Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(49)

“He is,” Mia says, smiling at him with such gratitude it makes my throat go tight in relief for both of them.

Lola hands out more cupcakes to everyone and the others continue to catch up, talking about Harlow’s mom’s recovery from a double mastectomy and chemo, Margot’s teaching job, about Finn and Ansel, and, of course, about Luke, when he turns to me, leaning in.

“You owe me, you know,” he says, and I feel my brows disappear into my hair.

“I owe you?”

“Calm down there, Zurich. I don’t mean like that. I mean that you lied to me and just gave my sister enough ammunition to last her through the summer.”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” I say, unable to hold in my smile. “It’s not my fault you offer up so much amazing material. You’re a comedic gold mine.”

“And yet you ignore the fact that you lied.” His brows draw down, but even so, he can’t remove the smile from his eyes. “That wasn’t very nice.”

He has a point. “You’re right, but in my defense I was just trying to keep your expectations manageable. I didn’t want you to think there was anything between us that could lead to—”

He holds up a hand to stop me. “We’re not doing that. I know.” Surprisingly, he glances at Harlow and then back to me. Maybe he catches more than he’s letting on? “And I get it. But even you have to admit that this—hanging out?—doesn’t completely suck, right?”

“Way to set the bar high there, superstar.”

He laughs. “You know what I mean.”

I pick at the wrapper of my cupcake. “It doesn’t suck,” I admit.

“You just said I was right. I’m sort of mortified by how happy that makes me.” He leans in again, nodding to Margot. “Don’t tell my sister.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Luke reaches for a piece of my cupcake and I let him, watching as he tears off a chunk and pops it into his mouth. A smear of white frosting colors his bottom lip, and he flicks out the tip of his tongue, licking it off. He watches me watching him with a knowing smirk.

I swallow, and can only hope it’s not as loud as I imagine. Lola—who by all accounts is totally engaged in the other conversation—covertly squeezes my hand on the blanket behind Luke’s back. She is such an enabler.

I clear my throat, and busy myself wiping imaginary crumbs from my shorts. “So what have you been up to?”

“Let’s see . . . I texted you”—he says with a teasing smile—“feel free to answer those anytime. Practiced up on my video games, did some laundry, hung out at my mom’s house, and jerked off a few times.” He pauses and his brows come together. “Absolutely not in that order.”

I cough out a laugh. “I was going to say . . .”

“Uh, yeah. Let’s rebrand that conversation and edit out that last part.” He reaches for another piece of cupcake, and I hold it out for him.

“Thanks,” he says.

I glance over at his sister, who seems deep in conversation with the girls. “It’s really great how much time you spend with your family.”

“Did you know my room at home still looks exactly like it did when I was sixteen?”

“Really?”

He nods. “Most of my friends’ parents have turned theirs into a den or a sewing room or something, but nothing has changed. My awkward adolescence has been preserved like an archeological dig.”

“I can’t tell if that’s terrifying or intriguing,” I tell him.

“My bed is in the same place, the posters on the wall, even the corkboard I made in shop when I was in eighth grade is still there, complete with friendship bracelets, concert tickets, and dance photos. I think there’s even the condom wrapper I used when I lost my virginity,” he says, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to remember. As if it just occurs to him what that would mean, he glances quickly over to Mia, his cheeks coloring again.

“Wow, that’s . . . nostalgic.” It’s a little weird to hear him talk about this, if I’m being honest. My family life is nothing like his.

He shakes his head. “I’m sure my mom doesn’t even know it’s there. I didn’t even realize until I was looking for a phone number last summer and found it tucked between a Tower of Terror Fastpass from 2009 and a ticket stub from a Tom Petty concert.”

“That’s sort of amazing,” I say, picking at a blade of grass. “I’d been gone less than a month and my mom had my room turned into a craft cave.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t go home,” he says quietly. “Like, I go back there and I’m twelve years old again. I can lie on my bed and look up at the pages I tore out of the 2002 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition—Yamila Diaz-Rahi was on the cover, just in case you were wondering—the poster of a Lamborghini I swore I’d own by the time I was eighteen,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “And I can just be dumb and pretend like nothing else matters.”

“I think I’m jealous of your cool room.”

“Let’s make a deal,” he says, and licks a smear of frosting from his thumb. “I’ll let you hang out in my room when real life blows, provided you let me feel you up at least once while you’re there. Twelve-year-old me would be really impressed with that.”