Promise Me

by Robin Bielman, Samanthe Beck

  “I can drive you both,” I offer, because I hate the idea of Kendall slipping away from me with all the unanswered questions like a roadblock between us. All I know for sure is she’s definitely not sticking around. They may not be the closest siblings on the planet, but she’s not staying while Amber heads off on her own, looking like death.

  “No.”

  The word comes out in stereo from both sisters, loud enough to be heard over the purr of Sally’s Jaguar pulling to the curb.

  Amber offers a wobbly smile. “I know it’s only a couple miles, but I don’t know if my stomach’s going to cooperate for the entire drive. I really, really don’t want to be the girl who throws up in front of Vaughn Shaughnessy.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first—”

  “I’ll drive us home,” Kendall insists. She’s in guardian angel mode as she walks to the driver’s side and holds out a tip for the valet. But this time it’s her sister she’s looking after.

  I help Amber into the passenger seat, close the door, and then lean in the lowered window. “Feel better soon.”

  “I will,” she promises.

  I glance over at Kendall. “Good night.”

  “’Night,” she says around a small, apologetic smile before pulling away.

  I stand there, rooted to my spot, watching the car’s taillights disappear into the stream of traffic on Sunset. I’m not sure what just happened between us, but one thing is crystal clear. Kendall’s not playing hard to get.

  She is hard to get.

  Chapter Nine

  Kendall

  “Ohmigod! This is excellent,” Brit says, her face filling the screen of my phone. “I’m proud of you, K. Last time we talked I wasn’t sure you’d put yourself out there.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I tell her, more confused than ever about Vaughn. Sunlight streams into the kitchen. Flour, butter, sugar, blueberries, and my secret crumbly topping make a mess of the counter.

  “What you’re doing is moving on, and the next time Vaughn touches your face or slides his fingertips anywhere on you, you’re going to kiss the bejesus out of him. Got it?”

  “It’s not that—”

  “Easy? Yes it is.” Her argument is easier to swallow with the compassion in her big brown eyes. “You’re single, K. He’s single. There is no reason not to have a summer fling. Take it from an expert, he is into you.” Her eyes soften even more. “It’s time you let yourself off the hook for what happened with Mason.”

  She’s been telling me this for years, but no one can absolve me but me. Memories and feelings, good and bad, are a powerful bitch to deal with.

  I continue to plate the blueberry muffins I baked this morning when I couldn’t sleep, caught up in thoughts of Vaughn’s hands on me.

  I want them on me again.

  Everywhere. My body is on fire just thinking about him holding my waist while we danced. Goosebumps rise on my skin when I relive the sensation of his fingers grazing my neck as he sought the pendant practically nestled between my breasts.

  “You’re blushing,” Brit says. “Hallelujah, there is a guy out there who can steal your resolve.”

  He’s a thief of more than that, stealing my decision, my composure, and what I thought was best for me. Still. I’m just here for the summer, and I’ve never been the kind of girl to have a fling. Throwing caution to the wind comes at a cost, I’ve learned. A high one, and I’ve already incurred and inflicted more than I can handle in one lifetime.

  “Maybe…” I relive his touch, his smile, our rapport… “Maybe there is.” Temptation, for the first time ever, lives next door, and whenever I look into his eyes, nothing is normal for me.

  The oven timer dings, signaling the next batch of muffins is done. “I say you take some of those muffins over to him this morning,” Brit suggests.

  “You think?”

  “Do it. Now, before you talk yourself out of it. I’ve got to run, literally, or I’ll be late for work again, but text me later and tell me how it went, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise me you’re going right to his house after we hang up.”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay. Love you!”

  “Love you, too.”

  Promise me. Growing up I was a huge Winnie the Pooh fan. I still am, actually. For our six month anniversary, Mason gave me a framed picture of Pooh and Piglet with the words:

  Promise me you’ll always remember:

  You’re braver than you believe,

  and stronger than you seem,

  and smarter than you think.

