Kade’s hand comes up to my shoulder, gently but firmly creating distance between us. “You don’t need any more practice, Em. You’re ready.”
The rejection stings like alcohol on an open wound. I pull back, embarrassment burning through me. “Right. Of course.”
“Hey.” His voice softens. “Tomorrow will be great. Serena’s going to be blown away.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Serena. The whole point of this charade. I should be excited about seeing her tomorrow, not lying here wishing my stepbrother would kiss me.
“Let’s finish this episode,” Kade suggests, pretending the awkward moment never happened.
I settle back against him, careful to maintain a more appropriate distance. But as the show continues, I drift closer again, drawn to his warmth. Kade doesn’t push me away this time.
My eyelids grow heavy, the emotional exhaustion of the day catching up with me. The last thing I remember is the gentle pressure of Kade’s arm wrapping around me, securing me against his side.
6
Kade
THE CLOCK ON THE wall ticks with maddening precision, each second dragging into the next like it’s being pulled through mud. I stretch out on our parents’ leather couch, remote in hand, flipping through channels so fast the images blur together in a meaningless stream. Lulu whines at my feet, her golden head heavy on my knee, sensing my restlessness. It’s Saturday night, and it’s been two hours since Emmett’s date with Serena started. Two hours of me pretending I don’t care what’s happening in the guest house across the garden. Two hours of failing at that pretense.
I stop on some mindless action movie—explosions, car chases, muscled men with guns. Except I can’t focus on a single scene before my mind wanders back to Emmett and Serena. Are they still eating dinner? Has he used the lines I taught him? Are they making out yet?
I switch channels again, landing on a cooking competition where someone’s soufflé is collapsing in real time.
“Fucking disaster,” I mutter, not sure if I’m talking about the soufflé or myself.
Lulu nudges my hand with her wet nose, breaking my spiral. I scratch behind her ears absently, her fur soft beneath my fingers. Her tail thumps against the hardwood floor in appreciation.
“At least you’re happy with the bare minimum,” I tell her. She gazes up at me with those liquid brown eyes, content with simple affection. Must be nice.
I grab my controller from the coffee table and boot up the PlayStation. Maybe shooting zombies will keep my brain occupied. The game loads, and I blast away, my fingers pressing the buttons with unnecessary force. Ten minutes in, I realize I’ve died three times because I keep zoning out, imagining Emmett’s hands on Serena.
“Fuck this,” I growl, tossing the controller aside. Lulu perks up at my tone, head tilted.
She pads over to the kitchen and sits by the treat jar, looking back at me with hopeful eyes.
“Not a chance, girl. You heard what Emmett said. You’re getting chubby.”
Lulu whines, pawing at the cabinet, a master manipulator in fur form.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m just following orders for once.” I get up and fill her water bowl instead. “Emmett will have a fit if I cave again.” Just saying his name sends another ripple of unease through me.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I lunge for it with embarrassing eagerness. Just a text from some girl in my art history class asking about Monday’s assignment. I respond with a quick “no idea” and toss the phone back down.
What would Emmett be doing right now? The playlist I made would have reached that slow Weekend song by now. The one with the beat that makes you want to press closer to someone, slip your hands under their shirt. My gut clenches at the thought of Emmett dancing with Serena in the low light. His hands might be on her hips, her arms around his neck.
And that’s if they’re still upright. They could be on the couch by now. Or worse, his bedroom.
The image flashes unbidden in my mind—Emmett’s broad swimmer’s shoulders above her, his face buried in her neck, her legs wrapped around his waist. The fantasy is horrifying and intoxicating, and I hate myself for picturing it.
My fingers drum a violent rhythm against the armrest. I pick up my phone again, scrolling mindlessly through social media, not seeing anything. Outside, the wind picks up, rustling through the trees and rattling the windows. The weather too is restless tonight.
I switch back to the game, but I’m even worse now. My character gets swarmed by zombies as I button-mash with aggressive indifference. The red “YOU DIED” screen mocks me for the fourth time.
Lulu, dejected by my refusal to give her treats, has settled into her bed in the corner, watching me with judgmental eyes.
“What? Like you’ve never had a bad night.” I glare at her. She huffs and puts her head on her paws, unimpressed with my attitude.
I try the TV again, landing on a UFC fight. Two sweaty guys grappling on the mat, one trying to submit the other. Usually, I’dbe into this, but tonight every move just reminds me of bodies entwined in very different circumstances.
