Redeeming (Red Lips & White Lies Book 2)

I’m not built for someone soft. I’m loud and opinionated. I talk back, refuse to listen, and sarcasm is my love language. Don’t waste my time if you can’t handle that. I won’t be changing for you.

—Caitlin’s Secret Thoughts

Oh . . . My . . . God . . .

I roll away from the sunlight shining so obnoxiously bright through my windows, it’s stabbing my eyes with a million tiny pinpricks. So much for not overdoing it last night. Oh, who am I kidding? I knew exactly what I was doing . . . At least I did until—wait . . . did I?

I look under the sheet, and sweet baby Jesus.

No.

No. No. No.

Noooooo.

Tell me I didn’t.

I throw the blankets off, and it’s still there.

Callen’s shirt.

Shit.

Stars light up my now completely non-existent vision as the room spins, and I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, begging the universe to show me I didn’t really untie my dress and let it fall in a puddle of Italian silk on the floor in front of Callen fucking Sinclair. But I already know the answer. I can smell it all over my body. Because me naked wasn’t enough to get Callen’s attention. No . . . Instead, he was horrified enough to rip his own clothes off to cover me up.

You’d think I’d have learned this lesson his senior year in college.

Guess Mom was right. I always do have to learn things the hard way.

Oh. My. God.

I bury my red-hot face under my pillow and pray for a do-over.

I don’t get it because karma is an asshole. A big, fat, hairy asshole.

Seriously . . . no woman would let me make this big of a fool out of myself.

Twice.

Nope. Karma is obviously a douchey dude.

After quite possibly the longest, scalding-hot shower of my life . . . one I spend the majority of sitting on the tile floor—which hey, at least I wasn’t in a full-on fetal position—I slide on a pair of soft sleep shorts and an oversized tee. Then I stare at my door for a full five minutes, working up the courage to face the consequences of my less than stellar decision-making skills.

It takes longer than that for me to make my way down to our kitchen, where my walking, talking nightmare is standing in drool-worthy gray sweatpants, shirtless, and looking like a daydream. He’s flipping chocolate chip pancakes on a skillet, while a piping-hot coffee pot sits freshly brewed next to him. Two mugs are steaming on the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice sitting next to a bottle of ibuprofen, and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks as I pop two pills and wash them down with the cool OJ, then slide quietly into one of the chairs.

Neither of us says anything until he walks my way and slides a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me. “Eat, Cait. The carbs and grease will help with the hangover.”

I lift my chin in an attempt at defiance that might help save my dignity, if I had any left, but actually just hurts my throbbing head instead. “Who says I have a hangover?”

Callen’s smile is cocky and gorgeous.

The ass.

He reaches out and runs a hand gently over my head and down my hair. Damn. Even that hurts. Not that I can focus on the pain. I can’t. Not when I’m too shocked he’s touching me. Something he used to do freely before I threw myself at him when I was eighteen. “Eat, Cait.”

Like I didn’t hear him the first time.

So bossy.

I bring my knees up to my chest and pick up a piece of bacon while I watch the muscles on his back move gracefully as he fills another plate and sits across from me. Callen raises his brow and waits until I actually eat mine before picking up his own fork. “Good girl.”

Damn him and his stupid sexy voice.

Time to be a big girl and face the music.

“Can we just forget about last night?”

Okay . . . maybe not my most adultish reasoning.

Whatever. Adulting is bullshit.

Callen’s eyes sparkle. “Not a chance, kitten. It’s not every day your best friend’s little sister strips naked in front of you.” He stabs half a damn pancake and shoves it into his mouth.

“Callen . . .” And, yes, I do hear how pouty I sound, but I can’t stop myself.

He washes the pancake down with coffee, watching me over the massive mug. “We don’t ever have to talk about it again. But you’re gonna need to keep your clothes on from now on.”

I roll my eyes, and he groans. “Best friend’s sister or not, Cait, you’re a beautiful woman, and you can’t go pulling that shit in front of me and expect me not to react.”

His hoarse voice holds me captive as my brain struggles to process his words, but I seem to be stuck on only one . . . beautiful.

I drop my feet to the floor and push my plate away, whispering, “You think I’m beautiful?”

Callen raises his eyes to the ceiling, and his chest expands with his deep breath.

“You know you’re beautiful, Caitlin.”

He says it so nonchalantly . . . like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said but also somehow pains him to say. Meanwhile, his words just rocked me to my core. This man. The one I’ve wanted to look at me as more since I was old enough to know what a crush was. The boy who used to slay my dragons and may have managed to save me a time or ten before he turned into Kroydon Hills’ biggest manwhore just told me I’m beautiful. And now I’m just as pissed off as I am shocked and confused.

“If I’m so beautiful, why the hell did you put clothes back on me last night, Callen? I’m guessing that was a first for you. You don’t exactly go around town turning anyone else down.”

I regret the words the minute they leave my mouth, but it’s too late to take them back.

Callen’s jaw clenches as he stabs another stupid pancake.

“Nice to know exactly what you think of me, Cait.” He pushes back from the table, furious. Shit. “I’ve never taken advantage of any woman—drunk or otherwise impaired. I don’t need to, but thanks for that.”

