bedroom and put the moves on me. I would’ve gone down on him, ridden his cock, done anything he wanted. Coming from a sorority girl whose men consisted of frat guys, it’s what I’d expect from a sleepover with a guy.
But Lincoln isn’t just any guy.
He isn’t a stupid kid or a guy who only wants one thing from me.
He’s so much more.
And I’m terrified he’ll never want those things … because I do.
And it’s not just sex I want from him. I want his friendship … his heart … so that way, I can give him mine in return. I can trust Lincoln with my heart, just as he can trust me with his.
I slide out of bed, brush my teeth, wash my face, and am bunching my hair into a ponytail as I walk downstairs to where I hear commotion. Everyone is in the kitchen, the smell of bacon wafting in the air, and Silas is at the stove with multiple pans in front of him.
My stomach growls, pleading to balance the sugar I binged last night with a supplemental meal.
“Morning, sunshine!” Lincoln greets, and a trail of hellos and mornings follows from the group. “How’d you sleep?”
His smile is bright as he stands in the kitchen, his fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, wearing the same sweats he wore last night. Gray sweats are where it’s at, ladies. Don’t think I wasn’t looking in that waist area for a sneak peek of what Lincoln has to offer.
“Good,” I reply around a yawn.
“My bed is pretty damn comfortable, eh?” He winks.
I roll my eyes. “Joke’s on you though because I’ll be demanding to sleep there every time I’m here.”
“You two will be dating soon,” Lola states with a tone of certainty. “I doubt there will be an issue with you being in his bed.”
Lincoln swiftly looks away at her statement and stops our playful conversation.
If only I could read what’s dancing through his mind.
We eat breakfast—this is the moment I realize Silas is amazing in the kitchen—and drink the mimosas Georgia whipped up.
After hanging out for a few hours, the lake house starts clearing out. Those few hours, I got a different Lincoln from last night, from the one who had greeted me this morning. Lola’s comment had changed his attitude toward me, and even though he sat at my side as we ate, he didn’t mention the kiss. Nor does he as we say good-bye.
And so, I wait for the perfect time to bring it up … along with other questions.
Chapter Eleven
Lincoln
“You two are adorable,” Grace singsongs, answering the door in an Alice in Wonderland costume.
It’s two nights after Halloween, and she’s throwing a costume party with Georgia. Since Halloween is one of the busiest nights at Twisted Fox, we all had to work, so we’re celebrating now. What I’m learning from Archer and his friends is, they like to celebrate shit and party. They’re different parties than what I’m used to.
They have kid-friendly pool parties at Maliki’s, Cohen’s best friend.
Birthday dinners for each of them.
Barbecues at Cohen’s.
They’re tight-knit, who’s bringing what food parties.
“Look at you two, all matchy-matchy,” Georgia shouts, coming into view with a mixed drink in her hand. “I am obsessed with it.”
Georgia has to be the most supportive person I’ve ever met, everyone’s biggest cheerleader. I’ve never known a friendlier soul. A sarcastic-as-fuck but kind soul.
Had I not overheard her and Archer bickering earlier, her Bride of Chucky costume would’ve been a surprise. I nearly spat out my water when Archer appeared in the living room in his Chucky costume—complete with the spiky orange wig, striped shirt, and overalls that were a good three inches above his ankles. He put his foot down when it came to makeup, only allowing Georgia to make one face scar.
“It had to have been planned,” Grace says. “It’s adorable.”
“We didn’t plan it,” I argue.
“Um, we so planned it,” Cassidy corrects, bumping her hip into mine. “In fact, Georgia, it was all your future brother-in-law’s idea.”
Georgia’s face lights up at
Cassidy’s comment. Archer hasn’t popped the question yet, but everyone knows it’s coming. The other day, when I caught a ride with him, a jeweler’s card was in the cupholder. No doubt, he’ll have something custom-made and hit it out of the ballpark. He loves spoiling Georgia.
“Batman and Robin! Hell yes!” Finn calls out. “Or should I say, Batwoman and Robin?” He stomps our way in his Mad Hatter costume—one that matches Grace’s Alice costume.
The couple of costumes are a trend, I see.
One Cassidy and I also followed with our Batwoman and Robin getups. Last night, Cassidy instructed me to pick her up for the party and informed me she had my costume. I scoffed and stated I wasn’t wearing a costume, let alone allowing her to dress me up as some Ken doll.
When I arrived at her house tonight, she greeted me, wearing a black faux leather dress that landed inches above her knees and showcased her tanned legs. My mouth nearly dropped to the floor, and my dick hardened as I took in her thigh-high black boots that brought her closer to my height.
While I urged my dick to calm itself at the view of her, she shoved the Robin costume into my chest and directed me to the bathroom. Compared to her, I don’t look nearly as hot in my costume … in my goddamn tights.
Yep. She dressed me in fucking tights.
A green-and-red jumpsuit, complete with a foam utility belt and cape. The polyester is scratchy, and my nuts screamed at me when I shoved them into the jumpsuit. To top it off, my black mask won’t stop falling off the side of my face.
I look like a damn joke.
But Cassidy told me to do it, so I did.
Call it friendship-whipped.
“Hey!” Noah, Cohen’s son, shouts when we walk into the living room. He’s on the couch with a caramel apple on a plate sitting on his lap.
Next to him is a very pregnant, looking close to bursting, Jamie, dressed as Jessie the Yodeling Cowgirl—I know who this is because my cellie’s daughter was obsessed with Toy Story—and Cohen, dressed as Woody.
“I was Batman last year. This year, I’m Buzz Lightyear!” With carefulness, Noah settles his plate on the coffee table and jumps off the couch to show off his Buzz space suit—lifting one foot, then the other, and then spinning around fashion show–style.
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