“Is that why none of you did anything about that guy grabbing me on the dance floor?”
Mia winces. “Yeah, I might have told your other friends to stay back. God, Kendra, you should have seen the look on Weston’s face when that guy started dancing with you. Although, when the dude was dragging you toward the stairs, I was afraid I’d made a huge mistake. I thought Weston was going to murder him right there. He was scary as hell.”
That is not making me tingle. Not a bit. “Was he?”
“Oh my god,” Mia says. “You really don’t remember? He walked right over and stared that guy down like a freaking lion defending his pride. Get your hands off my girl. Are you kidding me? He didn’t say that for show. He wants you to be his.”
“That’s not the same as wanting a relationship with me,” I say.
“No,” Mia says, giving me a knowing look. “It’s better. Trust me.”
Before I can ask her what the hell that means, Alex comes into the kitchen. He levels Mia with a smoldering gaze and I quickly duck out of the kitchen before I have to be treated to an Alex-Mia makeout session. Wouldn’t be the first time.
In the other room, I find my dad in his recliner, Caleb and Weston sitting on the couch next to him. Weston looks completely relaxed, sitting back with one ankle crossed over his knee. I pause before they see me, and watch. He’s having a conversation with my father.
I shake my head a little, in case I’m seeing things, and come into the room.
“You ready?” Weston asks.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say. “Thanks again for dinner, Dad.”
He smiles at me. “Happy birthday, princess.”
Weston is already standing, holding my coat out so I can slip my arms through. He smiles at me and brushes my hair back from my face.
I say my goodbyes to everyone. Weston puts his hand on my back as we walk out to his car. The fact that he’s touching me like this is making me jumpy. It’s so familiar. So sweet.
Truth is, I really like it. Same with holding his hand. I love the way it feels when he touches me, even innocently like this.
He opens the car door and gives me that seductive smile again, his lips turning up slightly, his eyes intense.
I’m in so much trouble.
19
Weston
Kendra smiles at me from the passenger seat of my car. I fixate on her lips. I want them again. Kissing has never been an objective in and of itself for me. It feels good, but it’s usually a tool—a stepping stone to getting a woman naked so I can get what I really want. And I always back off on the kissing once I’m fucking her. It’s too personal. I don’t get personal.
But apparently now I’m doing a lot of things I didn’t do before. Things I was sure I didn’t need or care about.
When I kissed Kendra in the store yesterday, I thought that was it. I’d turned us down a new path, and it was going to end with her in my bed.
I was completely wrong.
She did kiss me back. Thoroughly, both in the store and back at home. The memory of our mouths crashing together is enough to get my dick twitching to life. It felt fucking amazing. I could have kissed her for hours, doing nothing but exploring her mouth with my tongue. But like a jackass, I went for her pants.
When she stopped me, I teetered on the edge of anger. A part of me wanted to lash out at her. But I didn’t. Hearing Kendra say she believes I’ll hurt her was like getting punched in the gut. It hurt, but not in a way that made me mad at her. It sucked hearing the truth.
I’m not an idiot. My track record with women speaks for itself. She knows how I am. One thing I’ve learned—the hard way, more than once—is that you can count on people to be who they are. And that’s who she thinks I am.
After Kendra walked away, I had a decision to make. Is that who I am? Am I going to chase random women for meaningless sex forever?
Caleb told me that Kendra isn’t a hookup girl. He was absolutely right. She’s not a quick fuck. And if I do want something with her, it has to be more than that. A lot more. It has to be something I’ve never tried before.
That’s why I agreed to go to dinner with her family. Truth be told, it was eerie to get that text from Alex earlier today. Just when I was mulling over how I’m going to approach this, an opportunity fell into my lap. I’m not sure what prompted him to invite me, and I didn’t ask. Whatever his motive, I was ready to take full advantage.
I have to show Kendra that I’m not in this to get laid. This is so far beyond wanting her body—although, hell yes, I do want it. But I want so much more. I want her.
This is uncharted territory. I could teach a class on how to pick up women and get them into bed. I’m a master at that. But dating? Making her my girlfriend? This is all new to me. It’s something I’ve never considered with any woman I’ve ever been with. And yeah, the idea scares me a little. I’m man enough to admit to that.
But every time I look at her, I feel her pulling at me like gravity.
I don’t have a plan. I’m running on pure instinct. Hold her hand? I can’t remember the last time I bothered with something so juvenile as hand holding. But in that moment, it felt like the right thing to do. And it was.
I’m not great with words. Talk is cheap and bullshit flies off the tongue too easily. I have to show her.
We park in her driveway and I walk her to the front door, my hand on the small of her back. I have my keys out, so she doesn’t reach for hers—but I don’t make a move to use them. I stand in front of her and step in close, then slip my hand around her waist. Before she can say a word, I lean down and place my lips against hers. She’s hesitant, but I slant my mouth over hers, caressing her lips. She responds, kissing me back, brushing my lips with the tip of her tongue.
