Jennifer Armentrout - Don’t Look Back

He blew out a long breath, and when I looked up, he was staring out the French doors. “It was weird, like two people coming together and bringing out the absolute worst in each other. If you guys had something on someone, you’d use it to your advantage. Ever the opportunists … and there were a lot of people with a lot of reasons not to like you. But hurt you? That’s different.”

Shame was back, burning through me like acid. I took one last spoonful of melted ice cream, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. Carson glanced at me and then laughed softly.

“What?” I dropped the spoon in the bowl.

“You have ice cream on your chin.”

“I do?” I wiped at my chin. “Did I get it?”

Shaking his head, he reached over the bar and smoothed his thumb under my bottom lip. My chest rose quickly and my breath caught. His thumb stayed just under the corner of my mouth, but his fingers spread underneath my chin. They were calloused against my softer skin, sending a shiver of pleasure through me. Our eyes locked, and I waited for him to remove his hand, because surely the tiny smidgen of ice cream was gone by now, but he didn’t.

Instead, his thumb inched up, trailing across my bottom lip. I sucked in a breath, but like the one before, it got lost somewhere. A heady wave of warmth rolled through me.

I swallowed. “More ice cream?”

A lopsided grin stretched across his lips. “Sure.”

Part of my brain just clicked off. Placing my hands on the edge of the bar, I leaned forward and stopped thinking about everything other than the electric feeling he created with the simplest touch. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, but my body took the lead. My pulse thrummed, and my heart soared when his hand slid to my cheek.

This was wrong, but it also felt so incredibly right.

A throat cleared, and I jerked back, nearly falling off the stool. Much to my horror, Mom stood under a hanging fern, a full glass of red liquid in her hand. “It’s late, Carson,” she said, eyes and tone cold. “I think it’s time that you head home.”

Carson slid me a quick smile as he stood. “Sorry, Mrs. Franco, I didn’t notice the time.”

She nodded curtly.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “See you at school, Sam.”

My cheeks felt as if they were on fire as I stood. I wanted to walk him out, but he had already disappeared around the corner. Seconds later, a door opened and closed. I’d totally sucked up his time—he hadn’t even visited Scott.

“What are you doing, Samantha?”

I took deep breath. “I was eating ice cream.”

“Don’t play coy with me.”

“I’m not playing coy with you, Mom. I was eating ice cream with Carson. What’s the big deal?” I turned my back to her and picked up our bowls, carrying them to the sink. “It’s not like—”

“I’m not sure I even know you anymore,” she said, voice tight as she set her glass on the bar. “Two weeks ago, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Yeah, and two weeks ago, I was a total bitch.” Who apparently had an entire school full of enemies. “So if being a nicer person is a giant letdown to you, you’re just going to have to deal.”

“This isn’t about you being nice.” She followed me to the sink, knocking the bowls out of my hand. One hit the stainless steel and rolled to the side, the other split into two large chunks of ceramic. Stunned, I stared up at her. “You’re going to ruin your life, getting involved with boys like that.”

I backed up. “Mom, we were just talking.”

“That’s not what it looked like to me.” Her cheeks were flushed the same color as her silk blouse. “Boys like him—”

“There isn’t anything wrong with Carson!” I brushed past her, not wanting to argue. Not like I didn’t have enough problems without getting into a verbal smackdown with her. “I’m tired—”

“Don’t make the same mistake I did,” she said in a low, barely audible voice, nostrils flared.

My eyes widened with shock. “What? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her heels slapped off the hardwood floors. “I won’t have you embarrassing yourself any further. It’s bad enough—”

“It’s bad enough what , Mom?” I whipped around. Screw the not-fighting part. Everything boiled up inside me, spilling over until all I felt—all I knew—was anger. “Am I still an embarrassment to you? Are all your friends talking ? Except now they’re talking about what happened to me—to Cassie? How terrible it must be for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t have your memories back? Because this sounds terribly familiar, Samantha.”

“Does it? That’s great.” I tried to stomp past her, but damn she was quick, blocking me.

Regret turned the flecks of green in her eyes darker. “I’m sorry, sweetie. None of this is your fault. No matter what happened or what you might have done, none of this is your fault.”

Shock rippled through me as my mom turned away. I heard her stop by the liquor cabinet, and I knew she was taking the bottle with her. In a daze, I left the kitchen and saw my dad standing there.

He looked away, eyes closed and brows furrowed. “Samantha—”

“She thinks I did it?” My voice was small, hoarse. “She thinks I did something to Cassie?”

“No.” His eyes shot open wide. “No, she doesn’t think anything like that. She’s just tired, and all the stress has … has affected her. Your mom isn’t …” He shook his head. “She doesn’t think that.”

Nice of him to try to convince me, but I didn’t believe him. “Do you think I did?”

“No, baby, I don’t think you had anything to do with what happened,” he said, trying for a smile but failing. “It’s late. Go upstairs. Things will be better tomorrow.”

For a moment, all I could do was stare at him in icy disbelief. Tears built in the back of my throat, and when I could move, I flew past him. I wasn’t sure what I was running from, but it didn’t matter where I went. What Mom had said haunted me as I stripped off my clothes and changed with shaky hands.

I sat down on the bed, pulling my legs up to my chest. Resting my head against my knees, I dragged in deep breaths that did nothing to quell the rising panic. Carson might have believed I wasn’t capable of such a thing, but what was I supposed to think when my own mother thought I was?

Mrs. Messer had this thing with her glasses. She put them on when she started talking, took them off before she finished a sentence, and then nibbled on the temple piece. Within the first five minutes of our session on Wednesday, she’d already completed the cycle five times.

I slid down in the seat, smothering my yawn with my hand. She’d spent the better part of our time together checking over reports from my teachers.

She placed the papers in a folder and set it aside. “As expected, none of the teachers have any concerns. If anything, you’re actually paying more attention in class now than before.”

“Well, I guess that’s one good thing.”

Her smile was tight-lipped. “How’s everything been at home?”

I schooled my features blank. “Everything’s okay.”

On went the glasses. “Your mother contacted me yesterday. She’s concerned about how you’re adjusting to everything.”

Jerking up in my seat, I snapped my mouth closed. Mom hadn’t spoken to me since the blowup on Monday night. And I was okay with that. “She called you?”

“Yes. She’s worried that you’re having a hard time connecting things from before the … incident with your life now.” Off went the glasses. “Do you want to talk about it?”