Page 63 of Kismet

“There you are!” Stella says with a smile. “We thought you’d got lost.”

“Sorry, guys. The bar was busy. Hey, I’m gonna go outside and have a smoke real quick. I’ll be back.”

I spin on my heels and beeline for the door without waiting for a response from them. My mind is racing, and so is my fucking pulse. I need air. And to be alone before I freak the fuck out. The warm night breeze hits my face, and I already feel like I can breathe easier. Pulling out a cigarette from the pack, I stick it between my teeth and light it. Inhaling slowly, my muscles relax as my lungs fill.

My head drops back on my shoulders, eyes closed, as I blow the smoke out. What are the fucking odds the first time I come out here, I run into him? Go fucking figure.

Footsteps sound behind me, and before turning around, I justknow. I’ve always been able to sense his presence, as if the air around him has a different feel than everyone else. I don’t say anything, and I don’t open my eyes. A lighter flicks beside me. The menthol scent of a cigarette fills my senses, as does the familiar leather smell I’ve come to associate with him.

After what feels like hours, he finally breaks the silence. “Hey.”

Opening my eyes, I lower my gaze to meet his, and I’m surprised at how soft his eyes are as he takes me in.

“’Sup.” Bringing my attention straight ahead, I take another deep drag, thankful I have something to do with my hands.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here.” His voice is meek. Very unlike him.

“How could you? It’s bound to happen. I’m sure there’re not many options in this town. It’s no biggie. Really, man.”

“Sorry about Molly.” In my peripheral, I watch as he turns his body to face me. It’s unnerving, and I don’t mimic it. I can’t.

“She know about me?” I ask quietly. “’Bout us?”

“She does.” There’s a sadness in his words. A type of desperation I can’t quite grasp. Regret, maybe.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I asked that, but his answer doesn’t make me feel any better. Taking one more drag, I drop the cigarette to the ground, putting it out with my boot. Then Ifinallyturn to face him.

“I gotta go. Have a great night, Stone.” And with that, I put one foot in front of the other, and walk in the direction of who knows what. I don’t have a clue where I’m going; I just know I can’t stay there.

When I’m about three blocks away, I pull my phone out and call an Uber, before sending a text to Stella to let her know I had to leave.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cash DeMarco

I spent the rest of the weekend holed up in my house, writing. Friday night replayed in my mind over and over, obsessively. The way Stone looked. The way he smelled. The way his sisterclearlyknew all about me. The way he spoke to me outside while we were smoking. I hate that after all these years, he still has the ability to affect me.

He gets under my skin more than anyone else. His presence is like a drug—overpowering, intoxicating, and addicting. I’ve never wanted someone so bad, while simultaneously hating them. Truly, though, I don’t hate him. I could never hate him. He hurt me… extremely fucking bad, and I more so hate myself for allowing it to happen.

What we had was short-lived, but intense. I never understood people who could fall that quickly and easily for someone.

Until Stone.

Fuck, I still dream about his hands on my body. About the filthy things he’d whisper in my ear in the darkness. The way his cock would slide in and out of me, making my body fuckingsingfor him. More often than I’d like to admit, I lie awake at night wondering if he’s in bed with his wife, making her feel the way he made me feel, if he’s saying the shit he said to me.

I hate her.

I don’t even know her, and I hate her. She gets the life I wanted. And why wasn’t she with him on Friday?

It pisses me off that this shit is still taking up space in my mind days later, as I walk into class Monday morning. I’m early, as usual. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll probably never be one of those professors who strolls into class a few minutes after everyone else. Nope. My neurotic, type A personality has to be early.

I’m running through my lecture for today when the sound of the door opening catches my attention. There’s still at least ten minutes before class, so I’m surprised to see that anyone is already here. As I drag my gaze from my laptop up to the person walking in, my throat sinks to my stomach.

“Dean Philips,” I bite out. “What a surprise.”

“Good morning, Cash.” The genuine smile on his face pisses me off. “Do you have a moment?”

“How can I help you?”

---