“She’s dancing with Josh Fanning.”
“What? Why? He’s such a douche.”
“I guess she’s okay with dancing with a douche tonight.”
Rath pulls me into a hug and stumbles for a second before gaining his ground. “She left my sister all alone. That’s not cool.”
Beer spills from his breath and I wonder just how many drinks he must have had.
“I’m fine.” I pat his stomach. “Where’s your boyfriend?” I haven’t seen Bram since the incident. I meant to check up on him and his knuckles but was sidetracked with exams.
“Boyfriend?” His brow draws together. “I’m not gay.”
Yup, he’s really drunk. “I’m talking about Bram. You two are usually attached at the hip at these parties.”
“Oh”—he waves his hand toward the orgy room—“he’s over there with Lauren Conner I think. She’s been after him for a while.”
“Lauren Connor, why is her name familiar?”
“She’s the captain of the basketball team. Has the longest fucking legs ever. She was also the girl who volunteered to have body shots taken off her at the Thanksgiving party.”
“Ah, that’s how I know her. Everyone was chanting her name and clapping, Laur-en Con-nor.” I replicate the signature baseball clap that goes with chanting a player’s name.
“That’s the girl.” Rath sways again. “Man, I think I need some food. Do you want anything?”
“I’m good. I think I might call it a night soon. I’ve had half a beer and can’t seem to get into the spirit of partying.”
“But you just finished another grueling semester. You should let loose, sis.”
“Letting loose for me falls in the lines of a movie and ice cream in bed. I’m boring.”
“Nah”—Rath presses a kiss to my head—“you’re perfect. If you decide to leave, make sure you say bye to me first. I want to make sure I have a ride home for you.”
“Okay.” I give him a quick hug and don’t even bother arguing about the ride because that’s one thing he won’t drop. He’s very protective, and it’s one of the reasons why I love him so much. He’s always looking out for me, and surprisingly, I don’t feel smothered by it. I don’t have many girlfriends, but I do know that most girls don’t have this sort of relationship with their older brothers. He gives me confidence to be . . . me. Quirks and all.
I watch him breeze through the crowd and head to the kitchen in the back of the house, people high fiving him along the way. I’ll never be like him, so personable, so laid-back.
I know my strengths and weaknesses, and one of my biggest weaknesses is my inability to socialize. The only reason I come to these parties is because I love to people-watch. I blend in easily, fading into the background, so it’s easy to observe people. It comes in handy with my behavioral studies. Now if only I could go around and question with a pad and pen. Talk about a total buzzkill.
“Whatcha doin’ here all by yourself?”
I don’t even need to turn around to know Bram Scott is standing behind me. That confident voice has become one I recognize easily now.
I spin around to face him, his face full of scruff just like the rest of the guys in the fraternity—something about not shaving until after finals—and his lips turn up at the corners, his eyes giving me a once-over.
“I was just going to leave actually. Clarissa is dancing, and I’m not feeling the party scene.”
“No, you can’t leave.” He pulls me into his side and starts walking me through the house. “It’s the end of the semester, Jules, and that means you celebrate.”
“This isn’t my kind of celebrating.”
“Nah, you’re just not doing it right. Follow me.”
Bram guides me through the crowd of people and back to the kitchen where I find Rath with a sandwich in his hand and a beer in the other, talking to a girl who’s sitting next to him on the counter. I take in my brother’s body language, his smile, the way he so easily flirts with the girl. I wish I had a little bit of him in me rather than being this closed-off person all the time.
“This way.” Bram pulls on my hand, slipping his palm into mine, sending a thrill straight up my arm.
I’m so focused on the way his large hand eclipses mine that it isn’t until we’re sitting outside, next to a heat lamp that I realize he grabbed us a personal smorgasbord of food—drinks, a bag of chips, and a pack of cookies. We occupy two plastic chairs with a small log between us that serves as a side table. The noise from inside spills to the outdoors but is tamped down by the solid wood doors leading to the backyard. It’s peaceful.
“Here.” Bram hands me a small carton of milk—which makes me giggle—and pops open a pack of Chips Ahoy cookies and a bag of barbeque chips. “It’s not Mrs. Fields and Ruffles but it will do.” He holds out his carton of milk and says, “Cheers to another semester.”
I eye the milk in his hands. “You’re going to drink that? Haven’t you been drinking beer?”
He takes a large gulp. “Yeah, what’s your point?”
I make a gesturing circle around my belly. “Isn’t that going to swirl around with your beer?”
“I have a lead stomach, so I don’t need to worry.” He plops a cookie in his mouth and chews. “Go on, help yourself. Don’t be shy.”
I study him, unsure why we’re sitting outside together, having chips, cookies, and milk when minutes ago he was snuggling up with Lauren Connor, or at least that’s what Rath said. It almost feels icky.
“You know you don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?” he asks, the crunch of a chip working its way around in his mouth.
“Hang out with me because I was alone . . . because you feel sorry for me because of what happened last week.”
