Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)

by Christina Lauren

  The silence feels like it extends for miles, and in a surreal way it seems like the couch elongates between us, making me feel farther away from her the longer she’s quiet. I close my eyes, pushing through it. At some point one of us has to speak, and I swear it will not be me.

  Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly. “My dad’s been cheating on my mom since I was sixteen. It’s sort of an unspoken rule in my house that we never talk about it—even though everyone knows.”

  I’m initially horrified, but then . . . another piece of the London puzzle falls into place, and it feels like a tiny bomb has just gone off inside my chest. I think of my parents, the way they look at each other, and try to imagine how I would deal with it if I thought all of it was a lie. I can’t. “That’s . . . I’m sorry, Logan.”

  “I always told myself—and my mom when we’d argue—that I’d never put up with being treated like that.” A few beats of silence pass before she lets out a long breath and continues. “I’ve known Justin my whole life,” she says. “His mom and my mom are best friends, and we were always close . . . but we didn’t start dating until the summer before our senior year. He moved here with me from Colorado. I went to UCSD and he was at SDSU, even though his first choice was to go to Boulder. But I mean, San Diego has been my second home. I always knew I wanted to go to college out here, and I couldn’t wait to leave Denver.” She goes quiet for a few seconds, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think it was sort of like how things were with you and Mia, where you just assumed that you’d be together forever.” Looking over at me, she says, “Apparently, he met someone at the beginning of sophomore year and they were all but living together during the week. I found out because I walked in on them.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “Senior year. Right after my grandmother’s funeral. He said he had to work, but . . .”

  My stomach bottoms out and I let out a long exhale. “Holy fuck. Your senior year?”

  “Yeah. Almost three years he was cheating . . .” She trails off, shaking her head. I can’t even school my expression right now. My mouth is just gaping open. The fucking nerve of this prick.

  “And apparently they’re still together,” she says quietly. “Getting married, actually . . . so there’s that.”

  My reaction to all of this is to want to punch something. “What a bag of dicks.”

  She nods. “It’s taken me a really, really long time to stop feeling pissed off. Actually, I still feel pissed off about it. I think when I give my heart, I want to give everything. You make that decision, and it’s all or nothing, you know?”

  She winces when she says this, as if the admission is somehow embarrassing, and my chest is so tight that I’m not even sure how to respond. I want her everything. I want to pummel the asshole who made her feel her love was wasted.

  When she realizes I’m struggling to reply, she continues, voice brighter, “Anyway, after I came out of the initial miserable fog of humiliation and heartbreak, the only thing I felt I’d gained was a certainty that I’m a terrible judge of character.”

  “London,” I say. “You’re not.”

  “Oh, I am.” She smiles at me, and it’s so sweetly fragile that it cracks something in me. Pulling her hair up into a bun on top of her head, she holds it there in both hands. Fuck, it feels so good to talk to her about this. For as much as I’m enraged on her behalf, I’m elated to have her here, and just . . . talking to me in a way I feel she doesn’t with very many people, if anyone.

  “I mean,” she says, “I can pick out the obvious assholes. That’s what bartenders learn to do. But the smarter ones just might be better at hiding it. That’s what sucks the most, what I’m actually the angriest about: even if I like someone, I will never trust my judgment. Do you know how that feels? To have been so wrong that it feels like your people meter is just broken?”

  The weight of this entire conversation seems to hit me at once, and I slump back against the couch. “That’s significantly depressing,” I agree.

  She throws her hands in the air. “I know!”

  “It explains a lot about why you’re such a hot mess,” I tell her with a grin, wanting to make her smile again.

  “Same,” she says, nodding her chin to me.

  “Our relationship histories are totally depressing,” I say. “Tell me something funny.”

  She sighs, thinking. Finally, she says, “Vagina roughly translates to sword holder in Latin.”

  I turn to look at her. “It was named for the penis?”

  “This surprises you?” she asks, looking at me in shock. “Hello? Patriarchy.”

  “But even back in the day?” I say. “They spoke Latin. That means everyone knew that vagina meant sword holder. It wasn’t like now where most people don’t know that meaning. A woman would have to refer to her parts as her sword holder. ‘How’s the sword holder?’ ‘Alas, it’s pretty empty right now.’ ”

  “Her ‘parts’?” she repeats with an amused grin.

  “What?” I ask, smiling back at her. “You called it your ladybird.”

  “True.” She lets her head fall back against the couch again, groaning. “Now I’m all gross and sad thinking about Justin. I need sugar.”

  “Left side of sink, top cabinet.” She rolls her head to look at me, and I add, “It’s where I keep the treats.”

  “Bless you.” London pushes to stand and I stare at her ass as she walks away and into the kitchen. I hear her banging around in the cabinets, and then she yells, “Oh my God! Are you okay?”

  I sit up, worried. “Yeah, why?”

  “You have an open Pop-Tart package with a Pop-Tart in it.”

  I deflate in relief, get off the couch, and wander into the kitchen. “Yeah. I had one this morning.”

  Her mouth is agape when she turns to me, holding up the package and saying, “Who the hell has one Pop-Tart?”

