The Worst Kind of Promise (Riverside Reapers Book 2)

FAYE

Half the week’s already flown by. Despite all the years I’ve known Kit, I have no idea what’s going on. He’s been acting strange. Stranger than usual.

Don’t get me wrong, so have I. Fighting the attraction I have for him has been nearly impossible. Just the other morning, when I was making myself coffee, he had to scoot by to grab something, and his hand brushed my waist. The space was small. So small that my ass got pretty cozy with his dick. This is all new territory for me. New, scary territory. Especially with a man so large that he could dominate me without barely lifting a finger.

It took me a second to recover. No meditative breathing or long walks could sate the overpowering animal inside me that hungers for him.

We haven’t spent that much time together, but I’ve chalked it up to him not wanting to come off as too suspicious. Now I’m wondering if it’s something I said or did. The dynamic’s definitely changed. I was stupid to think it wouldn’t.

Aside from the Kit fiasco, everything else has been smooth sailing. My brother hasn’t pried, which is a very good thing. Aeris told me that she and Lila want to treat me to lunch soon. In a testosterone-filled house, that’s a relief I didn’t know I’d need. The guys have been respectful, accepting, treating me like the same old Faye.

But worry rears its ugly head, because I’m currently in a Costco with my brother, shopping for party necessities. I was caught off guard when the party was first mentioned, but now I need the distraction. Hell, I welcome it. Not working or having school has left me alone with my thoughts, and my thoughts and I don’t get along.

Hayes loads the cart up with 24-packs of beers, basically shoving aside the hot dogs, burger patties, and inflatable basketball hoop we’ve bought so far. My flip-flops slap against the concrete floor as we walk, one of our cart’s wheels screeching underneath the sheer weight.

“Jesus. Do you need this much alcohol?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. I only drink on occasion, but I’ve seen my brother go through cases in a single weekend.

He laughs, digging around for the crinkled list in his terrifying beach shorts. They’re bright yellow with printed tropical fish and palm trees. “Did you forget this is going to be a team party?”

“So a huge dong party basically.”

Hayes squares his jaw. “Faye, that’s disgusting.”

“Then even the ratio,” I say.

“Low-key, remember? Aeris will kill me if there’s a bunch of puck bunnies roaming the house.” Hayes pushes the cart along until we get to the condiment aisle, where he sweeps equal amounts of ketchup and mustard bottles off the shelf. As we push our way into a more miscellaneous aisle, he grabs a crossword puzzle book.

“A crossword puzzle?” Hayes doesn’t like puzzles. Never has. Says they’re manufactured to be unsolvable.

He shrugs. “Aeris likes crossword puzzles.”

His comment wrings a smile from my lips, and I sock my brother on the arm.

“Ow!” He glowers at me as he rubs the target zone.

“You’re going to marry her, right? I mean, puzzles are a pretty big deal. You don’t compromise with anyone.”

“I compromise with people.”

“Stop deflecting,” I hiss, grabbing the ballpoint pen from my brother’s back pocket and crossing some of the items off the list. “Do. You. Want. To. Marry. Her?”

He dawdles, barely pushing the cart, smearing his hand down his face like he’d rather be anywhere else but here answering my inquisition. “Of course I want to marry her, but we’ve been together less than a year.”

“Giving it time isn’t the worst decision you’ve had.” Aversion to complimenting brothers must be a hardwired sister trait.

“Thank you.” Pride hangs between each word, and I roll my eyes.

“Yes, yes. It’s a big feat for someone as stupid as you,” I mock, sheathing the pen in my short’s pocket. Out of the two of us, I’m definitely the more organized sibling. Lists and itineraries make my lady parts swoon, which is why this vacation has thrown me for such a loop. I don’t like things that are out of my control.

We round a busy aisle, passing an overwhelmed mother with a calvary of five children, all of whom are sticky-faced and snot-nosed as they run around like little gremlins. It reminds me of the students I work with. It reminds me of Pennsylvania…of familiarity.

“What about you?” He pushes me into the hot seat, waits for it to heat up, then leaves me to burn alive.

“Me?” I sputter, choking on air. The audacity. How do I unsuspiciously change the subject? Should I lie? Make up some fake boyfriend I have back in Pennsylvania? But then word’s gonna travel like wildfire, and what would Kit think?

We’re not together.

Speaking of out of my control, that’s where my feelings toward Kit seem to be.

“Yeah. How’s your love life been?”

Hah. I can’t help the roar of laughter that bursts out of me, and everyone in the vicinity stops to stare at me. I clear my throat awkwardly before shooing them back to their shopping.

“That bad, huh?” Hayes says sympathetically, inclining his head, looking like he’s about to pat me on the shoulder and say, “There, there, champ.”

I reel back from any potential consolation. “Nuh-uh. No way. Don’t look at me like that,” I demand, keeping my upturned hands between me and him in case he…hugs…me.

“Look at you like what?”

“Like a Disney cartoon dog begging for food,” I say with exasperation, wholeheartedly wishing I could uncork all my tightly wound feelings for Kit and let them go free into the world. Have someone else deal with them for a change.

Hayes leans his mile-wide shoulders over the cart to snatch some napkins. “Fine. I won’t sympathize with you.”

“Good,” I mutter triumphantly, blacking out the word NAPKINS on our list.

A bottled-up sigh. “At least tell me that Kit’s been a good host.”

Kit. Fuck.

RED ALERT! RED ALERT! WEE-WOO, WEE-WOO. BRAIN IS NOT EQUIPPED TO HANDLE SUCH SENSITIVE INFORMATION.

The punch of my pulse drowns out any other noise in my ears except for the resounding smack of my heart against my ribs. Is this what dying feels like? “Yep. Super great,” I force out, wiping my clammy palms on my frilly shorts.

Oblivious—thank God—Hayes’ eyes scan the shelves, looking for our last item on the list, which happens to be the coveted SPF 50.

“It was nice of him to drive you up.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Real nice.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking of visiting?” he asks as we meander through a throng of people. All of the aisles are beginning to blur together, or maybe that’s due to my body overheating.

The lie pierces my throat like some kind of amateur tracheotomy. Why didn’t I tell you? Oh, just because it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. Yeah, reliving a traumatic experience can make you do some crazy things.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I blurt out, picking up my pace, desperately hoping to end this shopping spree as soon as possible, or at least get in the car where I can use music as a diversion. Where is the fucking sunscreen? Why are aisles in Costco not labeled?!

My brother frowns. “You know I hate surprises.”

AHHH!

“It was Kit’s idea.”

Hayes freezes in his tracks, ponders me, then lets out a long groan. “Of course it was,” he mutters, shaking his curtain of blond hair, not bothering to move the fallen strands out of his eyes.

When in doubt, blame it on Kit. Always.

“Just promise me something.” His voice adopts a brotherly tone, one that I only hear him use when things are serious. Skin snow white and sweaty, pulse lost somewhere in purgatory, tension bunched in every muscle, I regard him.

Promises got me into this mess—the worst kind of promise too. Promise is a strong word, a commitment, something I’m not capable of right now. I can’t promise myself not to fall for Kit. I can’t promise Hayes whatever he’s about to ask; I can’t do anything.

My stomach burns with guilt. “What?”

“If at any time you want to go back home, you tell me, okay? If you just need to get away, or if the guys are too overbearing. All I ask is that you talk to me about how you’re feeling. I know how you can get when an environment is too overstimulating.”

I barely even register that Hayes has acquired the SPF 50. I don’t pull out the list and cross it off. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

“Yeah,” I lie, my feet fumbling for friction as the rug gets pulled from beneath me. “I promise.”