Page 6 of Don't Say You're Sorry

“What? Why?”

“Because I just punched someone, and my stepmother can’t know it was me.”

A knot forms between her brows as she looks up at me, then down at my hand. Nodding, she excuses herself from the girl she was flirting with and wraps her hand around mine, hiding itfrom sight as we make our way toward the exit. I feel eyes on my back as we wait for the valet to bring my car around, but I don’t turn back. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.

My car finally arrives, and I hastily open the passenger side door for Frankie.

“Easton!”

Jesus Christ.That voice. That goddamn British accent. My name on his lips…

I almost stop. Almost turn around and fucking run right to him.

I get in the car. I still don’t turn around, but I can’t resist the rearview. He’s just standing there, frozen, outside the double doors. His dark hair is longer than it was the last time I saw him, falling over his hazel eyes, and his upper lip is smeared with blood, his fists clenched at his sides as if he’s having to force himself to stay put.

He doesn’t chase me. He won’t make a scene. Hecan’t. Not here. But still…

Come on. Fucking chase me, you asshole.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“Easton, who is that?” Frankie asks, turning in her seat to look at him.

Curling my fingers around the steering wheel, I tear my eyes away from the mirror and press down on the gas. “Adam,” I breathe his name. “My stepbrother.”

CHAPTER 3

ADAM

Closing the door of my rental car, I take in the huge, two-story house before me.

After my nose finally stopped bleeding, I cleaned myself up and went to find my mum. She didn’t suspect anything. Easton didn’t hit me hard enough to leave a mark. Just hard enough to get his point across:fuck you.

She asked where Easton went, and I told her he wasn’t feeling well and that I was going to check on him. She seemed concerned, but she didn’t push for more. She let me go and told me to have him call her when he could.

Two years ago, my mum told me Easton moved out of the apartment we were supposed to move into together and moved in with hisgirlfriend. It hurt more than I thought it would, the thought that he was finally giving up on me, onus, but I couldn’t tell her that. Not without telling herwhyit hurt me so much. When he and his girlfriend broke up last year and he moved into this house with his teammates, I was relieved, then pissed at myself for being so. Who the fuck was I to revel in his pain?I’mthe one who deserves to be in pain. Not him. Never him. He deserves to be happy. Iwantedhim to be happy. Just not with anyone else…

Self-loathing and shame make my throat feel tight as I raise my fist to knock on his front door. A few moments later, the girl Easton was with tonight opens it.

“You.”

“Me,” the girl says, folding her arms across her chest and popping her hip out, blocking the doorway, as she stares at me. She’s changed out of the deep purple dress she was wearing at the party and into a tiny pair of pajama shorts and a Nirvana T-shirt. Again, I notice how beautiful she is, and it infuriates me.

She continues to stare at me, and I sigh. “Is he here?”

She doesn’t answer, sizing me up as if she’s trying to determine whether I’m a threat or not.

“Frankie,” a male voice calls from inside. “Who is it?”

“Easton’s stepbrother,” Frankie replies, not taking her eyes off me as the guy joins her.

Wearing low-riding sweats and no shirt, his abs on full display, his dark blond hair wet with sweat, and a towel draped around his neck, Carter Westwood cocks his head at me. “You’re Easton’s stepbrother?”

I nod. He nods. Then his hand clutches my jacket, and he slams me back against the doorframe, his forearm against my throat. Just as he’s about to hit me, a voice I’d recognize anywhere says, “Carter,” and he freezes. He doesn’t punch me, but he doesn’t let me go either, his face inches from mine.

Stunned, I turn my head and look into the house, finding Easton standing with his back against the wall in the entryway. He’s still wearing his tuxedo, his hands tucked into his pockets, his posture much like it was in the bathroom tonight before he punched me. He’s even got the same knowing little smile on his lips.

“Take your hands off him,” he says, licking his top lip when Carter doesn’t move right away. “Now, Carter.”