I mean, I could consider it, if there weren’t JJ and Ronnie.
And then, without meaning to, I add one more line before I can stop myself:
The truth is, I’ve never stopped being his.
I stare at the words until the pen ink starts to blur. Then I scratch them away, close the notebook and sit in silence, more thoughtful than I’ve been in a long time.
XADEN
Baywood’s lakeside path winds between trees, quiet except for the sound of my shoes hitting the ground. I’m on my first mile, when I hear another set of footsteps catching up. I glance back.
Caspian Stone. Of course. “Didn’t know they allowed leisurely strollers on this trail,” he calls, not even winded.
I snort. “Didn’t know designer shirts came with sweat-wicking technology.”
He smirks. Then, without warning, picks up the pace.
Fine. Two can play that game.
By the second mile, I realize this isn’t a game. It’s a battle. Every time I edge ahead, Caspian lengthens his stride. He’s not sweating so much as glistening. In the end, we’re both sucking air. We stumble to a stop by the lake, bent double.
“Protein shakes,” Caspian pants. “My place. Five minutes.”
I want to tell him to shove it. But my tongue feels like sandpaper, so I follow.
His flat is glass and steel perched above the water, but warmer than I expected. Books line the walls. A photo on a side table catches my eye. Cole and Noah, both grinning happily. I look away fast.
Caspian hands me a shaker. It’s filled with something swamp-colored. “It’s not poisonous,” he says.
I sip. It’s terrible.
We drink in silence until I clear my throat. “Listen. I owe you an apology. For what I said the other day, assuming you and Cole—”
He smiles faintly. “Cole told me you always thought I had it bad for him.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.” His voice is steady. “He’s like an annoying little brother. Same age, but you know what I mean. I love him, sure. Just not like that.”
“Still. I was out of line.”
“I appreciate that.” Then he shrugs. “I’ve got my heart set on someone else. But he refuses to give me his number.”
My eyebrow lifts. “Did you tell him you were a quarterback in high school?”
Caspian laughs. He pulls out his phone and shows me a grainy Instagram shot. He zooms in on a guy with dark curls, a tray of wine glasses, glaring at the camera likeMurder, She Wrotepersonified.
“That’s him,” he says, almost sheepishly.
“He looks like a firecracker.”
“Exactly,” he sighs, besotted.
I shake my head. “Look at us. Bonding over shakes and boy problems. Cole would be so proud.”
The air shifts. Caspian studies me, serious now. He drains the last of his shake. Then, only half-joking, he says: “If you hurt Cole again, I’m telling Ann-Sabrina Fenton you have a huge crush on her, but are too shy to admit it.”
I nod, appreciating his concern for Cole. Then I salute with the empty shaker. “You’re more dangerous than you look.”
