Page 19 of Promise Me

“I know when somebody rescues my sorry ass.” I’d like to know more, I almost add, but don’t because I get the feeling she’d run back inside if I uttered the words out loud. Instead I bend to pick up the box and my beer.

She takes the box from my open hand, and her fingertips feather across my palm. Her eyes lock onto mine again, hold, and something more intense than the casual contact passes between us. She tears her gaze away and looks at my house.

“You better get back. Sounds like you’ve got company again.”

I shake my head. “No company, just my roommates watching the game.”

Dark blond eyebrows lift. “Hearing impaired roommates?”

I laugh and wander to one of the wrought-iron benches lining the patio. “No. Hardcore Dodgers fans. Sorry. I don’t think they realize anyone’s here. I’ll tell them to turn it down.” On impulse I nod my head toward the house. “Come meet them.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, staring down at her toes so I can’t read her expression, but I can sense her reluctance. “Come on.” As if it’s settled, I stand and hold out a hand to her. “Let me introduce you. There are only a few people in this world I can always count on, and these guys are two of the best. You should meet them. Get to know your neighbors.”

Finally she looks up at me with those big blue eyes, and there’s something so torn in their depths I almost look away.

“We’re not really neighbors, remember? I’m only here temporarily.”

“Kendall, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all only here temporarily. Wait…are you one of those people who’s afraid to leave the house? No problem. Sit tight. I’ll bring Matt and Dylan over here.”

She fights a smile now that I’ve called her on her shit. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come say hi,” she says just as my phone chimes with a notification. I pull it out of my pocket to find Becca has posted a picture of the two of us from a party a couple of weeks ago. In it, she’s rolling a joint on my bare stomach. What the ever-loving fuck does she think she’s doing? Yes, weed is legal in California, but it’s not legal across the whole damn country. The next host of America Rocks is not going to be a pothead.

“Everything okay?” Kendall asks, reminding me where I am. Then a horn blasts from my driveway. “Fuck. That’s my car.” I glance at my watch. “I’ve got a flight to Miami for a photo shoot happening tomorrow. And I need to take care of—”

“No worries.” She backs away. “You’re busy, which is totally cool. I’ll meet them another time.”

I nod, finish off the rest of my beer as I make my way across the yard, and call Becca to get her to delete the photo. She laughs in my ear, tells me to chill, until I point out it’s a bad look for both of us. The producers of this film she’s got a shot at probably don’t want to take on a party girl for a key role. That pushes the right button. She relents. Mission accomplished. Career implosion averted. I can live with losing out on America Rocks if I lose on my own merits. But to lose because of a stupid picture of a stupid joint? Not happening as long as I can head it off.

I haven’t been an out-of-control mess, but I haven’t been a choir boy, either. Are there more compromising photos on someone else’s camera roll? I don’t know, and it’s everything I don’t know that could put me at risk.

An inner voice that sounds ominously like my father points out, You don’t know Kendall.

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