“Callen. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He shakes his head. “Happy birthday, Caitlin.”

My stomach churns as I watch him walk away.

Damn it.

There’s a soft knock on my door hours later before Bellamy opens it, takes one look at me sobbing on my bed, kicks off her ugly orthopedic sneakers, and curls up next to me. She looks at my TV for a moment, then fluffs the pillow behind her back. “Has he taken her out of the boat yet?”

I shake my head no. “She just saw the picture of the house in the paper.”

She slips her legs under the comforter because I like to keep the condo cold, but she hates being cold and snuggles up next to me. “Good. The boat and the swans are my favorite part.”

I turn to face my best friend. The only one I’ve ever had, and I didn’t even find her until my freshman year of college. She was new to the school and to the town so she wasn’t scared of my family the way everyone else around here is. By the time she found out who my dad is, we’d already cemented our friendship, and she’s been stuck with me since. “Did you finally bang Ross last night?”

Her half-assed shrug tells me all I need to know.

“That good, huh?”

Bellamy tucks her hands under her head. “Good is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Sorry,” I whisper and look back at the TV.

“Yeah. Me too. How was your night?” When I don’t answer, she reaches over me to grab the remote and pauses The Notebook. “Caitlin . . . what did you do?”

“You can’t tell anyone, Bellamy. No one. You understand? Not one of your brothers. Not one of the girls. No one . . .” I trail off, too exhausted to bother coming up with a forced threat I’d have no need to follow through on because my bestie would never tell a soul anything I wanted kept between us. Bellamy Wilder is awesome. Everyone should have a friend like her in their life.

“Well, don’t leave me hanging. Oh. My. God. Caitlin Beneventi—did you and Callen finally give in?”

I drag my white comforter up over my head, only for her to pull it down. “You didn’t,” she gasps, shocked.

“No,” I squeak. “We didn’t.”

“Then what aren’t you telling me?” she demands, and my stomach takes a nose dive.

“Cone of silence, Bellamy. Swear it.”

She glares back before slowly flicking me. “Really?”

“Fine.” I’d roll my eyes if I weren’t worried the motion would make me throw up. I hate hangovers. “I was really drunk and might have made Callen carry me upstairs.”

“Caitlin.” She smacks me as her shoulders shake with quiet laughter.

“Hey,” I flick her back. “Stop hitting me.”

“You made him carry you?” Her giggles grow, and now my hangover isn’t the only thing making me want to die . . . Okay—maybe just a teeny bit. I bite down on my lip and don’t answer. “Caitlin . . . what else happened?”

I contemplate not telling her for a hot second, but I need to tell someone. I’m good at a lot of things. Dealing with men isn’t exactly one of them. They tend to get scared away by my bodyguard or my father. “I kinda stripped in front of him.”

She tries to smack me again, but I catch her wrist this time.

Guess my reflexes aren’t totally shot.

“Either you stripped or you didn’t, Cait.”

“Fine. Yes. I untied my dress and stood there as it fell to the floor in my pink, lace thong and nothing else,” I admit while secondhand embarrassment washes over me again.

Wait . . . is it secondhand if it happened to me the first time?

Shit.

Maybe I’m not hungover. Maybe I’m still drunk.

“Good lord, woman. Are you going to make me work for every damn detail? What the hell happened next?”

“He stripped out of his shirt, basically forced it over my body, then shoved me into the bathroom before he put me to bed.” A niggling of something scratches at my brain just beyond my memory, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Bellamy’s eyes are alight with frustration. “Alone?”

I nod.

“Then this morning, I managed to call him a manwhore instead of thanking him for his help.”

“Oh shit,” she whispers, and I echo the sentiment. “What are you going to do?”

I blink. “I’ve got nothing . . .” I rest my head on the pillow next to hers and lie on my back. “You want to tell me what to do?”

She leans her head against mine, and I groan.

Yup. Hair still hurts.

“I’d start with an apology and go from there. It’ll just be the two of you tonight. I’m going in at six and working a double.”

“Oh come on. Seriously? You’ve got to work?”

“I already told you I’m working a double today and tomorrow, then leaving to spend a week in Maine with my mom,” she scolds me.

“Listen . . . My head is loud enough to be the drummer during a Lilah Ryan concert right now. Cut me a break if I’m processing a little slow,” I sulk.

“You’d be a sexy-as-fuck drummer,” she smiles.

Always my ride or die.

“I would, wouldn’t I?” I agree.

She laughs at me. “Uh-huh. And I’m thinking Callen’s out right now. The dogs were both snoring on the couches, but there was no sign of him. So you’ve got some time to figure out your move.”

“You mean my apology.”

Bellamy rolls away and does something on her phone. Probably setting an alarm so she can take a nap before going to the hospital. I wish I could fall asleep as easily as she does.

“I mean your next move. You’ve had a thing for Callen Sinclair for as long as I’ve known you, Cait. You’ll have the house to yourself and a big fat apology to make. See where it goes.” She pulls the blanket up under her chin and closes her eyes. “Now, watch the movie so I can catch a few hours of sleep before work.”

How come when she says it, it sounds easy, but when I try to do it, I mess it all up?