I’D FUCKED UP.
A week had passed since I’d done the thing I couldn’t take back. Seven long, torturous days of replaying our kiss in my head, of knowing what it was like to have Rafael’s lips against mine not as a teenager, but as a man.
It was even worse than I’d imagined.
Back then I’d taken it for granted that I could touch him anytime I wanted. I’d never expected there would be a time when I couldn’t, when he wouldn’t want me to.
So when he’d followed me at Lucien’s wedding and wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone, I’d lost my mind and done the one thing I’d told myself I’d never do. Not because I didn’t want to, but because of who he was now. What he’d chosen—which wasn’t me.
Days spent pretending hadn’t helped, not when I’d made sure Rafael touched every part of my life. I could see him anytime I wanted, at home, at Libertine, in my mind. I’d made sure of that when I purchased my home to directly overlook his.
God, he didn’t even realize how much he was integrated into my very being, and it made me feel so pathetic and weak that a man who didn’t want me back had such a hold on me.
Even now I couldn’t escape him, as I stood in the community center near St. Andrews, putting the last of the gift bags onto a massive table. My brothers and I had long partnered with the church’s outreach program—scholarships, mentorship, and support for at-risk kids and teens—and that meant Rafael was here too.
Of course, I felt him before I saw him. Even as the room began to fill with people, kids chasing each other, teens laughing loudly, volunteers juggling trays of food, my attention kept getting pulled to the one steady presence on the other side of the room.
Rafael stood near the far wall, sleeves rolled up his arms, his collar still in place but looking far more laidback than he did in church. More…approachable. He wasn’t the man behind the lattice here, or the man I’d kissed and run away from.
I averted my eyes before he could look my way and headed to the drink table. I needed something stronger than what was on offer, but I ladled some fruit punch into a cup anyway. Lucien had taken up the mantle of putting all this together, along with Kai, and they were both over at the ping-pong table refereeing an intense game. I was about to head that way to give me something to do—and to resist the urge to walk to the other side of the room where Rafael stood—when someone ran into me hard from behind.
I tightened my grip on my drink just in time, but some of the punch spilled over the lip of the cup. I spun around, ready to cuss out whoever it was, but the teen boy already had his hands up and his jaw set, like he expected to have to protect himself. There was something in his brown eyes, though, that looked almost scared, and I found myself taking a step back to give him some space and show him I wasn’t a threat. I knew what I looked like—Lachlan always joked that my arms were the size ofboulders, and I worked out hard to keep them that way, but I didn’t like to use them in any way to cause harm unless I had to.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, lifting his chin defensively, his voice coming out a bit deeper than his young face let on, like it had recently changed and his body hadn’t caught up yet.
I shook the punch off my hand and shrugged. “It’s all good.”
The boy’s shoulders relaxed a little, and I brought my cup to my lips.
“You tried the punch yet?”
His brows shifted down over his eyes. “What?”
“It’s not bad. Could use some vodka, but it’ll do.”
Surprise crossed his face as I headed back to the beverages to refill my drink and grab a few napkins to mop up the spill.
“Uh, you’re not supposed to say that.” He warily took a couple steps closer to join me, though, clearly feeling the threat dissipate.
“I’m not supposed to do a lot of things,” I said. “Yet here we are.”
That earned me a curious sideways glance, and then he eyed the punch. “You a volunteer or something?”
“Or something. Mostly here to make sure nobody sets anything on fire.”
“That happen a lot?”
“More than you’d think,” I said, ladling another cup of punch and holding it out to him. “At least, it did when I was an altar boy.”
His eyes widened and he took the drink. “Youwere an altar boy?”
“Why so surprised?”
“You don’t act like one. Or—” He stopped himself from finishing that sentence, and I smirked.
“And I don’t look like one? Yeah, well. Things change.” I took a long sip of punch and out of the corner of my eye saw him cautiously do the same. “What’s your name?”
“Why?”