He pops another chip in his mouth. “I don’t feel sorry for you, so get that out of your head. And I know I don’t have to hang out with you. I choose to.” And then he’s quiet, his gaze looking out toward the wooded backyard. “Why do you come to these parties if you’re not into partying?”
I guess we won’t be talking about how he defended me, and from the look of it, his hands are okay. He most likely wants to drop it. Giving in, I finally grab a cookie and take a small bite. “Because Clarissa likes coming, and I like observing people.” I adjust my glasses and turn toward him, his gaze switched to taking me in. “Social settings can define a person and spell out their personality loudly and clearly. You have the entertainers, someone like you, who has it in their DNA to make sure everyone is having a good time. Then you have the followers, those who aren’t quite brave enough to lead but have no problem in showing their fun side. That would be Clarissa. And then there are the hermits, which would be me. The quiet people, the shy, the introverts. The people who wish they could be more like an entertainer but would never have the courage to do so.”
“You don’t want to be an entertainer,” Bram answers, taking a sip of his milk, his voice more serious than I’ve heard before. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes it’s just a show.”
“Is it tiring?”
He pushes his hand through his hair. “Yeah, it is.” He lulls his head to the side, taking me in. “It’s much more peaceful taking a second to breathe, to appreciate the small things like milk and cookies.”
“And I’m the kind of girl you share milk and cookies with?”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”
I shrug and take another bite of my cookie. “It’s not. I’m just a safe bet when it comes to milk and cookies, that’s all.”
“Does milk and cookies stand for something else I’m not getting?”
I shake my head and sigh. “No, but I think I’m going to get going.”
I go to move when Bram puts his hand on mine. “Wait, hang out for a bit. Unless you have a date or something.” He searches my eyes, trying to read me like I read him.
“No date, just wanting some peace.”
He motions to the dark night sky. �
��What’s more peaceful than this? Hang out with me, Jules.”
“It’s Julia,” I remind him for what seems like the millionth time.
He rolls his eyes. “You keep trying to correct me, but know I’m never going to change, so give it up.” Knowing his personality, he’s right; he’ll never change. He’s set in stone, he’s found his stride, and this is the man he’s going to be. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing, because even though there seems to be some pomp and circumstance that follows Bram, he’s a unique individual and being unique is important in a sea of followers. I used to only think of him as arrogant and cocky, but from observing him for a few months now, I’ve realized he simply knows who he is already. Most guys his age are still pushing boundaries, trying to impress everyone in their orbit. Bram just . . . does. Effortlessly. He’s intriguing.
He offers me another cookie, which I take a bite of. “You act like this is a chore for me, hanging out with you.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“No. I choose who I want and who I don’t want to hang out with. I don’t pity people, if that’s what you’re thinking, and I have zero obligations in spending time with you.”
“So you’re not here because I’m Rath’s sister?”
“No, Julia, I’m not.” The way he uses my full name, and the tone in his voice, sends a shiver down my spine. “Look”—he sits up in his seat and grows serious—“I’ve been doing some thinking and”—he shifts uncomfortably, looking almost nervous—“I like hanging out with you.”
“Really? Because we don’t really hang out.”
His jaw ticks and he lets out a short breath. “The times we have hung out together have been fun.”
“Buying tampons is fun for you?”
“Christ.” He drags his hand over his face. “Can you just be quiet for a second?”
“Okay,” I answer skeptically. What is happening right now? Why does he look like he’s about to throw up? For someone who wants to read people for a living, I’m having one hell of a time trying to pinpoint Bram’s mood right now.
“I just thought that maybe we could hang out more, you know? Just you and me.”
“Like . . . date?”
He pulls on the back of his neck and looks up at me from his turned-down head, a crease in his brow, those searing honest and interested eyes of his blazing through me. “Yeah, like date.”
“There you are.” A drunk woman with long legs wearing only a lacy red bra and shorts tumbles into our party-for-two setup. Her face looks familiar and then I scan her body and notice the belly button ring dangling at her tight stomach. I know that belly. As do many given how many shots were pulled off it.
Lauren Connor.
“Lauren, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” She bops Bram on the nose and then glances at me. “Who’s this?”
“Rath’s sister, now go back into the house and find Brian like I already told you to do.” Rath’s sister. Okay.
She whines, “But Brian isn’t as fun as you are.”
“Yeah, but Brian is going to do whatever you want, unlike me. Now go.”
“You’re no fun.” Looking like a petulant child, she stomps her foot and heads toward the house. That’s until she shimmies her way into the house and makes some obnoxious catcall.
Bram turns back toward me, an apologetic look on his face. “Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem.” I stand from my chair and straighten out my shirt. “I should go. Thanks for the cookies and milk.”
“Wait.” He stands abruptly and takes my hand in his. “What about the date?”
His warm palm heats me up, his pleading eyes hit me square in the chest with a wave of emotions I wasn’t expecting, and when he steps in closer, granting us almost zero space, my stomach flips.
