Don’t get me started on the body I’m pressed against. I can feel the thick cords of muscles flexing in his arms beneath the suit jacket I know he couldn’t have borrowed from Noah because it’s too fitted to his body. These muscles are toned and sculpted from years of playing and coaching hockey—covered in intricate ink that make him look like the badass he is on the ice. The suit he’s in is far cry from the usual jeans and flannel he prefers, and sadly covering the broad shoulders and lickable six-pack abs I know he has. The pants, though fitted, do little to show off the kind of thick thighs that can propel him faster than anybody I’ve ever seen.
Internally, I sigh over the perfect specimen saving me from another painful conversation about my mother. Marigold never stops until she gets what she wants, but she’s met her match with me. My mom, and her previous career, is off limits for a reason.
Who wouldn’t get a little swoony when they see a man like the one standing beside me? The problem is that the person whose big hand curls around the small of my waist and squeezes once is the wrong Scott brother.
The one who should be holding me is Noah—my best friend. My date to this stupid party that was his idea to come to in the first place. The very 20-year-old being called our generations Brad Pitt. Charming. Hot. Desired by industry reps and fans alike.
Except there’s one tiny problem.
I’ve had a crush on his older brother basically the entire time I’ve known him.
The brother with his arm around my waist.
The one smiling at me.
Dairen Scott.
Better known as Daire.
As in truth or—
“Daire,” I squeak, voice a little higher than normal and making his cheek twitch with the rise of his lips. “I mean…hi, Daire.”
His chuckle is low as he leans down to close the gap between our vastly different heights to press his lips against the top of my head. My 5’4” is nothing to his 6’3”.
My heart thumps wildly as I glance at the wide-eyed Marigold watching the mild PDA unfold in front of her. When her lips start to slowly rise, I know I’m in for it. “My, my Ms. Peters. You certainly are more interesting than I thought you were.”
The backhanded compliment stings, but I choose not to say anything. I mean, it’s never been me she’s wanted to talk about whenever she’s approached me places. I’ve learned to brush her off the best I can.
Daire on the other hand? His arm tenses around me as he pulls me closer, nuzzling his nose into the dyed red and orange ombre hair I curled into chunky waves and let rest loose over my shoulders for the evening. “Don’t listen to her. She’s just jealous she won’t get to see the size of my cock tonight.”
My face blasts with heat as a few people nearby turn with interest at the statement he definitely didn’t mumble. I glare knowing that will wind up online by the night’s end. “What are you doing here?”
His smirk grows. “Noah couldn’t make it. But don’t worry. I think we both know that he sent the better Scott brother.”
Daire shoots Marigold a wink and then pulls me toward the exit.
Even though I should, I don’t fight him.
Chapter 2
Daire
* * *
There are a million reasons why coming here and eyeing the leggy redhead talking up a platinum blonde who looks like she has a stick up her ass is a bad idea.
One of them has to do with our different lifestyle choices. Whereas her tight little body is wrapped in clothing brands more expensive than my mortgage payment, the monkey suit that I’m in is one I found on the clearance rack to wear to award ceremonies and stuffy functions like this one. She’s holding onto a flute of champagne like it’s her lifeline, and I’m holding onto a cheap beer just to keep myself busy while I watch her talk it up with people.
Snobby, pretentious people with deep pockets and huge egos that help fill the space currently covered in expensive Christmas decorations to celebrate the upcoming holiday. I know the types lingering here thanks to my little brother’s involvement with them in the industry for most of his life.
The Noah Scott—America’s heartthrob.
The boy-next-door-turned-celebrity that makes all the teenage girls, and some guys, go crazy. Ever since Mom pushed him into an audition for some soap opera pilot that a big-time network was hosting, he was a star.
Born to be famous, is what the media said when he landed his first gig at eight-years-old. A natural, is what the talent agent told our mother along with about every manager and team member Noah has had since.
Not a day has gone by where people haven’t blown smoke up the boy’s ass. He’s worth millions, so the people that work for him know when and how to kiss his ass to earn an extra wad of cash.
But me? I’m not one of those people.
I know Adelaide Peters isn’t one either, though the world doesn’t see it that way. She’s been my little brother’s best friend since they were pimply pre-teens going to the same ritzy ass private school for the gifted. The difference is, Noah made it big when he was younger, and Addy’s fame has only just begun in the past couple of years. People tie her success to her friendship with my brother, not because she earned it.
But she has.
I watched her through each of her awkward phases, never giving up no matter the criticism she got along the way. It was always something that had her shoulders weighing down whenever she’d come over to my parents’ condo with Noah in tow. She was told she was too fat, too short, or not naturally pretty enough for this or that role. Degrading bullshit that nobody seemed to counter except me.
Not even my jackass sibling said anything whenever she was visibly upset by the remarks of people who determined their success in this world. I remember the day she came to my parents’ place and started looking up makeup tutorials on YouTube because Noah said learning how to apply makeup to look older could help her get more attention from agents. But me? I told her she shouldn’t waste her time trying to impress people whose heads were shoved too far up their asses to see straight.
It was my way of trying to tell her she looked pretty without saying the words or crossing any lines. Truth is, I preferred her when she filled out her school uniforms and jeans more. She had the kind of curves that a lot of grown women would be jealous of, but she decided to ignore all my subtle compliments—after turning red from them—and go through a ridiculous makeover anyway.
Does she look pretty? Yes.
The girl I’ve known for years is still the beautiful one she’s always been. She just fits the part she’s meant to play in this life. But to me, she’s too thin. Too fake. Too done up with her caked-on makeup. And how the fuck are those shoes comfortable? They’re hot as hell and make her look like she has legs for days, but they have to be squeezing her feet to death.
Despite all those reasons as to why I shouldn’t be paying so much attention to her, I’m not sorry for causing a scene and carting her off. It isn’t like she was having fun anyway. If anything, her tense body language was begging for anybody to get her out of there. And when I got a text from Noah earlier asking to pick her up because he couldn’t make it all the sudden, I was more than willing.
Way more than I should have been.