“That was some messed-up shit,” he murmured and turned slowly to me. “You like this stuff?”
“I looove it,” I cooed. We had gone through a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, a bunch of gummy worms and licorice and two slushies from the concession stand. I was amped from the sugar. It was the most fun I’d had all summer, which was shocking since I’d spent most of the day in the fetal position.
“You’re one disturbing girl, Pers,” he said, shaking his head.
“And that’s saying something coming from you.” I grinned, and when he grinned back, my eyes dropped to his dimples before noticing that his were on my mouth. I cleared my throat, and he quickly looked at the clock on the dash.
“We better get you back,” he said, starting the truck.
We spent the drive home talking, first about his economics program at Western and the rich kids he was sharing a house with in the fall, and then about how I felt like everyone was moving on to bigger and better things while I stayed in Toronto, following the path my parents laid for me. He didn’t try to make me feel better or tell me I was overreacting. He just listened. There weren’t more than a few seconds of dead air the entire hour drive back. We were cracking up over a story about his first school dance when he pulled up to the cottage. His dad had taught him the “proper” way to dance beforehand, which ended up with Charlie two-stepping a thoroughly freaked-out Meredith Shanahan across the gymnasium floor.
“You wanna come in?” I asked, still laughing. “I think there are a few of Dad’s beers in the fridge.”
“Sure,” Charlie said, cutting the engine and walking me to the door. “If you play your cards right, I might ask you to dance.”
“I only tango,” I said over my shoulder as I turned the key in the lock.
“I knew it would never work between us,” he said in my ear, scattering goose bumps down my arm.
We kicked off our shoes and Charlie took in the small, open space. “I haven’t been in here in ages,” he said. “I like that your parents have kept it as a real cottage. Well, other than that,” he said, pointing to the espresso machine that took up way too much of the kitchen counter. I walked to the other side of the room and flicked on the floodlight that shone up into the towering red pines.
“It’s my favorite place in the world,” I said, watching the swaying boughs for a moment. When I turned around, Charlie was studying me with a strange expression on his face.
“I should probably get home,” he said hoarsely, pointing over his shoulder.
I tilted my head. “You literally just got here.” I moved by him to open the fridge. “And I promised you a beer.” I passed him a bottle.
He scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not really in the habit of drinking alone.” I rolled my eyes and pulled the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my hand so I could twist off the cap. I took a long drink, then handed him the bottle.
“Better?” I asked. He took a sip, eyeing me warily.
“You really made an effort tonight, huh?” he said, gesturing to my outfit, a pair of ripped jean shorts and a gray sweatshirt. I’d thrown my hair up into a ponytail. It was only then I registered that he was wearing nice dark jeans and a new-looking polo shirt.
“Left my ball gown in Toronto,” I replied.
He smirked, his eyes dropping to my legs. “My dates don’t wear ball gowns, Pers,” he said, his gaze returning to mine. “But usually they wear clean clothes.” I looked down and, yep, there was an orangey stain on the leg of my shorts. “You know, as a sign of a basic level of hygiene,” he added. I could feel myself heating, and his smile split open.
“Told you,” he said, his voice deep and low. He put his bottle down and took a step toward me. “Red neck. Twisted-up mouth. And your eyes are even darker than usual.” We stood like that, neither of us breathing, for several long seconds.
“It’s sexy as hell,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking sexy I can’t stand it.”
I blinked once and then threw myself at him, slinging my arms around his neck and bringing his mouth down to mine. I wanted to be wanted so badly. He met me just as eagerly, grabbing my waist and pulling me against his hard body. He held my hips against him with one hand and wrapped the other around my ponytail, pulling my head back and then sucking on the exposed flesh of my neck. When I moaned, he cupped my butt and lifted me off the floor, guiding my legs around his waist, parting my lips with his tongue and backing me up so I was sitting on the counter. He spread my legs wide and stepped between them, trailing a hand up my calf.
“I didn’t shave,” I whispered between kisses, and he laughed into my mouth, sending vibrations through me. He crouched down, holding my ankle, then ran his tongue from my shin up over my knee to the edge of my shorts, eyes on mine the entire time.
“I really don’t care,” he growled, then stood and captured my face between his hands. “You could go a month without shaving, and I’d still want you.” I squeezed my legs around him and kissed him hard, then bit down on his lip, making him groan. The sound was catnip to my ego.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I said, then pushed him away so I could jump down, and led him up to my bedroom.
His hands were on me as soon as we passed through the doorway. I walked backward until my knees hit the bed, and reached for his shirt at the same time he reached for mine. We took them off in a tangle of arms and then he unhooked my bra in seconds, throwing it onto the floor. My hands flew to the buttons of his jeans, desperate to feel him against me, to erase all the sad parts, to feel wanted. He watched me take them off, then unzipped my shorts, sliding them over my hips so they hit the ground. We stood in front of each other, breathing heavily, and then I pushed my underwear down my legs and moved closer to him, brushing my fingers over his shoulders. I didn’t realize they were shaking until Charlie put his hands on top of mine.
“Are you sure?” he asked gently. In reply, I pulled him down onto the bed on top of me.
* * *
I MUST HAVE fallen asleep immediately after because when I woke, pink morning sky glowed through the windows. Still groggy, I felt breathing on my shoulder before I realized there was a thigh thrown over me. The box of condoms my mom had given me last year sat open on the nightstand.
“Good morning,” a gravelly voice rasped in my ear. It sounded so much like Sam. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was a bad dream. He shifted his weight over me and kissed my forehead, nose, then my lips, until I opened my eyes and stared up into a pair of green eyes.
The wrong eyes.
The wrong brother.
I inhaled raggedly, seeking oxygen, feeling my pulse, fast and uncomfortable, all over my body.
“Pers, what’s wrong?” Charlie moved off me and helped me into a seated position. “Are you going to be sick?”
I shook my head, looked at him wild-eyed, and gasped, “I can’t breathe.”
* * *
I MOVED THROUGH the final days of summer in a fog of self-loathing, trying to figure out why I’d done what I’d done and how I could possibly tell Sam about my betrayal.
After the panic attack subsided, I kicked Charlie out of the cottage, but he’d come back in the afternoon to check on me. I yelled and screamed at him through hot tears, telling him it was a huge mistake, telling him I hated him, telling him I hated me. When I started hyperventilating, he held me tightly until I’d calmed down, whispering how sorry he was, how he didn’t mean to hurt me. He apologized once I had, looking pained and flattened, and left me alone feeling even worse for having hurt him as well.