Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(28)

I was about to leave when she ran after me to the door.

I drop my voice, resting my hands on her shoulder to look her in the eye. “Is everything okay, Sloane? You’re making me nervous. Did something happen? You know you can tell me anything.”

“Oh! No!” She laughs shrilly, cheeks turning pink as she pushes her loose blonde hair behind her ears.

A pit of dread grows in my stomach. It’s the eyelashes. The blushing. The nervous way she’s playing with her hair. And the fact that Harvey, Violet, and my brothers are all basically watching from the living room.

I’m not oblivious to the fact Sloane has had a crush on me. But I’ve pretended I am. Because shit is so much less awkward that way.

“Okay.” She smiles up at me nervously, and nerves roil in my stomach. “I’m just going to go ahead and say it.” She takes a deep breath. “Will you go to prom with me?”

Now she isn’t the only one blushing. I feel like my entire face is on fire. “Oh, Sunny.” My fingers pulse on her shoulders, and I get lost in the twinkle of hope in her eyes. Hurting Sloane is enough to make me feel like I might be sick.

I don’t want to disappoint her, but fuck . . . I can’t do this either. “I’m not the guy you want to go with. I’m . . .” I search for a good reason that isn’t just, I don’t want to lead you on. “I’m twenty-four. Really in the media right now. With you being in high school, I’m just not sure it would be a good look, you know?”

I try so hard to ignore that her eyes instantly fill. The too-fast way she nods her head. “Oh. Yeah.” She steps back from me, my hands falling from her shoulders, and she glances over at the living room. “Yeah. Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

“Still friends, right?” I reach forward, trying to give her forearm a reassuring squeeze. She tugs her arm back and forces a bright smile onto her face.

“Yeah. Of course. Still friends. Always.” With another frantic nod, she turns, but she doesn’t head back to the family gathering. She disappears down the hallway that leads to the upstairs bedrooms.

I feel like shit as I wave goodbye to a room full of wide-eyed, awkward-as-fuck family members. I don’t know what to say to them. I half expect someone to crack a joke, but no one says a word as I flee the house, and all that does is drive home how brutal that interaction was with Sloane.

Because even if there is a little part of me that thinks it would be kind of cute to go with her, I know I can’t.

She needs to go have fun at her prom. Make memories—with someone her own age. She needs to have the very best night, and I’m certain I can’t be the one to give her that.

Sloane Winthrop has grown into a woman who is smart, beautiful, and so damn talented. She has an entire life ahead of her with some shiny, rich boyfriend she’ll fall head over heels for while she pursues her higher education at some fancy, private university.

She doesn’t need the likes of me holding her back anymore.

I’ve almost convinced myself I did the right thing by the time I get to my truck. But when I pull away down the driveway, regret niggles at me. I glance up into the rearview mirror, and Sloane is there.

Sitting on that roof all by herself.

Probably realizing what I already know.

That I’m not good enough for her. Never have been. Never will be . . .


I wake up with Sloane’s forehead pressed into the center of my chest. Her hands are rolled into loose fists and clutched under her chin like she’s trying to keep herself from touching me in her sleep.

I don’t suffer from the same hesitance. I’ve got my arm slung casually over her petite frame and one leg draped possessively over both of hers.

It borders on too far. Yes, we’re friends. But we’re also a man and a woman. Alone and barely dressed on a bed that’s too small.

And she’s still wearing my jersey.

Friend. Friend. Friend.

I slam the word into my brain repeatedly like it might cement it somehow. I imagine it for four seconds, the letters cropping up like they’re being typed beside a cursor. Like it might keep me from wondering, “What if we weren’t just friends? What if we were more?”

Sure, I shut things down between us when she was practically still a kid. And even not so long ago, she made an offhanded joke that hit a little too close to home as I helped mount her TV on the wall.

I laughed even though I didn’t find it funny at all. I told her it would never happen. Again. Because how could it?

But she planted a seed that day. One that’s grown into a question I’m too scared to ask.

Now I’m lying here wondering . . . why the fuck can’t it happen? There was a time I was convinced I couldn’t be the guy to give her what she needs, to make her happy.

She wanted me, and I fucked it up—like I always do.

But that was then. And this is now. I’m not the same scared kid I was back then.

The word friend fades the longer I stare at her—the slightly upturned tip of her nose that wiggles a little when she talks. Her high, noble cheekbones that go so perfectly round when she laughs. Her lashes that are washed clean of mascara and take on more of a pale brown color where they’re fanned down over her smooth skin.

Her engagement ring, the one she’s still wearing, shines blindingly beneath her chin. And it’s the dose of reality I need.