Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(81)

Margot nods. “Yeah.”

Suddenly very aware of my mostly naked body, I’m relieved that at least I put on underwear. “I didn’t know you were staying here tonight.”

She slumps against the counter. “The roommate—enjoy the humor here—had the girlfriend over and they were being very loud.”

I scrub my face with a hand. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Margot shakes her head. “Part of me wants to congratulate whoever is in there because that certainly sounded great.”

“Margot. Gross.”

She straightens, pushing past me and opening the cupboard for a glass. “I thought you weren’t hooking up with random girls anymore?”

“Not that it’s your business,” I say, stealing the glass from her and filling it with water. “But London’s in there.”

Her eyes go wide and she considers this for a few seconds in silence before shaking her head and shivering. “I’d be happy for you if I wasn’t still traumatized.” She looks me over. “I mean, gross, Luke. You’re still sweaty.”

“And now we’re both traumatized.” I gulp down the water. “Seriously, though. You don’t even live here anymore.”

Pushing herself up to sit on the counter, she’s now close to eye level with me, and studies me closely. “You look stressed considering . . .”

I don’t really know what to say. If you’d asked me earlier in the day how I wanted today to end, I would have said, “London in my bed” without hesitation. But now I’m just not sure what it means that she’s in my bed.

I want it to mean something.

“It’s nothing,” I say, and when Margot makes an annoyed face, I add, “I worry she’s not really taking this as seriously as I am.”

My sister looks toward the heavens. “Let me enjoy the irony of this for a second.” She inhales deeply, and then exhales. “Man, that’s great.”

Anger rises inside me. “Margot, are you shitting me right now?”

She looks genuinely confused. “Yes? I think so?”

“If I gave you crap for hooking up with however many women you want, you would tear me a new one. If you slept with a different one every night, you would expect me to pat you on the back and tell you I think your commitment to your sexuality is admirable.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to have opinions on my sexuality,” she deadpans.

“Fine, but you’d expect me to accept it, and not judge you.”

She allows this with a tiny nod.

“So why is it different for me?” I ask. “Why can’t I have had some wild oats, and then fall in love without it being ironic when I worry she doesn’t have the same feelings for me?”

“Love?” she repeats, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” I say finally.

Dropping her head, she stares at the floor for several breaths before mumbling, “Wow. Sorry, you’re right. I am happy for you. I’m just tired and grossed out.”

I lean forward and kiss the top of her head. “We’re sleeping now. We’ll be quiet.”

Turning, I walk back down the hall to my bedroom. London is sitting in the middle of the bed, covers pulled over her lap.

I climb under the sheets and try to coax her down beside me but she resists.

“Was there a girl here?” she asks.

Fuck. She heard our voices. Of course she would be suspicious. And f*ck. So much for trusting me.

“It’s just Margot,” I assure her. “I didn’t know she was staying here tonight.”

London exhales, nodding, and then lies back down, curling into me.

I know I should be reassured by how easily she melts into my side, by the tiny, sleepy kisses she trails up my neck to my mouth—and I am. But none of this is as easy as I expected it to be when she finally came around. I still have so much trust to build, and London still has so much trust to give me.





Chapter FIFTEEN


London

I WAKE WITH A blanket over my head and a naked chest pressed to my back, bare hips and thighs curled all along mine. My stomach and legs protest at the slightest movement, and I have to stifle a groan as I sit up, carefully extracting myself from the tangle of sheets that seem to barely cling to the bed.

I feel gross: sweaty from exertion and spending the night wrapped around another human being, and sticky from . . . other things.

It’s too early to be up but I need a shower. Luke has barely moved and I tiptoe across the floor and out of his room, down the hall toward the bathroom.

The door closes with a soft click behind me and it feels like I can finally breathe again. Though even that hurts a little, too. I remind myself to congratulate Luke on a job well done . . . later.

The bathroom is large for such a small house—definitely remodeled—and I’m so anxious to clean myself up that I ignore the chilly morning air and jump beneath the spray before it’s even had a chance to heat up.

“Shit,” I squeak, bracing myself against the tile and then melting as the water starts to warm. The last time I was here Luke washed my hair. I think about that as I reach for the same bottle, the scent of his shampoo mixing with steam to fill the shower.

I realize now that that day is when my plan first derailed. I’d tucked Luke into a nice little box, labeled him and written him off as a good time, and thought that was it. He was fun, a way to scratch an itch, but nothing more.