Page 14

The party smells like cheap beer and desperation, the air thick with smoke and sweat. From my corner near the kitchen, I can see everything without being seen — like watching a play where I've been mysteriously written out of the script. I take another sip of my too-sweet drink, the alcohol warming my blood even as my heart stays cold.

For the past hour, I've been watching Cade and his brother laugh together in their own private bubble across the room. The same brother he claimed to hate. The same brother who stole his girlfriend. Yet there they are, heads thrown back in laughter at some shared joke while I stand here, broken and alone.

"You okay?" Mina appears beside me, her lipstick slightly smudged from being with Jake.

"Fantastic," I reply, the bitterness in my voice unmistakable. "Having the time of my life watching men be complete hypocrites."

Mina follows my gaze to where Cade and Sanderson are deep in conversation. "They seem brotherly."

"Exactly. Where's all that hatred he supposedly felt? All that betrayal?" I drain my cup in one long swallow, welcoming the burn. "Guess it's easy to forgive when you're a guy. Just high-five it out and pretend nothing happened."

"Say…" Mina's tone carries a warning, but I ignore it.

"Meanwhile, Byron won't even look at me. Won't answer my texts. Probably has me blocked." The alcohol loosens my tongue, gives voice to the thoughts I've been trying to drown all week. "And Cade's over there thriving like last weekend never happened. Like I never happened."

"Wait. You texted Byron? Say, maybe you should slow down," Mina suggests, eyeing my empty cup with concern.

"Maybe they should stop being such assholes," I counter, moving toward the drink table for a refill. "I'll be fine. Go back to Jake. Don't let my shitty attitude ruin your night."

She hesitates, then squeezes my arm before disappearing back into the crowd. I pour myself another drink, stronger this time, and return to my surveillance post. Just in time to see Sanderson getting up to leave, clapping Cade on the shoulder in brotherly affection before heading for the door.

And then, as if sensing my attention, Cade turns. Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and something electric passes between us. Recognition. Awareness. The shared memory of what happened in the bedroom down the hall in this very house last weekend.

He doesn't look away. Neither do I. The noise of the party recedes, the space between us charged with unspoken accusations.

I scowl.

After what feels like minutes but must be seconds, he stands. Still holding my gaze, he walks deliberately toward the hallway. Just before turning the corner, he glances back at me, then disappears.

The same hallway as last weekend. The same bedroom?

Is he trying to lure me in there? The thought sends conflicting waves of anger and heat through my body. Or is he simply using the private bathroom, away from the drunken crowd?

I should stay put. Should finish my drink and call an Uber and go home and forget I ever saw him tonight. But the alcohol in my veins has other ideas. It wants answers. It wants confrontation. It wants to know why he can laugh with his brother while I'm drowning in shame. Why he and Byron are friendly in the hallway while I'm treated like I'm invisible.

Before I can second-guess myself, I'm moving, pushing through dancing bodies toward the hallway. The music grows fainter as I approach the closed door at the end — the same door from last weekend. I test the handle. Unlocked.

I step inside, closing the door behind me and turning the lock with a decisive click. The room is empty, but I can hear water running in the adjoining bathroom. So, he was just using the toilet. Not luring me here.

The knowledge should make me turn around and leave before he sees me. Instead, I wait, heart pounding against my ribs, anger swirling in my chest.

The water stops. Footsteps approach. And then he's there, rounding the corner from the bathroom, freezing when he sees me standing in the dimly lit room.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and something inside me ignites.

"What is your problem?" I demand, the words tearing from my throat. "How can you hook up with me, tell Byron about it, act like I'm nobody? Then here you are at this party trying to lure me into the same bedroom we hooked up in?"

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, infuriatingly calm. "I didn't lure you anywhere, Saylor. You followed me. I just needed the bathroom." His eyes track over my face, my body. "I think you've had too much to drink."

"You're right about that," I agree, my voice sharp. "I'm wasted. Drinking away my sorrows while you're over there laughing it up with your brother who you don't fucking like by the way."

I take a step toward him, propelled by liquid courage and mounting frustration. "Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now? I have never hated anyone more than I hate you in this moment."

