But I leave that to the steady stream of women who flit in and out of his life, and keep him firmly in the friend zone.
Selene and Nathan wander over from the makeshift dance floor. Selene’s house is amazing. She still lives in the house she and Braxton grew up in, a fucking mansion in Phinney Ridge. Braxton insisted she keep it, and after college he bought himself a condo not far from here, just off Greenwood. The house is deceiving from the outside. It’s like one of those magical Harry Potter tents—looks pretty normal from the street, but once you walk in, it’s breathtaking. It has six bedrooms, a huge living, dining, and kitchen area with soaring ceilings, an old-fashioned study, and great views from upstairs. Braxton and I don’t live here, but we still have our own bedrooms, leftover from our college days. Selene used to bug me about moving back in with her—the house is definitely way too big for one person—but I prefer to live on my own. There’s a certain weirdness in leaning on their money, even though both of them have plenty. I have an apartment about ten minutes away, but I crash here when the occasion arises. I definitely will tonight—although, sadly, it appears I’ll be sleeping alone.
Selene stands next to me while Nathan pours drinks at the counter.
“Awesome night, huh?” she says. “Where’s Steven?”
She looks glorious in a shimmering, sleeveless gold top and black skirt, with her brown hair pinned up. She has a Victoria’s Secret model body—tall and effortlessly thin, with fantastic boobs.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess he went to the bathroom or something.”
“Well, you better find him,” Selene says. “It’s almost midnight.”
Someone turns on the flat screen to the New Year’s countdown. Nathan hands Selene her drink and they go back into the midst of the party.
I decide to do a lap to see if I can find this date of mine. The least the guy can do is make sure I’m not the only one at this party standing alone to ring in the new year. We don’t have to make out, but someone to clink glasses with would be nice. He didn’t even tell me where he was going; he just mumbled something about being right back. That was at least ten minutes ago.
I don’t see him among the people dancing, and he isn’t grazing on the snacks set out in the dining room. The downstairs bathroom is empty, although a girl ducks in front of me and darts in, closing the door behind her. The study door is closed—Selene doesn’t usually want guests in there—but I peek inside, just in case. It’s empty. I check my bedroom, which isn’t far from the kitchen. No one in there either.
I walk to the entry foyer and find a couple making out next to the coat rack, but neither of them are Steven. I don’t know why he’d go upstairs, but I figure I’ll check. The wide staircase curves to an upper balcony. I take another look from the top, but don’t see him anywhere.
The music is quieter upstairs, and I hear the distinct sound of moaning. Oh lord, am I about to walk in on someone getting it on in the hallway? Are we at a fucking frat party? It’s dark, but I walk a little farther and definitely see someone—two someones. The guy has the girl pressed up against the wall, his hand up her shirt. She’s giggling as he kisses down her neck.
I don’t want to intrude, so I’m just about to hightail it back downstairs when I recognize the guy’s sweater. Wasn’t Steven wearing blue? There’s not much light but—
He turns his head just enough, and I get a glimpse of his face. It’s definitely Steven.
I back up quickly, tip-toeing so they won’t notice me. Fuck. Of course my date would make out with some other woman at the New Year’s party. That pretty much sums up my love life right there.
So much for the responsible and mature accountant.
I head back downstairs, planning to retreat to my room. Selene will ask about Steven if she sees me, and I don’t want to ruin her night by telling her what happened. I’ll make her feel guilty about setting me up with a douchebag later. Tonight is her party, and I don’t want to mess it up for her.
I slip through the kitchen to get another beer, then pause and think better of it. Instead, I grab a plastic cup and mix an impromptu cocktail. Vodka, over ice—and I may or may not tip in a little extra after I pour in two shots. I add some cranberry juice from the fridge. There. That ought to keep me company while I listen to the happy people out here, starting their new year off right.
“Hey, Ky,” a gravelly voice says behind me. “Where you running off to?”
“Hey, Braxton,” I say.
Selene’s twin brother looks so much like her. They have the same dark eyes, olive skin, dark hair. But where Selene is tall and slender—she’s a fucking Amazon warrior at five-eleven—Braxton is six-foot-four-inches of thick, solid muscle.
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Where’s your, uh … date?”
“Found someone else to hang out with.”