He stepped closer, wrapping his hand around my braid and running his lips along my cheek. “It’s one thing if I want to fraternize and only make time for you. It’s not for everyone,” he whispered in my ear. “There could’ve been another girl there.”
“One who belongs with Mike,” I said, my voice hoarse.
“Stop it,” Aston said sharply. “That’s him, not me. I don’t care about that stuff.”
Nodding into his chest, I pretended to believe him, but my heart ached all the same. Deep down inside, I knew we didn’t belong together.
His hand ran down my back and tightened on my waist, gathering me close. “Not me, you hear me?”
I nodded again.
“Say you hear me, Bex. I mean it. I don’t give a shit about anyone else, what they think or do or know. I’m my own man.”
“I hear you,” I muttered into his rock-hard chest.
Sadly, I was falling so deep in love—or lust—I’d started to believe he was right. I’d finally begun to believe there could be a future for us. A forever.
“Good. So later, why don’t you come back with me to my dad’s place and change there? He and the stepwitch went to some retreat in Tahoe, and the kiddies are with their grandma.”
It was the first time Aston had asked me to go inside his father’s house. Up until this point, we’d stolen moments in his car and on the golf course, but what he was suggesting made that all seem like child’s play.
“Are you sure?”
“Bexley Rivers, let me introduce myself. Aston Prescott,” he said, stepping back and offering me his hand. “Making a difference, not carrying on bullshit traditions. I like who I like, just like how I vote. I choose to vote how I want, not how my dad votes, and I vote to like you.”
I smiled huge, could actually feel it spreading across my entire face and swirl around my heart. As my chest burned with an unfamiliar sensation, I said, “Okay.”
“Pick you up here around five?”
“Yep.”
I couldn’t stop smiling.
As promised, Aston showed up outside the snack shack at five, and led me to his car. We drove slowly back to the house, and he grabbed my hand as we made our way down the driveway. Inside the garage, he disabled the alarm and took my hand again.
The house was huge. You could put twelve duplexes like my mom’s just inside the foyer.
Leopard-print wallpaper covered every wall, and the floor was a dark polished wood. Twelve miniature crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, prisms of light bouncing off the crystal table in the center of the floor. I stood there, looking up and counting the light fixtures, my mouth hanging open.
Aston kicked his flip-flops off in the corner and came up behind me. “Don’t get like that. It’s just a big old house.”
His hand wrapped around me from behind and tightened over my stomach, soothing the butterflies hatching in my belly.
“It’s more than a house. It’s practically a museum.”
“Eh, forget it, Bex. Come on, let’s have a drink.”
We went into a kitchen built for a master chef, and Aston pressed his hand into what appeared to be paneling until it popped open. It was a refrigerator—of course.Duh.
“Water, wine cooler, wine, or beer?”
“Water’s great.”
He poured a glass of water and stuck a lemon slice on the rim, then grabbed a beer for himself.
“Cheers.” He touched his bottle to my glass after he handed it to me. “Sit up on the counter, make yourself comfortable.”
I eyed him.
