Four

McKenzie

“You want me to accept his apology?” I ask Julia. “Are you high?”

“No.” Julia shakes her blond head. “But if you do, he’ll probably stop showing up at work.”

“Probably stop isn’t very reassuring,” I grumble, collapsing on my bed.

Julia flops down beside me. “It’s not my job to reassure you, it’s my job to tell you the truth.”

“Lie to me, baby.”

“Weston Diaz has been in love with you from the moment he saw you sashaying your way across campus, in your denim skirt and cowgirl boots.” Julia giggles. “I was in love with your outfit.”

I make a noise of disbelief, not at her love for my clothing choices, but at her assessment of West. “One: I don’t sashay. Two: a jock god like him would never notice a mere mortal while dating a goddess. Three: I barely spoke two words to him my first month of school.” And when a guy’s in love, he sure as hell doesn’t kiss and tell. But I never told Julia the truth, and she assumed he’d lied about me.

“Even gods can go all wackadoodle over mortals.”

I cut my eyes at her. “Wackadoodle?”

She grins. “Thinking of copyrighting it.”

“Good luck with that.” I sit up, curling my legs in front of me.

Tonight I’m restless, uneasy at the thought of West in town. It hurts my heart when I see him, when I hear him say my name, but not like before, not like when I was faced with seeing him the last few months of school, on the arm of Charlie Foster.

He’d stopped tormenting me, but she made what he had done look like child’s play. Once she’d cornered me in the bathroom, had one of her minions hold me, and had cut off a huge hunk of hair before a teacher had walked in. I’m convinced Charlie would have made me bald if she’d had enough alone time.

“He said he loved the way your hair smells, you bitch,” she sneered at me, pulling my hair so tight my scalp stung. “Didn’t know shit could ever smell good.”

One of the worst parts of being bullied is feeling ashamed, like it was your fault, like you’d done something to make another person do this to you. Only I didn’t know what I’d done to her.

She and West were broken up, and I’d been tipsy, buzzed on a few drinks, his seemingly sincere apology, and his kisses when we’d hooked up.

“Charlie mentioned something about her and West going to The Oaks Christmas Party together,” Julia says, grabbing her phone. She plays a round of Candy Crush before rolling to the side and propping up her head with the palm of her hand. “I swear that girl thinks he’s going to propose to her.”

“The two of them deserve each other,” I say, concentrating on the sparkly toenail polish I’d applied only thirty minutes earlier. I wiggle my toes, sigh, and then look at my best friend. “You don’t have to give me every detail about them, Julia. I don’t care, not anymore.”

Julia gives me a sympathetic smile. “I know, I just thought it would be a relief to know—”

“A relief?” I cry. “How is it a relief to know she gets to have her version of a happily ever after with the guy who”—I swallow, “while I can’t even date a guy all because… he—”

I look up at the ceiling, my eyes closing when Julia wraps her arms around me.

“I’m sorry, Mac,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not your fault,” I assure her. “I should be over this by now, don’t you think? I’m not seventeen with a broken heart anymore.”

“Maybe your heart doesn’t know that,” she says gently. “You need closure, honey. Let him give it to you for Christmas.”

The next morning, West stops by, bringing his peace offering of donuts and hot chocolate, and continues to do so for the rest of the week.

Each time, after stilted conversation about the weather, classes, and friends we don’t have in common, I throw away the bag and pour out the chocolate, but not before he drives away. Considering all that he’s done to me over the years, it’s more than he deserves.

You would think he would have gotten the message, with my lack of response but no.

Instead, he’s here again, parking his black Porsche right up front, like he deserves that spot. I have half a mind to take some paint and make every spot reserved for anyone who isn’t Weston Diaz.

But I won’t. Instead, I make sure to wear my tallest boots and sternest expression the next time he walks in, but he still has six inches on me.

Gah!

“Morning,” he says, hands going in his pockets, like if he doesn’t put them there he might touch me again. Fat chance of that happening, mostly because I won’t let him.

Or maybe he doesn’t want to touch me, because I’m not Charlie.

I frown. “Where’s the peace offering?”

His mouth kicks up at one corner, that enticing dimple of his appearing. “Tired of wasting my money on food you’re not eating.”

A dull heat washes over me. “How do you—”?

He nods at the trashcan. The bags all sit there, partially open.

“I don’t like donuts.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Not that kind.”

Oh my God, I’m such a liar. I love donuts, and donuts love my hips and thighs. During the winter, I have to make myself not eat them, because I don’t get to go out on jobs as much to work off all the extra calories. Sure, I could use the gym on campus, but I don’t have time, and I’m more of an outdoors person anyways. Running on a treadmill like a hamster in a cage doesn’t appeal to me.

Besides, I want an end product when I work out, more than just being able to wear my skinny jeans or fill out my bikini in the summer, without looking like a busted can of biscuits.

A perfectly push-mowed lawn, flowers planted just so, tilling up the earth and pulling weeds—that’s what I want to see. That’s what makes my aching muscles worth it. I plan to become partners with my dad, and when the time comes, take Walsh Lawn Services over so he can retire.

West takes a breath and sits in the chair directly in front of my desk, giving me the power position in the room. Is he doing this to make me comfortable or is this a part of his strategy to—what exactly, I don’t know, and that’s what frustrates me the most.

He takes off his beanie and runs a hand through his dark hair, making it stick up haphazardly. The diamonds in his ears catch the morning sun and I blink, then take a sip of water.

“I’d like to take you out tonight.”

I almost choke. “Excuse me?”

“A date. You, me, and dinner. Maybe a movie or go to your favorite bar. All up to you.”

“What about Charlie?”

His lips thin, jaw working. “Whatever you heard from Julia… it’s not true. Don’t believe anything that doesn’t come directly from me.”

“So you’re not together?”

“Not since Fall Break.”

Great. I’m the rebound girl. “You have huge ones, you know that?” I want to take the words back. He can skewer me, with anything that remotely resembles a sexual remark.

He grins, and my stomach roils. God, can’t I have peace in a building my dad owns? “You’re pretty damn intimidating.”

Pressing my hand against my chest, I gape at him. “I’m intimidating? I’m not the one who ran Forrestville High with his crew.”

“Smart girls are intimidating to dumb jocks.”

“You were co-valedictorian, West.” If he thinks he’ll flatter his way into getting me to agree, he has another thing coming.

“Wasn’t just talking about book smarts.” His grin falls, and he leans forward a little. “You could see through me… you saw through all of us with those pretty grey eyes, and I’m asking you to look at me, really look at me, and tell me I’m the same person.”

I look at him, into his chocolate eyes, and almost step away. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he does look sincere, that the smug jock is gone, but a week of apologies, both spoken and in the form of breakfast deliveries, doesn’t erase years of knowledge.

Fear guides my words. Fear and anger over how he thinks I’m so easily swayed by carefully chosen phrases. “I don’t see anything worth my time.”

He stands, crossing the small distance between us. His mouth is inches away, and I can’t stop staring at his lips. I know how he tastes, how he uses those full lips of his to make a girl cry out his name. How he devastated me with his kisses, with his touch.

With his lies.

My hands come between us, intent on shoving him away, but I can’t bring myself to touch him. His fingers curl around my wrists, like brands, marking me and reminding me that with one touch he can weaken my resolve.

I hate that I’m still attracted to him. There should be a biological law written in the textbooks that read: Once a guy is a jerk to you, then you shall no longer want to mate with him.

Or something like that.

“That’s too bad.”

“Why?” I lick my lips, not to entice him, but because they’ve become as dry as my throat.

“Because you’re worth all of mine, and then some.”