  It’s my favorite quote. I lean on the kitchen counter, close my eyes, and say the words again in my head. I was already in love with Mason, but I fell even harder for him that night. A piece of my heart will always be his.

  “I can do this,” I tell Snow, who is asleep under the kitchen table. Permission. Courage. A promise I can keep to my best friend.

  I took off quickly last night, flustered by Vaughn’s attention and anxious to get Amber home, so this is a good way to reconnect.

  Two minutes later, I walk up Vaughn’s driveway with a plate of warm muffins. The closer I get to his front door, the faster my pulse races. Chill, Kendall.

  Dancing with him flashes through my mind again, the pounding of my heart as our bodies lined up. Even though the club was crowded it felt like we were the only two people in the room. For the few minutes we were pressed together I was so lost in the moment I forgot about my past. Wrapped in Vaughn’s arms, it didn’t feel like a betrayal. It felt right, like the first step toward whatever comes next.

  I’m almost up the drive when I hear a car behind me. It’s a black convertible Mercedes, and an older man is driving. He parks, hops out of the car, and raises his sunglasses so they sit on top of his head. “This is private property.” He’s dressed in a suit and tie and carries a definite air of impatience.

  “I know. I’m here to see Vaughn.”

  “Who are you with? Do you have an appointment?”

  His tone is gruff, his stance intimidating. Worse, I don’t fully understand what he’s asking. “Who am I with?” I look around the otherwise empty driveway. “Myself?”

  “Who reps you, or who do you rep?” He snaps, and hands me a card. “I’m Vaughn’s manager. Any requests need to go through me.”

  That explains his terse manners. His gaze sweeps over my heather gray T-shirt dress and flip-flops, assessing me like this is an audition. By the frown on his face I’d say I don’t make the cut. What a jerk. “I’m not here on business,” I say, ignoring the card. “I’m a friend.” I turn to continue toward the front door.

  “Not so fast.” He falls in step beside me, but his legs are longer and he turns on me. It isn’t threatening, but protective, and I guess I understand. He doesn’t know me. I could be a stalker. “We have a busy morning,” he says. “Is Vaughn expecting you?”

  Shit. “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. I’ll tell him you stopped by…” He trails off, eyebrows raised.

  “Kendall.”

  “His friend Kendall.” He says this like he doubts I’m telling the truth. He has no intention of mentioning me at all.

  “Yes.” There is no way I’m getting inside the house, so I add, “Can you please give him these?” I thrust the plate in my hands forward.

  He glances at the muffins like they’re poisoned apples.

  “Please,” I repeat. His manners may be awful, but mine aren’t.

  With obvious reluctance, he takes the plate. “Have a nice day.” He doesn’t spare me another word or glance. He turns on his heels and strides away, his fancy black dress shoes clicking on the stamped concrete.

  Wow. Guess I’ve been dismissed.

  “Thank you,” I call out before he slams the front door behind him.

  What an ass.

  My aunt’s house is really quiet when I walk back into the kitchen, so when my phone rings a minute later, I startle and almost drop the
glass bowl I’m rinsing. The only person who calls instead of texts is my mom, and, since we usually talk on Sundays, worry that something is wrong floods me. I grab the phone without looking at the screen. “Hello?” I say tentatively.

  “Hey, it’s Vaughn.”

  “Hi.” I sit on a barstool for fear my legs aren’t strong enough to keep me upright. Because holy jalapeno pepper, his morning voice is a little rough and super sexy, and I can’t believe he actually called.

  “Thanks for the muffins. They smell almost as good as you do.”

  My cheeks are on fire. And I’m shocked his manager actually gave them to him. “You’re welcome. How are you?”

  “Besides being pissed at my dad for sending my delivery girl home, I’m good.”

  “That was your dad?”

  “Dad, manager, and self-appointed gatekeeper. I didn’t know you were here or I would have put him on a leash.”

  “I could…” I’m about to say “come back over” but stop myself. His father is there for a reason, and he definitely wouldn’t appreciate seeing me again. “…stop by later.”