I pull away and look her in the eyes.
“You said you weren’t going to kiss me,” she says.
“No, I said I wasn’t going to make out with you at the table in front of your family,” I say. “We’re not at the table anymore.”
She laughs softly and bites her lower lip. “So, why did you now?”
I shrug. “I thought a goodnight kiss was appropriate at the end of a first date—especially if the date went well.”
“Date?” she asks. “How was that our first date?”
“I took you to dinner.”
“No, you came with me to dinner with my family,” she says.
“I drove, so I took you.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “You didn’t even ask me out. My brother invited you.”
“Okay, I guess it didn’t start out as a date,” I say. “But I think it turned into one.”
“Hmm, I don’t know,” she says, and I smile at the hint of teasing in her voice. “I still don’t think it was our first date.”
“All right, tomorrow night will be,” I say. “And I’ll make sure you know it’s a date.”
“Do you always ask women out by telling them what they’re doing?”
“Kendra, I don’t ask women out on dates.” I reach for her again, sliding my hand around her waist, and pull her close. “But I will ask you. Would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow night?”
She blinks at me a few times, like she’s surprised. I wait, giving her time to think it through, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Okay, yes.”
“Good. How about eight?”
“Sure.”
I’d love to kiss her again—press her up against the door and devour her. I will, soon. I’m going to ravage every inch of her when the time comes.
But not tonight.
So I just smile and unlock the door, then hold it open for her.
I head toward my room, but pause just outside the hallway and glance at her. “Goodnight, Kendra.”
“Goodnight, Weston.”
Picking Kendra up for a date when we live in the same house isn’t exactly picking her up. But she comes out of her room around seven-thirty, looking positively stunning in a sleeveless black dress and re
d heels. A touch of makeup gives her face a subtle shimmer and her dark hair is loose around her shoulders.
I stop and stare at her for a moment. The messy-haired skinny girl in pajama pants is nowhere to be seen. I love her that way—it’s Kendra—but seeing her dressed up for me sends a ping of adrenaline rushing through my veins.
“Wow,” I say. “You look beautiful.”
She blushes and bites her lip. “Thanks. You look great too.”
I’m dressed in a cream button down shirt and dark jacket, no tie.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I help her with her coat—that’s a date thing, right?—and hold the front door open for her. We get in my car and as I head toward L’Oursin—the French restaurant I chose for tonight—there’s a spark of tension between us that’s never been there before. Anticipation. Whatever happens, everything is changing.
We get to the restaurant and the host seats us. The ambiance is perfect—soft light, a quiet hum of conversation. Each table feels secluded, like we’re in our own space.
I open the menu and feel a spark of panic. It’s all in French. I’ve been here before, and I’m positive it used to be in English. I don’t know a word of French, and I have no idea what to order.
Kendra peruses her menu and it isn’t long before the waitress arrives. We order wine—no French needed yet—and agree to the waitress’s suggestion for an appetizer.
“Can I take your orders now?” the waitress asks. “Or do you need more time?”
“I’m ready if you are,” Kendra says.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll have the poulet chasseur,” she says, the French words rolling right off her tongue.
“Excellent choice,” the waitress says. “And for you?”
I pick something I partially recognize and point. “This will be fine.”
“All right,” she says. “Filet mignon a la bordelaise. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you,” I say.
The waitress leaves and Kendra looks at me with one eyebrow arched. “You like filet mignon a la bordelaise?”
“I’m not sure, actually,” I say. “I’ve been here before, but I don’t remember what I ordered.”
“That has mushrooms,” she says. “You hate mushrooms.”
I stare at her for a moment. I don’t even care that I just ordered a very expensive dinner that I’m probably going to hate. I’m mesmerized by her. How does she remember things like that? How does she know me so well?
“What?” she asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “I have a feeling you know exactly what you ordered.”
She laughs. “Yeah, well, I speak French. I took it all through high school and I spent a semester living in Nice when I was in college. I’m out of practice, though.”
Kendra speaks French. Of course she does. Because there wasn’t enough about her that was impressive.
“Wow. I guess I should have just admitted I couldn’t read it.”
“For a second, I thought maybe you could and you were about to flirt with me in French,” she says.
I laugh. “I guess you’ll have to flirt with me in French.”
She regards me for a moment and smiles. “J’ai peur de tomber amoureuse de toi.”
It’s like music from her lips. “What does that mean?”
Her cheeks flush the slightest hint of pink and she glances away for a second. The waitress returns with our wine and pours.
“Thank you,” I say.
“This is a nice choice,” Kendra says after the waitress leaves. “I love French food.”
I’m curious about what she said, but I let it drop. “I’m glad you like it. I figured it should be special, since it’s your birthday.”
“I’ve kind of overdone it on my birthday this year,” she says. “I thought after last weekend, and dinner with the fam, I wouldn’t have much going on today.”
“I think this worked out well. Oh, I have something for you.” I pull an envelope from my inside pocket and hand it to her.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
She opens the envelope and pulls out a small card. “Elaia Spa, Wednesday at one o’clock?”
