6. Annie
Six
Annie
I cannot believe I’m sitting in the park with Dean Kinnear.
The Dean Kinnear. Even though he lived next door when we were young, even though I was best friends with his twin brother, he was always so aloof and unreachable back then. Hidden behind the thick walls he built up, separating himself further and further from his twin and his parents… and from me.
The Dean Kinnear from my adolescence was so unknowable, it was like having a crush on a rock star. Someone whose image I might see several times a week, but who I could never really be with. And my fantasies about Dean falling for me too—those always felt like childish, impossible daydreams. Safe little stories that could never come true.
“How’s your food?” Dean says now, taking a monster bite of his burger. His nostrils flare with how good it tastes, and something about seeing this man flushed and rumbling with primal satisfaction makes me all squirmy inside. I keep fidgeting on the grass, squeezing my thighs together.
Would I drizzle burger sauce all over myself if it would tempt him to lick it off?
Why, yes. Yes I would.
“Delicious.” I offer a scoop of noodles on the end of my chopsticks, but Dean shakes his head, still chewing. His gaze is hot on me, a thousand questions swirling behind those brown eyes.
Questions like: what the hell are we doing?
And what happens now?
And why are we both going along with this charade?
I recognize those questions because they’re clanging around my brain too.
The Dean Kinnear I remember would never have let me put a bag on his head and lead him blind around the city. He would never have held my hand so casually, or thrown himself whole-heartedly into laser tag, or, you know, pretended to be Wyatt to spend time with me.
Where has he been all these years? And what has he been doing?
“So fucking good,” Dean mutters now, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a crumpled napkin before reaching for another handful of fries. In hindsight, that should’ve been another clue, because Wyatt never gets hangry. He picks around the edges of his food like a big, skinny bird. And he freaking hates eating meat—he’ll go gray at the thought. My bestie has been veggie for years and years.
If Dean hadn’t cut us all off so cleanly, he’d know that. He wouldn’t have blown his own cover, and I’d still be guessing which twin I was with.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I stir my noodles around with my chopsticks. A thousand different emotions churn in my belly: sheer joy that Dean is finally here; desperate longing for his hands on me again; bitterness that it’s taken so long to see him again. Confusion as to why he’s playing along. And despair that after tonight, he’ll disappear all over again and I’ll be left behind, my heart bruised.
“You’re not hungry?” His deep voice makes me shiver. It always did.
I sigh and set my chopsticks down. No point fussing with my food.
“Not really.”
Dean grunts and takes one more giant bite, finishing his burger, then wipes his hands on the napkin and starts clearing up our food pots and whatnot. Moonlight gleams against his thick dark hair, short on the sides and longer on top, and his movements are quick and efficient.
I bite my lip as I watch him. This whole night is like one of my teenage fantasies, where I’d dream up elaborate scenarios of Dean and me getting together—except somehow this is even more far-fetched.
He goes off to take care of our trash, then comes back and offers a hand to help me up. When our palms slide together, I suddenly notice the hard calluses on his hands, and the old scars on his knuckles that glow pale in the moonlight. What are those from?
Dean tugs me gently to my feet. And now that I know it’s him , now that I’m paying full attention, I can’t ignore the strength and power in his form, pulling me up like I weigh less than a leaf.
Can’t ignore the warmth of his body and the possessive grip of his hand. Can’t hide from the molten heat in his gaze, roaming over me like dripping caramel.
Oh god, how did I ever think this man was Wyatt? Without thinking, I fan myself with my free hand, and Dean grins. His teeth are white in the gloom.
“So. Dancing?” he says.
I nod.
Yes. Dancing.
With the man I’ve crushed on for years and years, and who finally turned back up, but now with an even more dangerous edge. The man with mysterious scars, who keeps looking at me like he wants to throw me over his shoulder and carry me back to his lair. The man who broke the locks in that escape room as easily as brushing away a fly.
Dancing in a dark, crowded club with that guy.
Sure. What could go wrong?
* * *
Most people would never guess that my uptight bestie Wyatt secretly loves letting loose in da club. Honestly, I can barely make sense of it. Everything about him, from his pressed button-down shirts to his polished reading glasses, screams that he’d rather be tucked up in bed by 9pm, doing a cryptic crossword.
My personal theory? Medical school. They work those med students so freaking hard, and as well as learning all about treating the human body, those students also learn to associate drinking and dancing with letting off steam.
Then they go into crazy stressful careers, and when the pressure builds up—there’s dancing. Drinking. If they’re single, smushing up against a hot stranger in a dark bar. Those old habits are still available, and they can forget the world for a few hours.
Out of all the activities I had planned for Wyatt’s big bachelor night, this was the one I knew he’d like. The rest he might’ve gone along with, muttering that okay, now he’s tried them, and he still doesn’t know why people are so obsessed with laser tag or escape rooms—but the dancing was always gonna be a home run.
