“What—how?”
Because my personal social media accounts are completely private.
She laughs, and I make it a point to hear that as often as possible this week. “‘IHaveTheKeynes.’ That’s your personal username, isn’t it?”
“No…” I lie. “My personal one has always been, ‘DudeWheresMyKeynes.”
Another chuckle sounds from her. “You should have thought of that one first.”
I scratch my head and hate myself for not thinking of that fifteen years ago. “That would have been so much funnier.”
Her smile softens, and she presses her hand to the door frame like she’s about to leave me. “I’m ordering pizza. Anything different or just the usual bacon and onions?”
I don’t know why her remembering my pizza order is a big deal, still somehow, it is.
“Sounds great,” I tell her.
CHAPTER THREE - ANDI
HOLY MOTHER FUCKING, cheese and crackers and shirt balls.
Maddox.Fucking. Keynes.
I walk away from that pool house, fully aware of the way he’s watching me, and it makes me wish I wasn’t such an awkward walker. I wish I had a confident swagger or knew how to make my hips twist so that he actually had a reason to watch my ass.
I trip over my own feet halfway to the house and nearly tumble into the pool.
Yeah. That’s the epitome of my ways of seduction.
Falling face-first into a dirty pool because despite how Dad might say he has this cover secure, I know better.
God, that would have been embarrassing.
As I reach the sliding door, I quickly glance over my shoulder, hoping that Maddox is nowhere to be found or that he gave up watching me when he remembered what a klutz I am—
He’s leaning against the threshold of the double doors, his arms crossed over his tattooed, firm chest, lips split into a devastatingly smug grin. I let my gaze wander over his torso again, lingering nearly too long on the vee at his hips and the tattoos that seem to melt beneath his belt.
When he sees me looking at him, he pushes off, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and walks back inside.
When the fuck did he have time to turn into…this?!
It wasn’t that I was unaware of just how much he’d grown into his previous awkwardness over the last few years—even if the last time I saw him, he only had a bit of stubble on his jaw and still wore that freshly-turned-twenty-one boyish aura.
But now?
Jesus.
His mop of brown waves arches over his forehead to his nose in a natural manner—as if it falls that perfectly when he wakes up every morning.
That part of him, I know. That part of him,mostpeople know. Maddox always wears skull neck gaiters over his nose, beard, and neck. He’s never seen without one, or at least if he is, no one knows it’s him. The only distinguishable characteristics are his eyes, hand, and arm tattoos—which he usually keeps covered at shows.
Seeing him without any of the masks, hats, beanies, or otherwise is like seeing a different person.
I won’t lie, though.
I love that skull mask.
Maddox’s chestnut beard is somehow perfectly messy, the strands falling over his lips in a manner that makes him press it back when he sips his drink. Tattoos cover nearly every inch of his arms, chest, and neck, most of which he’s gotten within the last five years. He has a black septum ring piercing, black nickel-sized gauges in his earlobes, and when he speaks, I swear I see the glimmer of a tongue ring.