  “I sense . . .” I lick my finger, holding it up in the air. “Yes, I sense mocking in your tone.”

  “I bet you’re one of those yokels who buys the Pop-Tart—sized Tupperware.”

  I narrow my eyes, slowly repeating, “ ‘Yokels’?”

  “Meaning not only do you not eat both Pop-Tarts like a real man,” she continues, ignoring me, “but you also need an airtight container because you won’t eat the other one within an hour.”

  I lean back against the counter, smiling at her.

  “I bet you don’t even like scotch,” she teases. “Do you have a real penis?”

  This makes me laugh and I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from pulling her close to me with a finger hooked through her belt loop.

  Tilting her head, she asks, “Do you order salads for lunch?”

  “You’ve seen me eat nachos,” I remind her.

  “Once. And they were vegetarian.”

  I open my mouth to argue but she cuts me off. “I can see it in your face! You usually order salads. With your dressing on the side!”

  This part isn’t actually true but I’m having too much fun watching her unravel to contradict her.

  She shakes the Pop-Tart wrapper. “I would eat this Pop-Tart to help you out, you know, to even up the asymmetry currently poisoning your box, but seeing as how there is only one, it’s a snack dilemma.”

  Nodding in understanding, I say, “You wouldn’t be satisfied with only one.”

  “Exactly.” She shoves it back in the box. “It’s like eating only half a banana.”

  I shiver. “Who eats an entire banana?”

  London stills, looking at me like I might have damaged my head. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Me,” I tell her emphatically. “By the last few bites it’s this awful”—I shudder—“intense banana flavor. It doesn’t matter how big the banana is, I can’t handle it.”

  “You’re weird.”

  I shrug, palms up. “Apparently. But see, I like to take my time with that one Pop-Tart.” She groans when she registers where I am going with this. “You, on the other han
d—”

  “Stop.”

  “—are welcome to have as many Pop-Tarts as you want when you’re here.”

  She pins me with a wary half smile and I watch as she fights it, finally giving in and letting the grin take over her entire mouth. My chest feels hot, pulse too fast. It’s like the anticipation before a match but infinitely better. Whatever it is, it makes me drunk on her. Being near her, making her smile makes me feel incredible. She can see it and I let her. I’m fucking drunk on this girl.

  Finally, exhaling a shaky breath, she smacks my chest. “You’re hopeless.”

  I grab her hand before she can pull it away, resting it on my chest. I know she can feel my heart pounding, and if what I’m watching happen with her pulse in her throat is any indication, her heart is beating just as hard.

  I smile, and watch as it softens something in her expression. “I think you’re right,” I tell her.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  London

  I ORDER ANOTHER CAPPUCCINO and weave through the small line to get back to my seat. Most of the staff here know me by name and don’t mind when I spend hours at my favorite table: the one near the outlet that actually works. They know I like one Sugar in the Raw in my coffee and that I’ll say I don’t want a blueberry muffin but usually end up ordering one anyway.

  I’m a creature of habit and have been coming to this particular shop as long as I can remember. Summers meant weekdays surfing and then relaxing at Nana’s house, and Sunday mornings at Pannikin. She’d have her chai latte and let me order a hot chocolate and we would do the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, which basically meant Nana would do it and I would people-watch.

  Even without her I’m unable to break the routine.

  It’s April and despite it being the standard seventy—two degrees outside, it’s freezing in the store. I settle back into my chair and pull the cardigan out of my bag, buttoning it up before turning back to my laptop.

  I blow into my coffee and look back to the screen, to the section of Lola’s site I’ve spent the last few hours coding. Her original designer had created a template full of neon colors and lots of animation, but I’ve dialed it back down to something a bit more subdued, a palette that will really let Lola’s art do the talking. Her images are geometric and bold, and practically jump off the screen. It’s strange that while I’ve been living around this art for the past eight months, I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated how insanely talented Lola is until now.

  The door opens and the air-conditioning kicks on directly over my head. I slink down into my sweater and pull my cup closer, hoping the warmth will seep into my fingers, when I hear my name.

  Well, sort of.

  “Logan?”

  DANGER, DANGER.

  I blink up to see Luke standing near the counter, and a rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins. His hair is messy and he’s dressed in a T-shirt and track pants, as if he’s just been for a run. Even a little sweaty—maybe because he looks a little sweaty?—he looks better than should be humanly possible. He pulls out his wallet to pay and my eyes drop automatically to the way the damp T-shirt clings to his shoulders and dips in at his waist, down to where his hip bones . . .

  The chair across from me scrapes against the floor and I snap my head up to meet his eyes: brown and clearly amused to have caught me ogling him. He sits across from me, drink already in front of him, arms resting on the table, and takes his time doing his own—rather blatant—inspection. I clear my throat.

  “You know it’s April, right?” he says, and motions to my clothes while he takes a sip from his iced drink.

  “It’s freezing in here,” I tell him, tugging my sleeves farther down over my hands. “It’s at least seventy outside. Why do they insist on the arctic temperatures in here? So I can model my finest winter fashions?”

