“No.” Her brow doesn’t even arch halfway before I withdraw my lie. “He was a lot of fun to be around yesterday. I didn’t realize he had such a cheeky personality. He always seemed a bit standoffish when we were in high school, but he was nothing like that last night. It was a magical seventeen hours, then he went and ruined it all by standing me up.”
Forever the romantic, moisture glistens in Sloane’s eyes when she slots the final piece of the puzzle into place. “He didn’t turn up for brunch?”
Unable to speak for the fear my voice will crack, I shake my head.
“Aww, honey.” Sloane plops her backside in the seat next to me before slinging her arm around my shoulders. “I don’t have an excuse for his actions today, but I know why he took so long to make the first move.” When my begging eyes lock with hers, she spills the beans. “Years ago, Saint made out he had a crush on you. Since he staked a claim first, Maddox couldn’t make a move. Saint said it’s in the bro-code.”
Snubbing my skyrocketing excitement that Maddox’s comment yesterday about our date being years in the making was accurate, I gabber out, “One, why would Saint do that? And two, staked a claim? What century are we in again?”
Sloane almost sends me flying to the opposite end of the couch with a playful hip bump. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. “The same century your panties moistened at the thought of being claimed by a Walsh.”
I gag at both her comment and her use of the word ‘moistened.’ “I don’t want to be claimed.”
“Then what do you want, Demi?” She asks her question as sincerely as Maddox did when he queried why I was upset when I fled the gym. She isn’t angry or snooping. She’s genuinely interested in my reply.
I mull over her question for a couple of seconds before asking, “Do I need to give you an answer right now?”
Springy curls fly in all directions when Sloane shakes her head. “But I’d love some kind of idea within the next decade.” Any unease melding in my veins evaporates when she adds, “I can’t help you reach your goals if I have no idea what they are.”
After sucking in the scent of my overpriced shampoo, she nudges her head to the door in my room. “Come on. Let’s add some whipped cream to your strawberry scented hair.” When I attempt to tell her whipped cream won’t be on the menu for a few weeks, she pushes her finger to my lips. “You said no to salads. Sugary treats were not mentioned.”
She misses the roll of my eyes. She isn’t just racing away before she can be subjected to my wrath, she’s on a mission to find the sluttiest, raunchiest, most immodest dress in my wardrobe. And for once in my life, I’m not cringing at the idea of being beautified by her.
Maddox’s attention made me hopeful for a future. I just need to determine who gets to be a part of it. A night out dancing won’t help me achieve that but neither will wallowing.
“I’ve got it,” I assure Sloane when the toot of a horn at the front of our building has her dashing out into the cold without her jacket. It’s the least I can do since she spent the last thirty minutes glamming me up like a Barbie doll. If Mattel ever makes a Cleopatra doll, I could be the prototype. That’s how exotic and glamorous I feel.
After slinging Sloane’s winter coat over my arm, I gallop down the front stairs of our building. This is one of the perks of having a ground floor apartment. Sloane can greet our collector with a kiss within seconds of racing out the front door, leaving me plenty of time to take in his flashy ride.
Saint’s car would have you believing the Walsh’s are mafia royalty, not the woman leaving a ground floor apartment in designer heels she bought at a goodwill store for twenty dollars.
When I arrive at Saint and Sloane’s side, it takes almost a crane to winch Sloane off Saint’s lips. Once Saint has her wrangled into submission—barely!—he slings his eyes to me. “Hey, Demi, nice to see you again.” The cockier his smirk becomes, the more my cheeks bloom. “What? No return greeting. I can take off my shirt if it’ll make things more comfortable for you.”
“Leave her alone, Saint.” That deep, thick, gravelly tone didn’t come from Sloane. It came from the back seat of Saint’s pricy ride—from the direction Maddox is seated. I didn’t notice him during my walk because the tint on the retro-curved windows of Saint’s car is very dark, and the sun went down hours ago.
After shimming off the panic warning me I’m walking headfirst into a disaster, I slip through the door Saint is holding open for me. Since his car is a coupé, my tumble through the tight confines almost has me landing in Maddox’s lap.
“Sorry,” I stammer out a mere inch from his crotch. “At least he’s de-mast this time around. I might have lost an eye.”
When nothing but dead quiet comes from Maddox’s side of the cab, I sink in my seat with a sigh. I’m not overly good with banter, but I was anticipating a breathy chuckle. I didn’t even get half a snicker.
Once my belt is fastened, I greet Maddox with a smile. It’s the least I can do after shoving my face into his crotch. He returns my non-verbal greeting with a dip of his chin, however, not a word seeps from his lips. His second rejection in less than twenty-four hours would be harder to swallow if his greeting wasn’t chased by him dragging his eyes down my body. It’s a little chilly, but there’s no taking from his heated gawk. I’m wearing a dress—a very fitted dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. So as much as Maddox wants to act as if I’m not in his realm, not even he can hold back the second look a dress this breathtaking demands.
“It’s vintage couture.” Not that the sale stockiest at a local thrift shop knew that. She had no clue of its value when I bargained her down to ten dollars. “It’s not really nightclub appropriate, but it’s okay to change things up occasionally, right?”
The breathy chuckle I was seeking earlier finally arrives, but it’s more a huff than a laugh.
While Saint helps Sloane into the passenger seat, I scoot closer to Maddox, suddenly fretful I almost mashed my face into the wrong Walsh brother’s crotch. It’s dark, and they do have similar features, so I could be mistaken.
Nope! There’s no mistaking the eyes glaring at me beneath hooded lids. Apart from Justine, Maddox is the only Walsh sibling with greenish-blue eyes, and if the amount of green in them is anything to go by, he’s really mad.
Great. I had more patience for brooding jerks when I was in high school. Now, I don’t have the time nor the patience for them. We all wise up eventually.
After jogging to the hanging-open driver’s side door, Saint slips behind the steering wheel, fastens his belt, then fires up the engine. The vibrations of his powerful motor are felt through the seat. It has nothing on the zap that roars through me when Maddox’s thigh brushes mine, though. He may be angrier than a bull with a cowboy strapped to his back, but he looks scrumptious enough to eat. His black slacks and button-up shirt give him a casual yet sophisticated look. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows, and the top three buttons of the dark, pinstriped material are undone. With his hair wet from a recent shower and combed back, it’s not flopped in his face like it usually is. He has the sexy, casual look down pat, and it’s setting my pulse alight.