“I scheduled you a massage,” I say.
Her lips part and she stares at me, the card still clutched in her hand. “You did?”
“Yeah, I figured you work so much, and you’re always helping everyone else. You probably don’t relax enough. I was going to just get you a gift card, but this way you don’t even have to make the appointment. Just be there.”
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes glistening a little. “This is… I’m kind of speechless.”
I shrug. “I just wanted to do something nice for your birthday.”
“This is lovely,” she says.
We chat for a few more minutes while we wait for our food. The appetizer arrives and it’s delicious—mussels in a lemony cream sauce. A short time later, the waitress returns with our dinner and starts to put Kendra’s plate in front of her.
“Actually, he’s having this,” she says. “The other one is mine.”
“Are you sure?” the waitress asks.
“Yes, thank you,” Kendra says.
The waitress puts the plate in front of me, and the other one in front of Kendra. “Bon appetit.”
“Merci,” Kendra says.
I glance between our dinners. “Didn’t I order that one?”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “But I don’t think you’ll like it, and I like both dishes, so this works out.”
“Kendra, you don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I know.” She cuts a piece of steak and takes a bite, sliding the fork between her lips, as if to emphasize her point. “Mm. I don’t know what you have against mushrooms. This is delicious.”
I just shake my head and smile. What else can I do? She’s so much more than I deserve.
Dinner is excellent. We eat and talk and drink wine. We share a rich chocolate mousse and a pair of hazelnut truffles for dessert. Kendra tells me more about her semester in France. About college. She talks about her Dad’s back injury—the surgeries, the worry, his recovery. I like hearing her talk, so I keep asking questions. There’s so much I didn’t know about her. I want to know it all.
Our meal ends, and I drive us home. Kendra pauses outside the door and I crack a little smile.
“So, was this a kiss-worthy first date?” I ask. Despite my question, I step in close and kiss her, not waiting for her answer. She doesn’t hesitate this time, her lips soft and pliant against mine.
When we part, she takes a step back. “I know this is kind of unusual because we both live here. So there’s no do you want to come in for a drink stuff. We’re both going inside. And tonight was… it was so nice.”
“But?”
She takes a breath. “But I don’t think I’m ready for this to go further. I know this isn’t the same as a first date with someone you just met. But I never sleep with someone until at least the third date, and even that’s pushing it for me.” She pauses and glances away. “I’ve been burned too many times. I just—”
I put a finger to her lips. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, I know why you think I’m standing here assuming I’m about to get laid,” I say. “So all I can say is yes, it’s really fine. You look absolutely beautiful and I enjoyed having dinner with you.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Me too.”
I kiss her again. “Happy birthday.”
We head inside and I pull off my jacket while Kendra goes to her room.
“Hey, Kendra,” I call out.
Her voice carries through her half open door. “Yeah?”
“Change into those pajama pants and get your ass to the couch.” I unbutton my shirt as I walk down the hallway. “We have episodes to catch up on.”
I hear her laugh and a smile crosses my face. This is one of the top five weirdest
days of my adult life. I took a beautiful woman out to an expensive dinner with no expectation of sex. Not that I don’t want sex. I could fuck that woman in a hundred different ways tonight. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t happen, and I wasn’t lying when I said it was fine.
Now I’m about to sit on the couch with her and watch a show I’d have scoffed at someone else for watching. We’ll probably cuddle.
Weston Reid does not cuddle.
Except the thought of Kendra curled up beneath a blanket with her head on my arm is about the best thing I can imagine.
20
Kendra
Dating the man I’m living with is an interesting dynamic. In some ways, not much has changed. Weston goes to work. I work at home, help with Charlotte, get to the gym for some swimming.
In other ways, it’s completely different. He comes home and smiles, greeting me with kisses instead of a passing hello on the way to his room. We spend our weeknights snuggled up on the couch watching Netflix, or sitting with our feet tangled together while I work and he listens to an audiobook.
He’s respected my at least three dates rule. Not that it’s really a rule; and it’s not really about an exact number of dates. We aren’t two strangers who have only been out a couple of times. But he seems to understand that I need something more before I’m ready to take that step with him. Even Wednesday night, when we spend an hour making out on the couch, he eventually pulls away and says goodnight.
He doesn’t even try to cram in two more dates so he can get to the good stuff. We make plans to go out on Thursday after work, and technically that’s only date number two.
I get the strong feeling that everything he’s doing is thought-out and intentional. We don’t sit and have lengthy discussions about where this is going. But that’s not Weston. He isn’t telling me he wants a relationship—he’s showing me.
Thursday, he comes home after work and showers. I’m trying to finish up for the day, but I keep imagining him standing beneath the spray, water cascading down his naked body. He comes out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist, his dark hair tousled and wet, his muscles glistening. After giving me a little smirk, he walks to his room and shuts the door. I groan and lean my head back against the couch cushion.
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