Something shifts in his expression — a darkening of his eyes, a slight parting of his lips. He pushes off the wall, moving toward me with deliberate slowness.

"You know," he says, voice dropping lower, "you're really hot when you're mad. When you hate me." Another step closer. "Are you doing it on purpose? Trying to drive me crazy?"

"You're clearly crazy," I reply, but my voice has lost some of its edge. He's too close now, his familiar scent — soap and mint and something distinctly male — wrapping around me like a dangerous memory.

"What are you wearing under there?" he asks abruptly, eyes scanning my outfit. "Did you buy new lingerie like you said you would?"

The boldness of the question jolts me from whatever trance I was falling into. I move away, putting distance between us, retreating to the far side of the room.

"What is wrong with you?" My voice shakes slightly, from anger or something else. "Do you know how miserable I've been all week?" I stare at him, wondering if he can see that my heart is cracking open. "What happened with Byron? How are you two still friends?"

His expression softens slightly. "Byron isn't talking to me. And I'm sorry about that day in the hallway. I thought you were pissed off and wouldn't want to talk to me."

"It's pretty clear you choose him over me," I snap.

Cade shakes his head. "We've been friends for years, Saylor. That doesn't just disappear after one mistake."

The word 'mistake' lands like a blow. "A mistake," I repeat, tasting the bitterness. "Is that really what it was? A mistake?"

"What would you call it?"

I don't have an answer. What was it? A drunken hookup? The best sex of my life? A momentary insanity? I hate not knowing. Hate the confusion swirling within me. Hate the way my body remembers his touch even as my mind tries to reject it.

"I don't know," I admit finally. "But I hate being confused. And I hate how you make me feel."

A smile plays at the edges of his mouth. "Is that why you followed me in here?"

The question hits too close to home. I turn toward the door, ready to escape. "I'm leaving."

But he's faster, moving to stand between me and the exit. Not touching me, not blocking me exactly, but definitely in my path.

"Do you really hate me?" he asks, his voice gentler than before.

"Yes."

"Then why did you follow me in here?"

I don't answer, can't answer. The alcohol makes my thoughts sluggish, my emotions too close to the surface.

"Are you wearing lingerie right now?" His eyes search mine, serious suddenly. "Because if you're not, I'll drop this whole thing. You can walk out that door and we'll pretend this never happened."

The intensity in his gaze is impossible to look away from.

I should leave. My mind is telling me to get the hell out and never talk to him again, but the sudden deep throb between my legs tells me to stay. It dares me to lift my shirt and show him the lingerie I bought just for him. He raises a brow like he knows the answer, and I inhale, allowing the warmth of the alcohol and his stare give me courage.

Against all better judgment, I reach for the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly to reveal the black lace bodysuit underneath — the one I'd chosen deliberately while getting dressed, knowing he might be at this party. I know it's sickening…how I can hate him so much but want his attention at the same time.

His eyes darken with desire, pupils expanding to swallow the amber irises. Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I lower my shirt, suddenly self-conscious.

"You're a bad girl, Saylor," he says softly. "And I'm thinking you don't hate me after all."

Heat floods my cheeks. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" He steps closer. "Did you come to this party knowing I'd be here? Are you mad that I haven't pursued you? Did you wear that lingerie hoping I'd see it?"

Each question feels like a tiny dagger, exposing truths I'm not ready to face. I try to muster defiance, to rebuild the wall of anger that felt so solid moments ago, but it's crumbling beneath his knowing gaze.

Before I can form a response, his hand lifts to my cheek, fingers tracing a burning path along my jaw before curling around the nape of my neck. The touch is electric, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with hate.

"I want to test a theory," he murmurs, and then his lips are on mine.

The kiss is nothing like our first—not desperate, not frantic. It's deliberate, questioning, a hypothesis seeking proof. And God help me because I give it to him. Instead of pulling away, I lean in, my body remembering what my mind wants to forget.

When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine.

"I want to take you home," he says, voice rough. "Your place or mine. Your choice."

