Free Sweet Cheeks by K. Bromberg Page A

of her. The grown man I am kind of likes it. Knowing she can handle her own is definitely a plus.
    “Why do you care?” Her question throws me. The defensive tone even more so.
    “Not sure. Maybe being with you makes me feel like my old self. Reminds me of who I used to be before I . . .” I shrug as my words trail off with the realization that I just stepped on a land mine of sorts: acknowledging my life before means having to acknowledge how I left and never looked back. It was when my life was so much simpler without the constant pressure of the paparazzi and fans. When I could get a pizza without cameras flashing or date a woman I knew really liked me for me. When there were no rumors about cheating I had to ignore because I was being the good guy and taking the fall to protect my future.
    “Before you walked out and left me confused and heartbroken without saying a word? You mean that before ?” Her voice rises in pitch with each word. Hurt flashes in her gaze, clear as day through the moonlit night.
    I did that to her.
    And I fucking hate the sight of it. Maybe that’s because I was too much of a pussy to face it. Then again maybe it was because I took that once-in-a-lifetime shot I was given and ran with it, made a killer life for myself, and if I came back, one look at her might have sucked me back in.
    I was right . There’s no denying the tug on my heart seeing her again. The reemergence of feelings I thought had died.
    Shit. I was young and inexperienced back then. Let the allure of Hollywood rule my thoughts and own my heart.
    It still owns my heart. The thing is, I’m not young or inexperienced anymore. Could the man I am now handle both her and Hollywood?
    Jesus Christ, Whitley. What are you even thinking ? Do you not see the hurt in her eyes? The defense in her posture? You’re the one who put it there .
    Guilt returns with a vengeance. The least I can do is give her an honest answer. “ Exactly . That before . ” My tone is even; my gaze unwavering.
    “Huh.”
    “Huh?” How am I supposed to take that response?
    “Yeah. Huh .”
    “Do you care to elaborate?” My chuckle is strained as I try to figure what she means with the sound. Hell, more like as I try to figure her out.
    “Nah. Just trying to gauge how big your ego is to think I’d want to see you ever again.”
    “It’s obviously not too big, since I fit in the door to the tree house.” She fights a smile but fails so she looks back to the stars in the sky rather than show me I’ve gotten to her. Cracked that tough-girl façade with the help of her ability to suck down the drinks tonight.
    “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
    “See. It’s that right there. That’s why you being the old you is what I need. You’re not afraid to call me out. Everyone else just wants to kiss my ass.”
    “I’ve got a bunch more names I can call you if you want me to keep going.”
    “You always were creative.” Her eyes flicker to mine and then down to where her fingers are peeling some paint on the floor beside her.
    “A treasure trove of names, in fact.”
    She completely ignores my comment so I adjust my tactics. “Lay them on me, drunk girl.”
    “I am not drunk.” Her eyes meet mine, lips pouting, with a crease in her forehead. “Can’t a girl go out and have a good time without getting shit for it?”
    She snorts again and it’s fucking adorable. I bite my lip to keep from smiling because right now, I don’t think she wants to be anything close to adorable. She wants to stand her ground and prove to me she doesn’t want anything to do with me. But it’s damn hard not to react when she follows the snort by rubbing the back of her hand over her nose.
    Because right now she looks like the pesky Saylor—Ryder’s little sister who used to annoy us when we were playing video games. The whiny voice and skinned knees. The roll of her eyes when I called her Ships Ahoy to annoy her. All that’s missing is the row of freckles