“It didn’t end as I’d hoped.” There was a tightness in his voice that she hadn’t noticed before. “But we don’t have to talk about that now. How are you holding up?”
When she’d called him after finding out about her parents, he’d been so great, offering to bring over Chinese food for everyone in the apartment. It had been a good night. Easy.
“I’m fine.”
“Some place, isn’t it?” Alex said, nodding toward the party. Vivienne didn’t bother turning around. “It’s good to be royalty,” he chuckled.
Royalty? “What does that mean?”
His brows came together over his wide blue eyes. “You do know Deacon is Peter’s grandson, don’t you?”
Deacon was related to Peter-frickin’-Pan? That seemed like a pretty big thing to conveniently forget to tell someone. Didn’t he trust her? Or was there another reason he didn’t want her to know?
“He never told me.” She took a drink of champagne to fill the hollowness in her stomach.
“He’s always been good at keeping secrets,” Alex said, taking a sip from his glass. “Which is why it’s so weird he invited all these people to his house.”
This whole party is for you . . .
Deacon was so full of it.
If he had done it for her, he wouldn’t be making out with someone else.
“So I’ve been trying to come up with a reason for you not to go out with me this week.” Alex stepped closer. “And I can’t think of any.”
The bubbles from her champagne tickled her throat when she took another drink. Alex was cute and smart and funny, and he texted her and stayed in touch and—
Vivienne inadvertently twisted and scanned the crowd. It was easy to locate Ethan in his top hat standing next to Nicola, but there was no sign of Deacon—or the blonde.
“Neither can I,” she told him.
The noisy crowd drowned out his response, but he was smiling.
“3, 2, 1…Happy New Year!”
One moment, everyone was cheering; the next, they were silent.
Alex stepped closer, and his eyes dropped to her mouth, and she felt her stomach flutter when he said her name and reached a hand toward her hair and leaned in . . .
A surge of anger and adrenaline and alcohol electrified in her veins, and she closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and brought her mouth to his.
His beard scratched her chin and he pulled her closer and—
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be Alex.
Air . . . She needed to get some air.
Vivienne let him go and sprinted for the back door.
Alone in the darkness, she ignored the cheering and Auld Lang Syne singsong taking place inside and tried to figure out how the night had gone so wrong.
What the hell just happened?
Five minutes. He’d been gone five bloody minutes, and when he came back, Alex McGee’s tongue was down Vivienne’s throat.
Right in front of him.
At the party he’d thrown for her.
In his house.
There was puke in his shower. His favorite lamp was smashed to bits. There was drink spilled all over his hardwood floors.
And for what? So he could play matchmaker for Alex and Vivienne?
She pushed away from Alex and stumbled for the back garden. And then Alex turned to Deacon . . . and laughed.
“Happy New Year, Dash.” He clapped him on the shoulder on his way to the front door, and if Deacon had all his facilities, he would’ve knocked the damn smirk from his bearded face, but what the hell just happened?
He shoved the door to the back garden open and stared at the girl who had ripped his heart from his chest and trampled it with her silver shoes.
Vivienne’s long, dark hair fell in soft waves down the back of her black dress. He’d found the simplicity of her outfit refreshing and undeniably sexy in the way it showcased her slim figure. She looked like a fairy’s shadow against the sparkling winter backdrop.
The snow cushioned his footsteps as he moved toward her. He should have left her alone, but for some reason, he couldn’t.
“Go away, Deacon.” She kept her back to him and spoke her words into the night.
“Not until you tell me what that was about. You and Alex?” His stomach was in knots, and he regretted not hitting him when he had the chance.
She whirled around; tears shimmered on her cheeks. “You don’t get to shame me for kissing someone else. We’re keeping it casual, remember?” she spat. “Besides, you were too busy making out with that girl.”
Girl? What girl? In that moment, the only woman in existence was Vivienne—which was an entirely new concept that made him want to fly in the opposite direction.
“I wanted to kiss someone at midnight,” she went on, stomping forward until he could see the string lights reflected in her wide brown eyes, “and if you hadn’t been so busy it would have been you. So if you’re jealous, it’s your own stupid fault.”
“What are you on about?” he growled. “I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me! I saw you kiss her!”
“I haven’t kissed anyone. I went upstairs to take a pi—to use the restroom. Someone vomited in my shower, so I had to clean up that disgusting mess. And when I came back downstairs, Alex had his tongue down your throat!”
“I-I saw you…” Her brows came together and she shook her head.
“I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t me.” What a disaster. All this trouble for nothing. This was exactly why he never made an effort. “How many drinks have you had?”
She waved her empty champagne glass in his face. “None of your business.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And you’re a jerk. Peter Pan’s untouchable grandson, all ‘look at me in my fancy house with my fancy accent, I can have whatever I want.’”
She knew? How did she find—“Alex told you, didn’t he?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she hissed, poking him in the chest. “I should have heard it from you.”
“You want to hear it from me? Fine. I’m Peter Pan’s grandson…” He leaned so he could say against the shell of her ear, “But I’m not untouchable.”
Her breathing hitched. “Prove it.”
He wanted to. But she had no idea what she was asking. “Vivienne, you’re drunk.”
“I’m tipsy but I’m not drunk.” Another poke. “And I want you to prove it.”
Prove it.
Prove he wasn’t untouchable.
Prove that all of this was for her.
Prove that he couldn’t get her out of his head.
Prove that his heart was in bloody ribbons in the snow.
“That’s what I thought.” Vivienne’s lips curled into a derisive smile. “Go ahead and fly away, little boy who’ll never grow—”
His lips crashed against hers, and his hands tangled in her hair, and he dragged her back onto the snowy bench. His ass and back were getting soaked, but he didn’t give a shit because there was a beautiful girl on top of him, clinging to his collar like her life depended on it. And she tasted so damn good, like champagne and strawberries, and her tongue moved in and out of his mouth the way he wished he could be moving in and out of her body, and if he died now, he would die happy.