Foolishly Yours (The Bardot Siblings #3)

Prologue

Benoit Bardot is the bane of my existence, and most certainly not the object of my desire. In fact, he has incessantly perturbed me ever since I first met him in middle school. He was gangly then, the same height as I was, all limbs and floppy hair.

Though I will deny this until the day I die, when I first saw him, I actually thought he was attractive…

cute, even. It was summer and his skin was sun-kissed, his hair a little bit lighter than I would learn it gets in the winter.

He had a mouthful of braces, each rubber band a different color—I didn’t even know they let you do that.

I was in the middle of a traumatic period in my life.

Now I know better.

My dad lugged me out to Sassafras right when I was on the cusp of puberty, and ever since, Benoit Bardot has been a thorn in my side.

He was used to being the best… but so was I.

Our motivations were probably even predictably similar. He needed to work for attention—to distinguish himself from his close-knit family that all had talent or beauty—or talent and beauty—oozing out of every pore.

I also sought attention. But where Benoit actually received it from those closest to him, I did not.

My parents were going through the most cliche of divorces, fighting all the time, exhausted whenever I required any bit of them.

In my formative years, I quickly learned not to be another issue for dearest Mother and Father.

We have so much going on right now, Colette. As if I was something my mother could categorize and file away for dealing with later.

Some kids rebel when their parents divorce. I excelled.

My parents weren’t going to praise me? Fine. My teachers and coaches sure would. And all of that was working well for me.

Until Benoit motherfucking Bardot strutted in with his stupid multicolor braces.

He made me fight tooth and nail for the title of valedictorian.

I worked my ass off for it, agonizing over every damn percentage point on every damn assignment.

In the end, I got exactly what I’d been working toward for four years.

I was valedictorian and I had to sit on the stage next to Benoit, our class salutatorian, and his stupidly smug face.

As if everything was going exactly to plan for him.

It was incredibly irritating.

That’s what I’m thinking about while I stare absentmindedly at the grass bending to the will of the wind in the front yard of my best friend Maya’s house. Maya is my antithesis, which is precisely why I like her so much.

Where I do my best to never get in trouble, Maya is constantly in trouble. Her parents are out of town this weekend so obviously she is hosting a summer kickoff bash or some other completely juvenile name. I can hear her voice in my head saying, “We are juveniles, Cole!”

But it was loud in there, and I haven’t felt like a juvenile since I was… well, I can’t remember a time when I did, honestly. And as one of the youngest in our grade, I always felt like I had something to prove.

My parents divorce didn’t help, either. The therapist I was required to see post-divorce told me I had been forced to “grow up too fast.” I didn’t feel much different, though…

I huff out a breath because, damn, I’m moodier than usual tonight.

I take a look at the drink in my hand. Some sort of trashcan punch.

I’ve never had a sip of alcohol before tonight, always too scared of the repercussions of underage drinking.

My worst nightmare was getting kicked off of one of the many teams I was on.

We’ve graduated now though, and this punch is strong…

Suddenly, a shadow casts over me briefly before someone is sitting down beside me on the top step of Maya’s porch.

“Fancy seeing you here, Red.”

Great.

Benoit is a frequent flier at these parties. He’s been to many of them, had many a drink, but he never got kicked off of anything. That feels unfair. I’ve been so good. For what? It all feels pointless now.

“Benjamin.”

“That’s not my name, Colette.”

I feign surprise. “What?! It’s not? My entire life has been a lie.”

“You haven’t known me your entire life,” he counters.

That’s how it is between us. A volley, back and forth and back and forth. Until someone comes out on top. Usually him—it drives me crazy.

I scowl and he catches it. “C’mon, Red. Loosen up, you’re at a party for fuck’s sake. Come let me beat you in beer pong.”

Taking a long draw of my drink, I watch him over the rim of my cup.

He’s certainly not that lanky pre-teen anymore.

He and his twin, Julien, have significantly bulked up in the last year.

They’re identical except for Jules’ long hair and cropped beard.

Ben tends to keep his hair shorter, but still just as floppy as it was when we first met, and face clean shaven.

It does wonders for his jawline, which pulls my eyes in like a magnet.

I hate that he’s so pretty.

“Where’s your flavor of the month?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge his command to loosen up. I know he said it just to rile me.

“Ah, we broke up.” He clutches his chest but doesn’t seem at all upset by the news.

My eyes roll on their own volition. I don’t think Ben has ever dated someone for longer than a month.

“What was wrong with her this time?” It’s always something. Even if he’s never told me directly, this is a small town and gossip travels fast.

“She wasn’t my type.”

I actually scoff at that. I can feel his eyes roam my face when I do, and a revelation breaks through my alcohol-addled brain—he’s teasing me.

“Oh okay, Zoey Carter wasn’t your type. The modelesque head cheerleader doesn’t do it for you. Mhmm.” I nod. “Makes sense.”

He smirks at me. “Jealousy looks good on you, Red.”

“Jealous?” I reply, indignantly. “Jealous! Please. Come on, if she’s not your type, who the hell is?”

The smirk slowly melts off his face. He morphs from the happy-go-lucky party guy to another of his personas I’m very familiar with—the problem solver. The competitor.

I feel much more evenly matched with this version of him.

