I scowl and he catches it. “C’mon, Red. Loosen up, you’re at a party for fuck’s sake. Come let me beat you in beer pong.”
Taking a long draw of my drink, I watch him over the rim of my cup. He’s certainly not that lanky pre-teen anymore. He and his twin, Julien, have significantly bulked up in the last year. They’re identical except for Jules’ long hair and cropped beard. Ben tends to keep his hair shorter, but still just as floppy as it was when we first met, and face clean shaven. It does wonders for his jawline, which pulls my eyes in like a magnet.
I hate that he’s so pretty.
“Where’s your flavor of the month?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge his command toloosen up.I know he said it just to rile me.
“Ah, we broke up.” He clutches his chest but doesn’t seem at all upset by the news.
My eyes roll on their own volition. I don’t think Ben has ever dated someone for longer than a month.
“What was wrong with her this time?” It’s always something. Even if he’s never told me directly, this is a small town and gossip travels fast.
“She wasn’t my type.”
I actually scoff at that. I can feel his eyes roam my face when I do, and a revelation breaks through my alcohol-addled brain—he’s teasing me.
“Oh okay, Zoey Carter wasn’t your type. The modelesque head cheerleader doesn’t do it for you. Mhmm.” I nod. “Makes sense.”
He smirks at me. “Jealousy looks good on you, Red.”
“Jealous?” I reply, indignantly. “Jealous! Please. Come on, if she’s not your type, who the hell is?”
The smirk slowly melts off his face. He morphs from the happy-go-lucky party guy to another of his personas I’m very familiar with—the problem solver. The competitor.
I feel much more evenly matched with this version of him.
His eyes sweep from the ponytail on top of my head, all the way down to my lips. Brows furrowing, he seems to have a million scenarios running through his head. And I can’t figure out what any of them could possibly be.
“Do you think you’ll ever get married?” he asks, surprising me with the deep timbre of his voice after so many moments of silence.
That is not even close to what I thought would come out of his mouth. Gaping at him, I question, “Married?”
“Yeah. You know like ‘I, Benoit, take thee, Colette,’ white dress, flowers, et cetera, et cetera.”
An honest-to-God record scratch happens in my brain. The fuck did he just say?
“I-I—” I’m floundering. Because this man—Boy? Man-boy. Boy-man. I hate just recited vows usingmyname. Whatever scenarios I was preparing for, this one was definitely not in the galaxy of possibilities. “Who is Benoit?” I finally reply.
Ben quickly dips right back into his easy-going side, booping me on the nose. “Funny, Red.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I watch as it flops haphazardly back against his forehead. “Zoey started talking about wanting to get married and it freaked me out.”
Shewhat?
“We’re eighteen. What on earth did you do to make her think about marriage?”
He looks me right in the eye, deadass serious. “I’ve been told I have a magical d?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence!” My hand pops up to cover his mouth, and hebitesit. Bites! It! Yanking my hand away, I tuck it safely underneath my thigh because obviously it cannot be trusted after two sips of alcohol.
The motherfucker tips his head back and laughs. “Sorry, I forget you have delicate sensibilities. I can’t possibly use the word”—he mouthsdick—“in front of you.” He contemplates for a moment. “You’ve never had a boyfriend.”
Not a question, a statement.
“Who says I’m into boys?” I counter, receiving a quirked brow in return.
“You into girls, Red?”
I shrug, because I still haven’t quite figured that out yet. Looking away, I admit, “Maybe. Maybe both. Maybe no one.” The truth is, I’ve never felt like I’ve known someone well enough to feel a deep attraction to them. To want to date them. No one I’ve gotten to know well enough, except?—