  “How about this weekend? I’ve got a booking in Paris this week and my dad is driving me to the airport in a few, but we’re having a barbecue Saturday afternoon. You and your sisters should come.”

  Me and my sisters.

  “Umm…”

  “Would it help persuade you if I said it was my birthday?”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you going to be?”

  “Twenty-four. I’m a Cancer. Which means I’m loyal, dependable, caring, and responsible. Convinced now?”

  “Okay.” It’s not like we know anyone else around here or have an excess of party invites. And if something comes up, I doubt we’ll be missed.

  “Okay you believe me or okay you’ll be here?”

  “Both.” How can I say no to his birthday? I don’t want to say no. I’m just anxious, out of my comfort zone again.

  “Great.” I hear some rustling through the phone line, of clothes maybe. “I’ve got to go,” he continues. “I’ll see you this weekend. Thanks again for breakfast.” He clicks off and I’d bet a million dollars I’m glowing like the sun on steroids.

  “What’s with your face?” Dixie asks, padding into the kitchen in her bare feet and a faded T-shirt that falls to the tops of her thighs.

  “What’s with yours?” I fire back.

  She ignores my weak comeback and lifts a blueberry muffin out of the pan sitting on the counter. She breaks it in half, a tiny bit of steam billowing out. “I’m always happy when I’m five hundred bucks richer. Unlike you, princess, I actually have to pay my way.”

  The stone she threw lands in the pit of my stomach, but at the same time, I’m thrilled for her. “You won open mic night?”

  “I did. You’d know that if you’d stuck around to celebrate with me and our hot neighbors.” Her eyes meet mine, but the sharpness of her gaze has given way to something else. Something she’s not telling me. “How’s Amber?”

  “Bunkered. She went straight to her room when we got home, and I haven’t seen her since. Maybe we should check on her?”

  “One of us should.” She takes a bite of the muffin. “I nominate you. People don’t find me comforting.”

  I can’t argue with that, but her brusque response doesn’t quite hide the fact that she just expressed concern for our sister. She knows it. I know it. She knows I know it. Fighting a gotcha smile the entire time, I plate up a muffin before rounding the breakfast bar and heading out of the room.

  I climb the stairs two at a time to check on Amber.

  “Come in,” she says after I knock on her door.

  “Hey, how are you feeling?”

  “Eh,” she says from the comfort of her bed. She’s leaning against the headboard, reading something on her laptop. Or she was. She minimizes her screen as I enter all the way.

  “Need anything? I made blueberry muffins.”

  She shakes her head. “No thanks. Best keep your distance so you don’t get whatever it is.”

  Sounds selfless, but it’s a brush-off. We’ve lived under the same roof for two weeks. I went home with her last night. Whatever bug she’s picked up, I’ve already been exposed to it, so she’s trying to keep me away for her own reasons. “Do you want to see a doctor? Google says there’s an urgent care a few miles away. Dixie or I could drive you.”

  “I will if I don’t bounce back soon, but I’m already feeling a little better. Just tired. Right now all I really want to do is rest.”

  Hint taken. I leave the muffin on the dresser and escape her room almost as fast as I did the kitchen. Getting dismissed by Vaughn’s dad who doesn’t know me from Eve is one thing, but getting dismissed by my own sister stings—especially after I was there for her last night, but whatever. A couple of weeks together in Los Angeles hasn’t suddenly made us best friends. I hurry to my room, change into better shoes, and slip out of the house to go for a walk. A solo walk. Snowflake is annoyed with me, but I’ll take her out later. I’ve taken to long treks down the hill to search for help wanted signs in windows, grab a coffee, and let the sights and sounds of the city occupy my thoughts. On my dog walks, I tend to think about the fall and law school and how increasingly unappealing I find that life plan the closer it gets. The same trio of questions rotating in my mind…

  When is a decision a fact that can’t be undone?

  Is it too late for me?

  Can I convince myself to take a chance on change?