His eyes sweep from the ponytail on top of my head, all the way down to my lips. Brows furrowing, he seems to have a million scenarios running through his head. And I can’t figure out what any of them could possibly be.

“Do you think you’ll ever get married?” he asks, surprising me with the deep timbre of his voice after so many moments of silence.

That is not even close to what I thought would come out of his mouth. Gaping at him, I question, “Married?”

“Yeah. You know like ‘I, Benoit, take thee, Colette,’ white dress, flowers, et cetera, et cetera.”

An honest-to-God record scratch happens in my brain. The fuck did he just say?

“I-I—” I’m floundering. Because this man—Boy? Man-boy. Boy-man. I hate just recited vows using my name. Whatever scenarios I was preparing for, this one was definitely not in the galaxy of possibilities. “Who is Benoit?” I finally reply.

Ben quickly dips right back into his easy-going side, booping me on the nose. “Funny, Red.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I watch as it flops haphazardly back against his forehead. “Zoey started talking about wanting to get married and it freaked me out.”

She what?

“We’re eighteen. What on earth did you do to make her think about marriage?”

He looks me right in the eye, deadass serious. “I’ve been told I have a magical d—”

“Don’t finish that sentence!” My hand pops up to cover his mouth, and he bites it. Bites! It! Yanking my hand away, I tuck it safely underneath my thigh because obviously it cannot be trusted after two sips of alcohol.

The motherfucker tips his head back and laughs. “Sorry, I forget you have delicate sensibilities. I can’t possibly use the word”—he mouths dick—“in front of you.” He contemplates for a moment. “You’ve never had a boyfriend.”

Not a question, a statement.

“Who says I’m into boys?” I counter, receiving a quirked brow in return.

“You into girls, Red?”

I shrug, because I still haven’t quite figured that out yet. Looking away, I admit, “Maybe. Maybe both. Maybe no one.” The truth is, I’ve never felt like I’ve known someone well enough to feel a deep attraction to them. To want to date them. No one I’ve gotten to know well enough, except—

“I can work with that.”

“Work with what, Benjamin?” My exasperated sigh floats between us.

He eyes me again. I look his way, trying to figure out what is going on in that brain of his. As hard as I try, he remains a mystery to me.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks instead of answering my question. I open my mouth to answer, but he just plows on. “I think I do want to get married… just not to Zoey.”

I peer into the empty solo cup in his hand. “How many of those have you had?”

He pushes his hair back again, stupid bicep bulging. “I’m being serious, Colette.”

“So am I!”

He turns to me fully. “We should make a pact.”

“A… pact…” I’m really not following now.

“A marriage pact. If we aren’t married by the time we are—”

I’m gobsmacked. “Benoit Bardot! You have lost your mind. I am not marrying you!”

“Well not right now, obviously, Red.” He looks at me as if I’m the crazy one. “Do you want that, though? Want a partner?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Let’s give it until we are thirty,” he suggests. “That way, you have time to decide if you want a partner. I have time to find someone. Worst case, we get married for the tax benefit—”

“There’s not always a benefit,” I interrupt.

“—and best case, we have someone we don’t hate to fuck around with.”

“Who says I don’t hate you?” I snap, genuinely curious.

He smirks. “The way you look at me says you don’t hate me, Red.”

I shake my head in disbelief, noting how Ben’s eyes watch the swing of my ponytail. “You have actually lost your mind,” I repeat.

Unfortunately, instead of deterring him, this statement causes Ben to get a twinkle in his eye. “What if we bet on it? I win beer pong, we make our pact. I lose, you can walk away from here and never think about me again.”

An actual growl leaves me. He knows I can’t turn down a competition. “Fine,” I grit out. “But I will win, Benjamin. And I’m so looking forward to never thinking about you again. It will be so peaceful. So quiet…”

“So boring,” he finishes, breath coasting across my face. I’ve somehow leaned entirely too close to him over the course of my little rant. He licks his lips and the smell of peppermint assaults my senses. If I leaned just a tiny bit closer…

“Cole! Come back insi—oh!”

I jump back about six feet, but Ben, to my chagrin, stays exactly where he was.

“So sorry to interrupt,” Maya says, a coy smile playing on her lips. “I noticed you slipped out, and I was coming to force you back into the fun.”

Ben stands, still staring at me but regarding Maya. “We were actually just about to come inside and play beer pong.”

My eyes dart back and forth between Ben and Maya, both of whom have their eyebrows quirked at me.

I clumsily stand, a little drunker than I initially thought.

A strong arm comes around, gripping me by the opposite elbow.

Belatedly, I register that it’s Ben helping me up so I quickly yank away, falling right into Maya this time.

“Woah, Cole. Maybe beer pong isn’t the best idea!” Maya giggles.

“Of course it is,” comes my feeble reply as I use Maya to steady myself. “Benjamin here needs a reminder that I always win. And then I never have to think about him again.”

“Ooookay,” Maya drawls out, giving me a we’ll talk about this later look.

I turn and poke my finger at Ben. “Are you ready for me to kick your ass?”

The asshole winks and says, “You can do whatever you want to my ass, Red.”

Thirty minutes later, I’ve lost miserably at beer pong.

For the next twelve years, Benoit Bardot does not let me forget about him, but he never once mentions our pact.