Page 223 of Mad Girl

I tried going, anyway, but you caught my arm and jerked me forward—so suddenly and quickly it stole my breath away—then scooped me onto your lap.

I tried pressing my hands to your chest, tried freeing myself, but your grip around my waist only tightened.

“You’re right,” you whispered against my pulse, burying your face in my neck. Your breath shuddered across the sensitive skin there, sending shock waves through my body. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. I’m just—I’m frustrated and mad and…” You drifted off, pressing your nose to my throat, like you were breathing me in. “And the answer to your question is no. I didn’t hook up with anyone tonight.”

I stopped resisting. “Then why do you smell like Acqua di Giò?”

And why had your hookup buddy sounded so real?

Red hair? Tattoos? A piercing down below?

Is that what you liked, guy-wise? Bad boys? Not that tattoos or body piercings made someone bad. Take me, for example. No tattoos in sight, the only piercings I had were in my ears, and I’d almost blinded a girl in one eye.

Red hair, though. Not a common hair color. Oddly specific.

“I took a car home from the party,” you said, “and it reeked of the driver’s cologne.”

“Why didn’t you call Hal?”

“It’s late. He’s probably in bed. I don’t like to bother him if I can avoid it.”

I shivered from the whispery scratch of your lips against my neck. “What are you doing?”

“Shh. Just let me hold you a minute.” Your hand snaked up my spine. You tangled your fingers in my braid. “I wanted to spend the day with you, but Willoughby showed up and ruined my plans. I planned to take you to the Arboretum. I planned to apologize.”

I pushed my fingers into the soft waves at the back of your head. “Apologize for what?”

“The stuff with your mum. I can’t stop thinking about it—the things you said. I wish I’d never told you about her.”

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

“No, it’s not.” You ground your forehead against my shoulder. “You don’t think I can understand, but I do. I know what it’s like to feel unwanted, especially by a parent. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world.” A long pause. “At least you have Nic. I don’t belong to anyone.”

When you put it like that, I regretted ever being jealous my dad had wanted you to be his. You deserved to be wanted. To be loved and appreciated. To belong. I eased you back, needing to see your face. “You belong to us—to me and my dad. No matter what, you’ll always be ours.”

The vulnerability in your eyes, Casey—God. How could I not kiss you? I brushed my lips against yours, then parted your mouth with my tongue. Which you welcomed, stroking your tongue against mine. You tasted of beer as you greedily kissed me back.

Kissing you reminded me of Christmas morning. Of home. Of that feeling you get when you step into the sun. Of warmth and happiness and crisp fall days. Of things that are good and light and hopeful and true.

The best things.

Unfortunately, all the best things in life are also the most fleeting.

You broke our kiss, then put your forehead to mine. “It’s late. We should head up.”

In bed that night, I pressed my fingers to my lips, reliving our kiss over and over. I wondered if you were lying on your bed, right below me, reliving it, too.

But the following day, you acted as if that kiss had never happened.

We spent Sunday morning like we usually did: you and Nic drinking coffee in the wingbacks with Garland while I read on the sofa, Henriette hard at work, preparing our brunch in the kitchen. I tried catching your gaze more than once, but you wouldn’t look at me.

The Harrises and Eleanor arrived around eleven. Over mimosas and quiche and enough bacon to feed an army, the adults blathered on about the election. As Libby rattled off talking points for an upcoming debate, I caught Michael, eyes squeezed shut, heaving a sigh, either bored or annoyed by the topic of conversation—maybe both. No telling how often this election crap came up over at his parents’ house.

Meanwhile, you sat beside him, pushing quiche around on your plate, heaving small sighs of your own. Once again, I tried catching your gaze. And, once again, you wouldn’t look at me.

After brunch, you disappeared upstairs to call Claire while the rest of us moved to the Garland Room, where the adults immediately resumed talking about the election. Michael shot them an eye roll and left the room, so I followed him, leaving Bree behind on one of the wingbacks, scrolling on her phone.

“Michael, wait up,” I said, hot on his heels as he slung open the back door. Outside, I joined him on the stone bench closest to the house. “Are you still mad at me?”