*Slow updates*| currently editing heavily.
He needs the spotlight. She wants to disappear. What happens when they're forced to collide?
***
After an injury nearly derailed his basketball career, UCLA senior Charlie Murtaugh has one last shot at go...
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I wake up alone.
The soft morning light pours through the bay window, flooding the room in a warm, golden haze. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust and then I realize.
Charlie left the curtains open.
Which means Charlie also left the room.
I stare up at the ceiling, unsure how to feel. On one hand, I'm grateful I don't have to face an awkward post-kiss, post-simmering-tension conversation. On the other hand... it stings. Just a little. Like maybe he couldn't get out fast enough.
I shift beneath the sheets, and the memories of last night come rushing back. His mouth on mine, the way his hands felt on my skin, the tight coil in my stomach I still haven't untangled.
God.
My cheeks burn with shame. I swore I wouldn't fall into the trap, and then I practically dove headfirst. If I'm going to claim I won't sleep with someone, the bare minimum should be not making out with them like I've got no spine.
"I know that look."
The voice startles me. I jerk upright, heart hammering as I scan the room.
Standing by the door is a redhead—the redhead. The one from the Alpha Sig party. She's leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, a knowing smile pulling at her matte red lips. Her bikini is cherry red, high-cut and tiny, her entire look matching the sultry shade of her hair.
"I'd recognize that look from a mile away," she says, walking slowly toward me. "I've seen it on a dozen girls who've shared a bed with Charlie Murtaugh."
She stops at the foot of the bed, eyes glinting.
"I'm guessing that's what happened in here while I was out freezing my ass off with a bunch of peasants."
My face flames.
"I—we didn't—" I sputter, desperately trying to look composed. "We didn't share a bed. I mean, we did, but not like that."
The look on her face says sure, Jan, and it only makes me fluster harder.
"It's none of my business what you two hormonal bunnies get up to," she says with a shrug. "I'm just bitter I didn't get to use my own bed for the weekend."
"Nothing happened. Seriously. And I didn't exactly choose to be here. I was locked in. No options."
Her lips twitch with amusement.
"No need to explain, I'm only yanking your chain." She flips her hair over her shoulder and angles her gaze at me. "You must be Lorraine. I'm Bronte. Nice to finally meet you."
Bronte.
Aunty Bronte.
Mila's Bronte.
It hits me then—of course. She knows who I am. And clearly, she knows Charlie very well. Just not in the way I assumed at the party.