  Luke shrugs and takes another drink before glancing at his phone and putting it away in his pocket. He stretches his neck side to side and then glances at the scarf around my neck.

  I wait for him to make one of his trademark unfiltered come-ons . . . but he doesn’t. It takes me a second to place my reaction as disappointment.

  But you’re the one who drew the “just friends” line, London.

  “Did you make sure they put skim in your drink?” I ask, recovering. “Wouldn’t want them to sneak whole milk in that drink and ruin the salad you had for lunch.”

  Luke aims his smile at me, ignoring my baiting snark.

  Again: disappointment.

  “So what are you doing there?” He taps a finger on the top of my laptop. “Googling cheat codes for Titanfall?”

  The twinkle in his eyes loosens an anxious knot in my chest.

  I take a sip of my own drink and set it back down again. “Working on Lola’s website. She was having some trouble with the guy she hired and I told her I’d fix it for her.”

  Luke stands and leans over the table to get a look at my screen. “You did that?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, moving over a little so he can see better. “Her art really does most of the work, I just wanted to build something around that. It’s just code and—”

  “I’m an idiot, and even I know it’s a lot harder than ‘just code,’ ” he says. “Logan, that’s a great fucking site. The guys in my office just paid someone a shitload of money to build theirs and it doesn’t look half as good as this.”

  I shrug and turn the screen back to me, returning to the dashboard and doing my best to look unaffected. Praise from Luke has done something strange to my insides. My stomach is warm and fluttery. I have to remind myself to keep my head down because I know this response will be written all over my face.

  “Logan,” he says this time, a bit more forcefully to get my attention.

  I blink up at him, hoping I can keep this overwhelming fondness tucked safely out of sight. “People pay a lot of money for work like this.”

  “Some do.”

  He looks at me with the most adorably confused smile. “Then why don’t you do more of this and serve fewer Heinekens to douchebags at the bar?”

  I tilt my head and consider him through narrowed eyes. “I don’t know if you really classify as a douchebag, per se . . .” I tell him.

  He looks mock-hurt. “Hey—I didn’t say I was a douchebag.”

  “Oh, my bad.” I look back down at the screen with an evil little smile.

  Under the table he stretches his legs out in front of him and brackets each of his feet against each of mine; the sides of our legs touch. “You’re avoiding my question.”

  I shrug, holding my shoulders up tight for a few breaths. “Because people want experience and a big portfolio to pay you big money. I’ve done Oliver’s site, and now Lola’s, but I don’t have a ton of experience outside of school.”

  He looks down at my laptop and back up again, meaningfully. “I’m no expert but you seem well on your way here,” he says. “Lola’s going to flip when she sees that.”

  I bite the insides of my cheek to keep my smile in check. “Hopefully.”

  “I still can’t believe everything that’s happening with her. The comic, a movie? I still remember her drawing dicks on the outside of all my notebooks.”

  I snort. “Yeah, you might want to see if you have any of those lying around because they could be worth something one day. I know I’m keeping the little panel she drew and taped to the fridge. It’s an angry cat calling me an ass for drinking the orange juice.”

  “You did all of this just today?” he asks.

  I nod and take another sip of my drink. “Yeah, surfed this morning but got here around nine.”

  He looks at his watch and I instinctively check the clock on my computer. Eleven eleven. I want to make a wish, but my breath catches in my throat at my first instinct to wish for something having to do with this guy across the table from me. Instead, I close my eyes and make a tiny wish for my web design business to take off someday soon.

  Looking back up at me, Luke
says, “So you’re saying you’ve been working for just over two hours doing the thing you went to school for—and which you’re actually really good at and could possibly make great money doing—and still managed to snag a few hours at the beach . . . interesting.”

  “Have you been talking to my mom?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, she and I talk most days.” He waves a casual hand in the air. “Usually just about how you never call, and how you should find a nice boy to bring home.”

  “That sounds exactly like my mom.”

  Luke’s phone makes a soft chime and I have to tamp down the pulse of irritation I still get whenever it goes off. He looks up, pocketing his phone obliviously. “Want to get some dinner later?”

  “Actually I have plans,” I tell him, closing my laptop and slipping it into my bag.

  His expression falls just the tiniest amount, making me wonder if I imagined it as his eyes flicker down to follow the movement of my hands as I wrap up my cord. “Plans?”

  “Fred has a date and I promised him I’d watch his granddaughter.”

  “Babysitting?” he asks. “How old is she?”

  “Five going on sixteen. She’s the cutest thing. Anyway, before I head over, I need to run home and shower, eat. You know.” I stand and loop my bag across my body before pushing in my chair. Luke stands and my heart takes off at the whiff of ocean and the faint clean smell of his sweat.

  Dinner with him sounds nice, though.

  Damnit.

  He reaches forward to untwist my strap on my shoulder. “All right.”

  We stand there, the question hanging between us. I can tell he’s not going to push . . . for once.

  “You wouldn’t want to babysit with me,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes. “I mean, you’d find that totally boring, right?”