Page 96 of Hate You More

“Impossible. He doesn’t like anyone.”

“I just want to make the right kind of impression.”

“I know.” Her tiny sigh sounds like resignation, clever fingers warm against my wrist. “Come on. Let’s go out to the garden and dance before Vanessa finds me doing something interesting.”

“Is that my new name now?”

The peal of laughter draws more than a few curious looks. But Clara doesn’t give a fuck. One of these days, I’ll get to live my life like her.

I offer her my arm, and she takes it, pressing close as we cross the foyer. “You did tell your dad you invited me, didn’t you?”

“He said I could invite friends.”

Dammit. She never wants to talk about her dad, but I hear what Mom says about his uptight personality. Clara is his only kid, and it sounds like he doesn’t want to loosen the reins.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s better this way.”

Better for who, I find myself thinking, though not for long. With Clara on my arm, I feel ten feet tall. The way she looks at me makes me feel worthy, but in this house, I’m not fooling myself. My presence is unwanted. I’m not one of them, and together, we are an aberration.

We make our way to the back of the house. It’s open plan, vaulted ceilings, the color scheme a million shades of white. Walls, couches, rugs, soft furnishings, even the flowers are all pale. And there are people everywhere. Men in summer-weight suits and frozen-faced women decked out in pastel gowns. They’re all holding glasses—wine as red as blood, amber liquids, clear ones with lemon twists floating like decorations. And no one is giving a fuck about spills or stains or water rings. Not until my mother comes in tomorrow morning, I guess. Hair pinned, sleeves rolled, all quiet industry while the family fucks around.

It’s not fair, but that’s life. And it won’t always be this way for her. I didn’t get a full ride at UConn for being stupid. I chose my courses carefully. Applied economics and finance will take me far. I’ll take me far, my determination.

I’m headed for the world of banking, aiming for a hedge fund. One day in the not-too-distant future, I’ll have money, and the only spills my mom will worry over will be the dollar bills that spill from her purse.

Clara turns, ahead of me now, her hand still in mine. Bright and restless, my summer spark is like a lightning bug, always chasing her next thought. Her next escapade. She’s so beautiful, and the way she looks at me makes me long to belong. The sensation twists inside like a knife.

“So sorry!” A woman bumps into me, and my contact with Clara breaks. “And just who might you be?” Her eyes run over me like I’m a bull at a state fair.

Old enough to be your son. “Me? I’m no one.” With a grin, I move away. No one on the way to being someone. Just ask my girl.

Clara throws me a smile over her shoulder. “Hurry, Troy. I just love this song.”

The doors to the huge terrace have been thrown open, the sultry summer air and the honeyed tones of a bluesy voice drifting in. The terrace has been strung with a million lights. At least, that’s what it felt like earlier when I was up that fucking ladder.

Clara leads me down the honey-colored steps to the dance floor, the sky an endless sea of blue-black rain clouds overhead. It feels like an omen or a portent, but no one else seems to notice as Clara skirts the dance floor.

“I thought you wanted to dance.”

“I do.” She offers me her profile along with her answer, and my cock pulses. I can’t pretend I don’t know what this is. But fuck, I’d follow her anywhere.

Down the stone steps, the party lights fading, her heels clicking, the music softening to a distant hum. The trees grow thicker, the gardens wilder. Just like my pulse.

“Here.” Clara stops abruptly, her face half in shadow as she turns.

“Why are we hiding?”

“So I can do this.” Two steps, and her fingers fold around my lapels, her breath sweet and light as her lips meet mine. I slip my hand under her hair as I take over, soft and teasing drawing out into something else. Something hotter. Wetter. Deeper. The air between us suddenly electric. I want her. Here. Now. Her back pressed against the trunk of a tree. On her knees in the dewy grass. Any of it. All of it.

“We shouldn’t,” I growl the reminder to myself. “Not here.” Yet my hand still slides down to cup her ass, pulling her closer. “Fuck, this ass.” I knead her taut flesh as I grind against her.

“Not here. Not that.” I hear her amusement and the suggestion in her tone.

“Didn’t sound like an outright no.”

“Troy Templeton,” she purrs as her lips graze my ear. “Are you saying you’d like to stick it in my butt?”

I pull back a little. “Well, like you said, not here.”