Just like magic.

Revealing a luscious heart-shaped ass that deserves to be worshipped and glorified. I think I whimper again, but I can’t be sure.

As she walks up the stairs, she doesn’t look over her shoulder at me, doesn’t call my name. She doesn’t have to.

Because I’m already moving forward.

I follow her up the stairs to the bedroom.

And close the door behind us.

11

I wait patiently on the chaise longue in the corner, legs stretched out, watching her. Enjoying the pretty picture she makes lying in the middle of my big bed.

Without warning, Kennedy bolts straight up, so fast that her long honey-colored hair covers her face. She blows at it with a puff of breath, eyes darting around the room. She glances down at her body, covered in my black Spider-Man T-shirt—the one I had to practically put her in a headlock to get on her.

“Morning, cupcake.” I smile.

She glares.

“Did you have sex with me?”

I tap my lips with a finger, contemplating her question.

“I can’t decide if I’m more offended that you think we’d have sex while you were shitfaced—or that you actually think you wouldn’t remember it if we had.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course we didn’t have sex. Not from any lack of trying on your part, by the way. I felt so objectified. Does all alcohol turn you into a cat in heat, or just scotch specifically?”

If it’s the latter, I’m buying stock in it. Maybe a whole company.

She covers her face and lies back on the bed. “Fuck my life. Fuck it hard.”

“Let’s be careful with the imagery—not sure I can handle a hard-on right now.”

Or harder-on, if I’m being completely honest.

I check my watch. “We haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. Three, two, one—”

My phone rings on the table beside me.

I bring it to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”

News travels fast—and news of your children potentially hooking up with the person you picked out for them when they were three years old? That’s fucking warp-speed fast.

My mother dives headfirst into the interrogation.

“Yes, she’s right here.” I smile at Kennedy, who peeks out at me from behind her hands of shame, looking miserable.

“No, Mom, we didn’t elope. Sorry to disappoint.”

I cover the phone with my palm and give Kennedy the bad news. “Your mother’s looking for you.”

She fully covers her eyes.

But she groans when she hears my answer to my mother’s next question.

“No, Kennedy’s not pregnant with my child. At least—not that I know of.”

A pillow comes flying at my head.

And I respond to my mother’s next question. “She didn’t officially say no to Prince’s proposal—but the odds look pretty good it’ll go down that way the next time she sees him.” I laugh. “A picture, huh? I’ll check it out. Yeah, I think we make a handsome couple too.”

“Where’s my phone?” Kennedy moan-hisses.

“Listen, Mom, I have to go, okay? Yes, I’ll call you back later. No, we can’t put this in the family newsletter. I love you too. Bye.”

I tap the end button and watch as Kennedy drags herself to the edge of the bed. I tilt my head, trying to get another look at the paradise I glimpsed last night.

I’ve been a good, chivalrous guy. I think that deserves a reward.

“My mother says hi, by the way. Your phone is in your purse next to the bed, but it’s dead—your mother killed it last night with call after unanswered call.”

Kennedy’s feet hit the floor. She takes a deep breath, then slowly stands. “They’re going to disown me.”

“Would that really be so bad?”

She limps toward the chair where her clothes are neatly folded.

“Father always wanted a boy. Mother never liked me. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for. They’re going to disinherit me.”

I stand, walking toward her. “I’ll cover you with a loan. At very attractive interest rates—that’s what friends are for.”

Finally her eyes meet mine, and she looks so despondent my heart twists.

“My life is a mess, Brent.”

I brush her hair back. “If you want to make an omelet, you gotta break some eggs. And you, my Little Lush, deserve only gourmet. Your parents will get over it. Everything’s gonna be okay—I promise.”

• • •

Before I drive Kennedy home, I change out of last night’s clothes into running shorts and a T-shirt. She climbs out of my car wearing my sweatpants. And even folded at the ankle and cuffed to death at her waist, they’re about twelve sizes too large.

She looks fucking adorable.

As we get to her front porch, the rear door of a black SUV with tinted windows parked at the curb opens. And out steps David Prince—dark sunglasses on his face, his brown hair perfectly sideswept and visibly hair sprayed.

Though I’m annoyed that the bastard hasn’t even given Kennedy the morning to process, I’m delighted that I’ll be around for this little exchange. ’Cause I really want to watch her tell him to screw off. And if she’s not feeling up to it, I’ll do it for her.

I follow Kennedy through her door and Prince slips in behind me. He closes the door and they square off a few feet apart in the middle of a tastefully decorated living room. I position myself next to the beige couch, far enough away to let their confrontation play out but close enough to step between them if needed.