SCANDAL ✓

Chapter 018 | Pricks & T-Shirts

Paris hadn't had a wink of sleep since last night. Every time he'd tried to snap his eyes shut and welcome sleep, he'd been haunted by Heather's sneering, teary-eyed face and Shanya's expressionless one. He saw himself back at that alley, trying to soothe his enraged girlfriend while Shanya stood a few yards away, watching.

He had never hated himself more.

After the episode with Heather, he'd returned to the party as if nothing had happened, the guests' none the wiser. Shanya played her part excellently too, but he sensed her aloofness, sensed it in the way she looked at him, the way she'd conversed with him. And it had gutted him. She had looked so heartstoppingly beautiful that he'd thought he'd fall flat on his face like a bewitched schoolboy. He was also very certain that his new favorite color was red.

He'd seen her dance with his father, the two already buddies, and an unfathomable warmth had spread in his heart.

Then she'd looked at him and smiled. He ached every time he saw her smile. He wanted her smiles to be directed at him. For him. Because of him.

And that kiss. It had destroyed him. It utterly destroyed him.

She felt right in his arms. Perfect, even. Her small body pressed against his in the most head-turning kiss he'd ever had. He'd all but wanted to devour her. He'd told himself he wasn't going to kiss her that evening—promised himself. But then his family had demanded it and she'd bit her lip. She'd bit her damn lip and that was his undoing. After one taste of her full, luscious, incredibly soft lips, he'd not been able to stop himself from wanting more, and more. Not even Heather had such an effect on him. He'd made a damn fool of himself. And he'd hurt her in the process, hurt Heather. The woman he supposedly loved.

Groaning, he walked into his kitchen, opened his ivory fridge, and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey as he tried hard to expel the memory of Shanya navigating through his kitchen. After two glasses, he searched his heart. Yes, there was still love for Heather. But there was also a similar feeling for Shanya. How could he have feelings for two women? What sort of man was he?

He'd told Heather the kiss had meant nothing, that he was still hers and that nothing had changed between them. But he had lied. Lied to her face. He knew that in his very gut. Something had changed. Something had been changed for a while.

He hated lying to Heather, hated deceiving her. His heart broke when he'd seen the betrayed look on her face. But he couldn't be honest with her yet. Not now. He needed to think long and hard about what he should do before he made a bad decision and severed himself from the two most important women in his life, besides his mother.

He returned the whiskey into the fridge and slammed the door shut. Right now he wouldn't think. Today was Shanya's 20th birthday. He still marveled at how incredibly young she was, and how she made him feel like the young one despite the six years difference.

He shook his head as he headed straight for the shower and a welcoming change of clothes.

* * * *

Forty- seven minutes later, Paris was outside Shanya's house. He'd never been there, although it had crossed his mind to visit a thousand times. Now, he wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't done so. The house was remarkable. It was a square, cream-colored apartment with narrow windows in straight rows, and a couple of flower pots perched at each side of the three-step entrance. He'd known she'd used some of the money to buy a new apartment and a part of him swelled, not with pride, but with joy in having played some part in her new home.

His eyes wandered to the narrow windows, and he froze.

She was there. Standing right there in a white towel, a tall man not more than a feet away from her. They seemed to be having words. Panic seared through him as he practically flew off his motorcycle, not bothering to check if he had secured it with its pedal.