“Here.” Outside the club, music thudding as it bleeds onto the street, I fish the crinkled pink feather boa from my backpack and drape it over Dean’s shoulders. “Happy bachelor night.”
Dean smirks, his dark eyes glittering as I decorate him like a big, muscly Christmas tree. He somehow manages to look even more masculine with pink feathers around his neck. Wild.
And neither of us has admitted out loud yet that I’ve got the wrong twin. I guess… once we say it out loud, there’s no reason to keep up the bachelor party ruse. The night will end.
But I know the truth, and Dean knows that I know.
And I know that he knows that I know.
And he knows that I know that he knows that I know—
“Come on, Lowell.” Dean cups my elbow and steers me through the doors into the club, nodding at the bouncer as we go in. The bouncer is built like a brick shithouse, bald and tattooed and kinda mean looking, but he takes one look at Dean and waves us inside with a carefully blank expression. “I want to see your best moves.”
Inside, the club has a gritty, industrial vibe. The floors are bare stone and street art covers the walls. The lights are tinted purple, and when Dean speaks, his teeth look extra white.
“You want to check your backpack?”
My fingers tighten around the thin leather straps, and I shake my head.
Maybe it’s dumb but I need an anchor right now, something comforting and familiar, and knowing that I’ve got a sweater and my money and lip balm and a rattling tub of breath mints right to hand… it helps. It really helps.
“Okay. You ready, then?” Dean cracks the breath mint I already gave him between his back teeth and grins, his eyes sparking with challenge. Like he doesn’t think I’ll really go through with this.
Screw. That.
“Born ready.”
A shock of pleasure rolls up my arm when I take his hand, but I’m almost used to that by now. It doesn’t make me sway on my feet like it did an hour or two ago. Instead I firm my jaw and drag Dean deep into the club, down metal stairs and past long, crowded bars, the purple light making the whites of everyone’s eyes glow as they line up for drinks.
Some liquid courage would be good right now, but I don’t want to stop and line up. The wait could be a while, and my temporary bravado might leave me.
Instead I drag Dean directly onto the dark, crowded dance floor, tugging on his hand and plunging through writhing bodies until we nearly hit the back wall.
I turn and blink up at the wrong Kinnear twin. He’s closer than I expected, looming over me in the gloom, and when he starts to move to the music, my heart stutters in my chest.
Oh no.
Dean can dance.
It’s not like Wyatt’s carefree bopping either—these movements are deliberate. Sensual. The way a man dances when he has complete control of his body, and he wields that control like a weapon.
I nearly swallow my tongue.
“Come on, Annie.” Warm hands trace down my bare arms and circle my wrists, before lifting them up and hooking them behind Dean’s neck. The short hairs at his hairline tickle my flushed skin, and the music is so loud, I feel his words more than I hear them. “Dance with me.”
A big hand flattens against my lower back, pressing me closer and moving me in time to the beat. My traitorous hips start swaying, my body slotting naturally against Dean’s.
We’re so close his minty breath tickles my cheek.
So close I can feel his rock-solid abs through the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
So close my head swims and my eyes flutter closed.
The music is dark and tempting, throbbing insistently through my veins. A bead of sweat runs down my spine, and my camisole is sticking to my back again, but I don’t care. Not when Dean’s thigh slots between mine, grinding our bodies even closer together.
Arousal twists in my lower belly, and thank god for the loud music or he’d hear my breathy whimper. Suddenly, I’d give anything for this crowd and these clothes to be gone; for Dean Kinnear to hook my thigh around his waist, line himself up, and sink deep inside me, pressing me up against the painted stone wall.
This is crazy.
The thought snakes through me, then it’s gone. I’m too busy rolling my hips to the beat, grinding down against Dean’s hard thigh, chasing the delicious tingle of friction. Too busy letting loose in the safe cage of his arms, eyes still closed so I can pretend this is all another daydream.
The feather boa tickles my nose, and my eyes shoot open. Oh, god. This is supposed to be a bachelor night for my nerdy best friend. Instead I’m here in the dark, dry humping his mysterious twin.
So crazy.
Above me, Dean tilts his head, like he’s reading my thoughts as they flit across my face. His chest rises and falls with a deep breath, then his arms tighten around me, sealing me against his front.
The message is clear: he doesn’t want to let go. Not yet.
And as my pulse hammers in my wrists, my throat, between my legs, I grip him back, hooking my wrists even more securely around his neck.
I don’t want to let go yet either.
Even though we’ve blown our own cover, even though Wyatt and I would never, ever dance like this, I don’t want to admit that out loud and have the night end. Not until I break one more rule.
“Dean.” I murmur his name, my lips moving in the darkness. His eyes widen, and he stares at my mouth like he’s dying to see me say his name again.
I don’t say it again.
What I do is even more off-limits.
Rocking up onto my tiptoes, I pull on Dean’s neck until he bends down within reach. Then, with my heart racing at a hundred miles per hour, I tilt up my face and press our lips together.