Four Of A Kind - Chapter 180: [3.82] The Scariest Seventeen-Year-Old

Chapter 180: [3.82] The Scariest Seventeen-Year-Old

This wasn’t like Vivienne. She was always ready. Always prepared. Always ten steps ahead of everyone else.

I crouched down in front of her, so our faces were level. Close enough to see the tiny freckle near her left eyebrow that you’d never notice unless you were paying attention.

“What happened in there?” I asked. “With your mom.”

She opened her eyes, revealing those purple irises that always seemed to be calculating something. The usual sharpness was dulled now, replaced by something I couldn’t quite name.

“She told me to end it,” Vivienne said, her voice barely above a whisper. The controlled elegance that defined her was slipping, like watching a perfect marble statue develop hairline cracks.

“End what?” I pressed, already knowing the answer but needing to hear her say it.

“This.” Her hand made a small, uncertain gesture between us. “Whatever this is. Whatever we’re doing. Whatever she thinks we’re doing.”

I nodded slowly. “And what did you say?”

“Nothing.” She looked away. “I just stood there like an idiot.”

I waited.

“She’s right,” Vivienne continued, voice small. “This doesn’t make sense. You’re my employee. You’re here on scholarship. You live in Philadelphia. You work as a bartender. You—”

“Yeah, your mom already gave me the full resume breakdown,” I interrupted. “Basically I’m trash with no pedigree.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what she meant.”

Vivienne didn’t deny it.

I sighed. “Look, we should get you out there. Your speech—”

“I can’t do it,” she said.

I stared at her. “What?”

“The speech. I can’t.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “Everyone out there saw me follow her. They’re all waiting to see if I’ve been crying. If I’m going to mess up. If the perfect Valentine heir is going to crack under pressure.”

“So don’t crack.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Actually, it is.” I stood up. “Your mom wants you to fail right now. She wants to prove she was right about me being a distraction. You really want to give her that satisfaction?”

Her eyes flashed. There it was. The fire beneath the ice.

“No,” she said.

“So get up. Fix your lipstick. And go show everyone out there exactly who Vivienne Valentine is.”

She stood, smoothing her dress. “And who is that?”

I smiled. “The scariest seventeen-year-old on the planet.”

A small laugh escaped her. She reached past me to the stall door, her arm brushing against mine.

Then she stopped. Looked up at me.

We were very close now. Her perfume wrapped around me, something expensive and subtle that probably cost more than my rent.

“Isaiah,” she said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Did you mean what you said? About staying with me tonight?”

I nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She leaned forward and pressed her lips against mine.

Her lips were softer than I expected. Warm. Tentative at first, like she was asking a question she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to.

Fuck it.

I slid one hand behind her neck, fingers threading through her wine-red hair. The other hand found her waist, pulling her against me. Her small gasp disappeared into my mouth as I deepened the kiss, turning her hesitant touch into something hungrier.

For someone who planned everything down to the minute, Vivienne kissed like she was discovering a new country. Exploratory. Curious. Her hands clutched at my lapels before sliding up to my shoulders, my neck, finally settling with one palm flat against my chest—right over my hammering heart.

I backed her against the stall wall, not caring that we were in a museum bathroom or that her mother had just threatened my sister’s future or that this was probably the dumbest thing I’d ever done. Her mouth opened under mine, and I took the invitation, sliding my tongue against hers.

She made a sound. Low. Needy. A moan that vibrated against my lips and shot straight to my groin.

“Isaiah,” she breathed between kisses, my name sounding different in her mouth now. Sacred. Profane.

I pressed closer, pinning her with my hips. The expensive silk of her dress rustled between us, a whispered reminder of all the reasons this was a bad idea.

Her fingers dug into my chest, not pushing me away but holding on like I was the only solid thing in a spinning room. Her other hand had somehow found its way under my jacket, hot against my side even through the shirt.

“We should stop,” I murmured against her jaw, trailing kisses down to the pulse point on her neck.

“We should,” she agreed, tilting her head to give me better access.

Neither of us stopped.

Her skin tasted like salt and expensive perfume. I found a spot beneath her ear that made her breath catch, and I lingered there, memorizing her reaction.

“Isaiah,” she said again, more urgently this time.

I lifted my head. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed. Her perfect hairdo wasn’t so perfect anymore.

She looked better this way. Real.

“Your speech,” I reminded her, my voice rougher than I intended.

“Right.” She nodded, not moving. “The speech.”

We stayed like that for another heartbeat. Two. Three. My hands on her waist. Her palm on my chest. Both of us breathing like we’d run a race.

Finally, she slid out from between me and the wall, smoothing down her dress with shaky hands.

“Well,” she said, her voice almost normal. “Now you know.”

“Know what?”

A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Which sister didn’t kiss you on the steps that day.”

My brain short-circuited. Wait, what?

“What do you mean which sister didn’t—”

“I need to fix my lipstick.” She stepped around me, reaching into her clutch for a small tube. “Five minutes until my speech.”

I watched as she applied the burgundy color, blotting her lips together, checking her reflection in the mirror. The vulnerable girl from moments ago disappeared, replaced by Vivienne Valentine, heir to an empire, cold and untouchable.

Except I knew better now. I’d felt her heart race. Heard her moan. Tasted her want.

“Vivienne,” I started.

“We should get back,” she interrupted, sliding her lipstick back into her clutch. “You’ll sit at the table. Hold my notecards if I need them.”

Just like that, we were back to boss and employee.

But her words kept echoing in my head. Now you know which sister didn’t kiss you.

Which meant…

Oh, fuck.