The decision hovers between us, weighted with consequences. Logic screams at me to walk away, to not make the same mistake twice. But my body has other ideas, drawn to his like gravity, unstoppable and inevitable.

In this moment, suspended between sense and sensation, I realize the truth I've been fighting all week: there's a thin line between hate and desire, between wanting to hurt someone and simply wanting them. And I'm balancing on that line now, uncertain which side I'll fall to.

"Why would I go anywhere with you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The question is genuine despite its defiant delivery. Why would I? Why am I even considering this when every rational part of me knows better?

Cade's thumb traces small circles at the nape of my neck, each touch sending ripples of awareness down my spine. His eyes never leave mine as he answers.

"For one, I'm positive you're only at this party because of me." The certainty in his voice should infuriate me, but the worst part is that he's right. I'd spent hours getting ready, deliberately choosing this outfit, this lingerie, knowing he might be here. "And two, I promised next time wouldn't be in some random bedroom at a party. So, choose — your place or mine?"

The implication that there was always going to be a next time hangs between us. Was this inevitable from the moment I followed him into that first bedroom? From our first real conversation in my apartment? Or even earlier, disguised as animosity all these years?

"Are you hiding it this time?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

He pulls back slightly, a surprised laugh tumbling from his lips. "No, I'm not running to tell Byron what's happening." His expression turns wry. "Learned that lesson the hard way."

"Scared because of what happened last time?" I can't resist the jab, even as I'm moving imperceptibly closer to him.

"Let's call it personal growth," he suggests, his hands settling at my waist.

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, unexpected and genuine. "Personal growth? Then what the hell does hooking up with me again mean?"

Something flickers in his eyes — vulnerability, perhaps, or simple honesty. "It means I'm not doing as well with that growth as I thought." His grip tightens slightly, fingers pressing into my hips. "Apparently I can't resist a girl who hates me. I like the challenge, mixed with a little bit of off-limits."

The admission should offend me, but instead, it sends a thrill down my spine. There's something intoxicating about being wanted despite everything—or perhaps because of it.

"If you don't want to hook up," he adds, softer now, "at least hang out with me. Let me make up for being a dick." A hint of accusation enters his tone. "Though I should remind you that you have my number. You could have texted me anytime."

He's right, of course. I could have reached out instead of stewing in my anger all week. Could have asked why he avoided me in the hallway instead of assuming the worst. Could have done a lot of things differently.

"Fine," I say, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable should allow. "But not here."

Something like victory flashes across his face, quickly masked. He steps back, offering his hand like we're in some old-fashioned movie. "After you."

Against every screaming warning from my better judgment, I follow him out of the room. The party seems louder now, more chaotic, or maybe that's just the thundering of my pulse in my ears. I spot Mina near the makeshift dance floor, Jake's arms wrapped around her waist as they sway to a song that's too fast for such movement.

"I'm leaving," I tell her, leaning in to be heard over the music.

Her eyes flick to Cade, standing a deliberate foot behind me, then back to my face. A knowing smile curves her lips, but concern shadows her eyes. "Be careful," she mouths, giving my arm a squeeze.

Outside, the night air is cool against my flushed skin. Stars pepper the sky above campus, indifferent witnesses to what might be the second biggest mistake of my life — or perhaps just the continuation of the first.

Cade's car is parked a block away, a dark sedan that somehow fits him perfectly — not flashy but undeniably expensive in a subtle way. He opens the passenger door for me, another unexpectedly gentlemanly gesture that doesn't align with the image I've constructed of him.

Once he slides into the driver's seat, the interior feels impossibly small. He hasn't even started the engine when he turns to me, eyes dark and serious in the dim glow from the dashboard.

"You have no idea how badly I want you."

The words land like a physical touch, sending heat coursing through my veins. I've been desired before, but never like this — never with this raw honesty that strips away pretense.

He starts the car but doesn't shift into drive yet.

"I thought we were just hanging out?" I question.

He grins, not disagreeing.

"My place," I say. "My roommates won't tell Byron."