“A date?” With me. Weird. Should I actually give this thought? This man is not in my league, that much is clear. He’s a natural leader, a protector, an intelligent and charismatic showman with a bright future awaiting him. Does he interest me? Vaguely, because how could a man like him not pique anyone’s interest. But with only one more semester here, and given how popular and in demand he is, why would he want to go on a date with me? It wouldn’t go anywhere. What just happened with Lauren would undoubtedly be repeated. Why waste his time? He’s Rath's best friend, and although I’m not confident in dating etiquette, I’m almost positive that’s a big no-no. I’m fairly sure I would be the biggest loser in this fantasy date, and it goes against my intelligence to intentionally commit myself to something that could be painful. A date?
“Yeah, a date,” he says, entwining my fingers with his.
“Umm.” I press my lips together, feeling a little odd about what I’m about to say. But he's not really serious, Julia, so this is okay. “I don’t think we should, but thanks for asking.” Awkwardly—because I’m really bad at this kind of stuff—I pat him on the hand and take off.
“Julia, wait.”
“Thanks for everything, Bram.” I give him a quick wave and then take off, blowing past Rath and heading right out the front door where I call a cab for myself.
Dating Bram Scott . . . so not a good idea. Not only would it be a bad decision because of Rath, but deep down I’m fairly certain dating me would be about crossing off the experience of hanging out with the introverted nerdy girl. He’s obviously never thought to do it before, but he’s inquisitive. It wasn’t nerves I saw in his expression, but probably more like caution. Should I or shouldn’t I suggest this bizarre idea to Julia? He would take his fill—as little as that would probably be in the few moments he gave it a go—and then be on his merry way to much more sensual and carnal pastures. Whereas for me, experiencing a moment of someone like Bram showing interest, well . . . he could easily crush my heart. So, I’ll fortify myself again against him. He is an amazing and unique man, but I won’t ever allow him into my heart, not if I wish to keep it intact.
Chapter Nineteen
JULIA
Is it bad to say I enjoy Friday nights where I’m hunkered down in my apartment, nothing on but an oversized T-shirt and socks, a pack of cookies open on my coffee table, a glass of milk next to it, and a romantic comedy playing on my TV?
Today’s feature brought to me by Netflix. Their new original movies have been making my little romantic heart happy.
I flip between watching To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before and The Kissing Booth, yes, both young adult movies, but it’s my favorite genre. So innocent, yet with overflowing hormones, the passion is intense, the kind of blind passion I’ve missed out on. The passion I’m feeling so jaded about in real life. What does he want from me? Is he only in this for sex? Is he going to break up with me after a few dates? Is he a serial killer posing as a decent guy who works in sales?
These are things you have to be aware of when you’re older.
Dating is hard enough as it is, let alone having to look out for all the creepers trying to trap you in their love den. It’s one of the main reasons I created my dating program, for those who are truly and honestly serious about finding love.
Now if only could find some for myself.
I sigh and snuggle under a blanket, choosing The Kissing Booth. Friday night movie night became the ritual when I stopped going to college parties. Besides the times when I have actually dated someone, I haven’t broken tradition. Suffice to say, none of my dates have ever wanted to hang out here and watch movies.
But that’s okay, because movie time is me time, and we should always have some—
Knock, knock.
Who the hell is that?
I glance toward the door.
I didn’t order any food and I’m not close enough with my neighbors where they would want to borrow a cup of sugar.
Could it be Rath? Maybe Clarissa? Anita?
Cautiously I pause the opening credits of the movie and make my way to the door, tiptoeing my approach, but thanks to the old New York apartment flooring
, I’m easily detected. Using the peephole, I close one eye and look through it.
What the heck?
What is he doing here? And why is his head tilted down as if unsure of himself while his hands grip the walls?
Straightening, I take a second, pulling away from the peephole, only to return, gathering one more look, my eyes blinking rapidly. Why is Bram standing outside my apartment right now when he’s supposed to be on a date?
If he screwed this up, I’m going to kill him.
I open the door and stare Bram down. “Bram.” I give him a once-over, taking in the outfit I picked out. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t move, just stares at me, his chest heaving, his forearms flexing from the strong grip he has on the doorframe, and when I look into his enchanting eyes, they seem darker, menacing almost.
What the hell is wrong?
Carly is lovely, so there shouldn’t have been another dragon-lady incident. My face blanches in embarrassment. How could I have failed him again?
“Are you—?”
He sweeps into my apartment, shuts the door with his foot, and then spins me around, pinning me against the wall.
Oompf.
What the hell?
In shock, I stare at him. His hand is on my waist, and the other hand is right next to my head pressing against the wall, trapping me. His eyes narrow, his breathing is labored, his lips wet from his tongue. The electric heat flowing off him, consuming, just as much as his cologne and the feel of his strong body mere inches from mine. A whisper of a breath floats between our bodies, the scrape of his jeans barely grazes my soft, bare thighs, and the leather of his shoes cradle the side of my feet.
Captured.
Cornered.
Ambushed.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask nervously, my breath catching in my chest, my nerves skyrocketing to an all-time high.
I search his eyes, looking for any kind of uncertainty, any kind of tell that maybe he’s making a mistake, but I see no regret, no confusion. No glassy-eyed look despite the smell of alcohol on his breath.
The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister Page 17