His mouth twists into a rueful line. “I was pissed because I won,” he confesses, still holding my fist in his hand. He looks down at it, as if lost in the memory. “I remember thinking I won because you were there, and it made me…” He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. “I mean, people can leave. I didn’t like the thought of giving you that much power.”
The conclusion is automatic, pieces clicking into place. “So you took my ribbon. Something you had control over keeping.”
He shrugs. “It’s the same with the others. The scrap of wire is one of Rath’s old guitar strings. Tristian offered me a piece of gum on game day, freshman year. The baseball card was something Ms. Crane gave me when I was little.” He slides his eyes to mine, voice wry, “She said football was for little pussy barbarians, and that real men learn to hit balls with sticks.”
I give a little laugh, imagining the words were probably more colorful. Unflinchingly, I take the ribbon from my palm and grab his wrist, looping it around. “Well, thank you for returning it, but I like being your good luck charm.” He stands still as I tie it, pulling the sleeve of his blazer down to cover it.
He buries that hand in his pocket, less like he’s hiding the ribbon and more like he’s protecting it. “Ready?” he gruffly asks.
“As I’ll ever be.” I shoot him a shy smile when I touch the crook of his arm, feeling how we fit together like this. Formal. Proper. Lovers more than step-siblings. His amber eyes drop down to my hand, a crease forming between his brows. Before I can think to doubt the gesture, he reaches up to place his hand over mine, tucking it further into the space between his bicep and body.
Meeting my eyes, he says, “You look… really nice.”
It’s not like its anything special. I’m wearing my hair down tonight, but he’s seen me in this dress. These shoes. This makeup. Still, try as I might, I can’t detect a trace of mockery or insincerity in his words.
“So do you,” is my response, and this time, when I smile, the hard lines of his face soften—ever so slightly.
It’s nothing like it was with Tristian.
But it feels just as right.
The banquet is one of those fish or chicken events held in the ballroom of a hotel not far from campus. It’s not just football—every sport is represented, and they’re segregated by tables. When we take ours, I’m startled by Killian lunging ahead of me, pulling out my chair. I give him a quick blink, but recover quickly, taking my seat with a nervous grin.
Around us, the small gymnasts and cheerleaders pick at their plates. The basketball team towers in the corner. The rowing club is up front, sounding like the rowdiest of the bunch. Mixed in are tables filled with coaches and their wives, and an assortment of administrators, press, and important people. Our table is crowded with broad-shouldered football players and their dates.
Marcus is one of them. “May I say that you look stunning tonight, Lady?”
“You may,” I answer giving him an exaggerated nod. Marcus is on our list of suspects, but truthfully, I don’t see it. I just don’t get a creepy vibe from him, and these days, I consider myself a bit of an expert.
“That dress does great things for your shoulders,” he adds, dipping his head appreciatively. From the three empty glasses in front of him, plus the way he somehow misses Killian’s glare, Marcus is way ahead of us on the booze. “I’m sure everyone thinks so.”
“Not if they know what’s good for them.” Killian keeps glaring, but the words lack their usual bite. Come to think of it, since the sex last night, he seems to have lost a lot of that temper.
I can’t stop myself from poking the beast. Just a little. I bat my eyelashes at Marcus. “Are shoulders what you find most attractive in a woman?”
Marcus gives a scoff that’s just this side of sloppy. “No offense, Lady, but the only part of a woman I find attractive is her brother.” My eyebrows shoot up, but when I swing my gaze to Killian, he’s rolling his eyes.
“He’s gay, Story.”
My jaw goes slack. “Ohhh.” This is news to me. Massive, unexpected, spreadsheet-changing news.
“Don’t worry.” Marcus leans back in his chair, eyes roaming the room. “Killer here isn’t my type. Way too uptight.”
Killian drapes his arm over the back of my chair, face blank. “I’m everyone’s type. Now shut the fuck up.”
I soak that news in, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. No wonder Killian trusted Marcus with me most, out of all the LDZ guys.