The unspoken acknowledgment that we're still hiding, still wrong, hangs in the air between us. But he just nods, putting the car in drive. As we pull away from the curb, his hand finds my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns through the denim of my jeans. Each touch is casual yet deliberate, a promise of what's to come that makes my breath catch.

The drive to my apartment feels both endless and too short. Neither of us speaks, the silence filled with anticipation and the gentle stroke of his thumb against my leg. When we arrive, I lead him up the stairs, irrationally nervous about what awaits inside.

Chloe is sprawled on the couch in her pajamas, a textbook open on her lap and a nature documentary playing on low volume. She looks up as we enter, her expression shifting from surprise to understanding in the span of a heartbeat.

"Hey, Chlo," I say.

Her eyes move from me to Cade, taking in our body language, the tension vibrating between us. "Hi," she replies simply, no judgment in her voice.

A nervous laugh escapes me as I grab Cade's hand, pulling him down the hallway to my bedroom. The moment the door closes behind us, I turn the lock. Whatever happens next, we've chosen it with clear intentions.

I shrug off my jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a gesture that feels symbolic somehow. "This is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done," I admit, voicing the thought that's been circling my mind since I followed him out of the party.

"Definitely not," Cade disagrees, stepping closer. His fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with unexpected tenderness. "Believe me, I've done much stupider things."

"Like telling Byron about us?" The question isn't meant to wound, but I see him flinch slightly anyway.

"Like thinking I could forget about this — about you — after one night." His honesty disarms me, strips away my defenses one by one. "Like pretending I wasn't looking for you at that party tonight."

My heart stutters in my chest. "You were looking for me?"

"From the moment I walked in." He traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, tilting my face up to his. "I told myself I was just being cautious, making sure we didn't have another awkward hallway moment. But that was a lie."

"What was the truth?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, breathless and uncertain.

"The truth is that I've been thinking about you all week," he confesses. "Replaying that night over and over. Wondering if it would ever happen again."

The admission shouldn't affect me the way it does, shouldn't make me feel both powerful and vulnerable simultaneously. But knowing that he's been just as haunted as I have, just as unable to forget, soothes something raw inside me.

"I have, too," I whisper, the confession like releasing a weight I didn't know I was carrying. "Even while I was telling myself how much I hate you."

A small smile touches his lips. "And do you? Still hate me?"

The question hangs between us, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex. Do I hate him? The arrogant, infuriating Cade who dismisses me in hallways and reconciles with his brother while I suffer alone? Maybe. But this Cade, who looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once? Who admits to wanting me despite his better judgment?

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "I want to."

"But?" he prompts, eyes never leaving mine.

"But I also want you," I admit, the words both terrifying and liberating. "And I can't seem to make those two things fit together in my head."

He steps closer, until our bodies are almost touching, the heat of him palpable through our clothes. "Maybe they're not supposed to fit together," he suggests. "Maybe this is messy and complicated and doesn't make sense."

"Then why are we doing it?"

His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with a gentleness that contradicts the hunger in his eyes. "Because some things are worth the mess."

When his lips meet mine, it feels like surrendering and conquering all at once. His kiss is questioning at first, giving me space to pull away, to change my mind. But as my arms wind around his neck, drawing him closer, all hesitation vanishes. He kisses me like he's starving, like I'm essential, and something inside me unfurls in response.

We move backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, our bodies still pressed together as if separation might break whatever spell we've cast. His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers skimming the sensitive skin beneath.

"Is this okay?" he asks against my lips, ever cautious despite the desire evident in his touch.

"Yes," I breathe, the single syllable carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, really look at me, his eyes searching mine for any sign of doubt or regret. Finding none, he smiles — not the cocky smirk I'm used to, but something softer, more genuine.

"We can stop anytime," he promises, and I believe him. "Just say the word."

But as his fingers trace the edge of the lace bodysuit beneath my shirt, as his lips kiss my neck, stopping is the furthest thing from my mind. Tonight, I'll worry about the consequences tomorrow. Tonight, I'll allow myself this impossible connection, this desire that defies logic and common sense.

Tonight, I'll embrace the contradiction of wanting someone I should hate, and let the pieces fall where they may.