  Chapter Ten

  Kendall

  Snowflake is walking me. Seriously. She is the leader and I’m the girl being pulled by her leash. It’s crazy how strong she is. Determined. Even at ten o’clock at night. You’d think she’d do her business and be ready for bed, but no. Not Snow. She struts up the sidewalk like she’s on a mission to save the neighborhood from nocturnal wrongdoings.

  Her tenacity is a great Friday night distraction even though over the past week I’ve graduated from thoughts about my future to thoughts about the present.

  And a certain guy next door.

  When the sidewalk meets the end of his driveway, Snowflake’s body shakes with excitement. She tugs harder on the leash, eager, it seems, to race to his front door. I look up the sloped drive to see if someone’s home and find Vaughn walking toward us.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he says. He’s wearing white-washed jeans, a black T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, and no shoes. And I think he’s been drinking.

  “You’re back from Paris.”

  “Either that or I’m a hologram.” He smiles. It’s a slightly lopsided smile—as if his lips aren’t fully on board with the command from his brain—and incredibly endearing.

  I look around for signs of what’s going on, but his house is quiet. Thankfully I don’t hear the clanking of keys or see any in his hand.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He comes to a stop in front of me and Snow. She goes berserk, twisting the leash so that I let go. “Hey, Snowflake.” He bends to pet her and falls back onto his butt. She climbs into his lap and smothers his angular jawline in kisses.

  “Were you going somewhere?” I ask.

  He looks up at me, tired, and oddly vulnerable. “I was headed to your house,” he says quietly.

  Oh. I sit down on the ground next to him, lift Snow off his lap, and put her on the other side of me. “Stay.” She huffs but drops to her belly, her little face atop her front paws. “What for?”

  “For better company than another beer could provide.” He lays back, eyes to the sky, hands laced behind his head, his knees bent.

  “I’m better company than twelve ounces of fermented hops?”

  The question pulls a laugh out of him. “It was imported, if that helps.”

  Now I laugh. “That makes all the difference.” I lie down beside him. The ground is a little cool, but the air is warm, a slight breeze upping the humidity and carrying the sce
nt of jasmine. The sky is overrun with stars hanging out with a half moon.

  “Here.” He sits up, reaches behind his neck to pull off his shirt, then balls it up to tuck under my head as a pillow. Dead. I’m dead. His muscles flex as he resumes his position. I try not to stare at his ripped abs.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.”

  We stay like that, side by side in comfortable silence, for a minute or two. In the distance, I hear the faint sounds of traffic on Sunset.

  “Can I trust you?” he finally says, like it’s taken Herculean effort to get the words out.

  “You can.”

  He doesn’t move or speak.

  “I promise.”

  “A story in Variety came out today about me being one of the people the America Rocks producers are considering to take over as host.”

  “Oh my God!” I turn my face toward him. “That’s a really big deal. Congratulations.” America Rocks is my favorite reality show.

  “It’s not mine yet, and according to Hollywood insiders the producers would be idiots to give me the gig.”

  “Why?”

  He lifts his hand to tick off the reasons. “Model-turned-host works only if it’s a fashion competition, I’m too young, I’ve got a not-totally-unearned reputation for partying, I don’t have the right experience, and…”

  I turn onto my side to look at him. My cheek is on the soft cotton of his T-shirt, and it smells like man and spice and everything nice. He remains in profile. “And?”

  “I’m a second-stringer, even in my own family. My sister was the true star. This is just an attempt by my manager-slash-father to reclaim some of her glory, and”—he takes a deep breath before continuing—“and I know I have to get used to haters if I’m going to continue in this business, because they’re part of the deal, but sometimes they hit really low.”

  My heart immediately hurts for him. I want to tell him he’s a star no matter what happens with America Rocks. I want to ask about his sister, but I don’t think that’s what he needs right now. God, it sucks being picked apart like you don’t have any feelings and judged unworthy. I know firsthand, and I never want to go through the ordeal again. But when it happened to me, the thing I appreciated most was a change of subject.