I’ll Always Be With You (Lancaster Prep Book 4)

WEST HASN’T BEEN on the Lancaster Prep campus for almost a week. And I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t called me or tried to reach out. Not that he has my phone number to call or text, but it’s just weird, how he disappeared without a trace.

People talk about him at school, but no one else seems to know where he is either. Not even his friends. I cornered TJ and Brent right before American Government and they both claimed they haven’t heard from him. I find that hard to believe, but as the days go on, they seem just as perplexed as I am.

At least with West gone, Mercedes has moved on from terrorizing me. She’s found a new man to dig her claws in—some poor, dumb soul named Cooper, with a handsome face and a cocky grin. He’s a year younger than us and completely enraptured with her, so I wish him luck.

He’s going to need it.

I spend my lunches with Sadie, trying to pump her up and get her to ask Brent to hang out with her after school, but she won’t do it. And neither will he, so the two of them merely circle each other like sharks in the water, reluctant to take the first bite out of each other.

It’s ridiculous.

The week drags, and I get to the point where I can’t take it any longer. I’m antsy. Anxious. Every room I’m in feels as if the walls are closing in on me and I eventually become so frustrated by not knowing where West is, I call the one person I’m confident can find him.

My older brother.

“You want me to find who?” he asks, after I explain the situation to him over the phone, careful not to reveal too much information.

I’m already regretting my decision. “Weston Fontaine.”

“From the champagne Fontaines?”

“You know them?” I really hope he doesn’t know West.

“I know of them. Eduard Fontaine is a ruthless businessman—and I admire him for that. And he knows how to make a damn good champagne.” I can hear Whit tap away at a keyboard. “Is Weston his kid?”

“His son.”

More tapping. “His only child. You should ask Sylvie for his information. She knows how to dig up dirt on people.”

“I don’t want to deal with Sylvie,” I admit, feeling bad. “Besides, she’s better at hacking.”

“Not so much anymore. She sort of gave that up.” He taps at a few more keys and pauses, going quiet, which I assume means he’s reading over something. “I think he’s in California.”

My blood runs cold. “What do you mean?”

“I’m looking at a photo on a random Napa Valley website of Eduard and his wife, and there’s a sullen-looking teenaged boy standing with them who’s been identified as Weston Fontaine. It’s dated two days ago. He’s definitely in California.” Within seconds my phone buzzes with a notification. “I just sent you the photo.”

I pull my phone away from my ear to study the photo, my gaze racing over West’s handsome face, lingering. Trying to find some hidden message. My brother is right—his face is sullen. He doesn’t look happy to be there.

Why is he with his parents all the way in California? Why didn’t he tell anyone where he was going? Why didn’t he tell me?

Maybe because you don’t matter to him.

I push that shitty little voice inside my brain to the darkest depths and focus on what my brother is saying.

“… you into this kid? You’re never into anyone. I figured you were asexual.”

An irritated noise leaves me. “Just because I’m not some sex-crazed maniac like you doesn’t mean I’m not into anyone.”

Whit doesn’t even protest the sex-crazed maniac comment. “You’ve got to admit that you’ve never really focused on any guy—or girl—ever.”

“I was too focused on dance,” I remind him.

“Being at Lancaster Prep causes the hormones to ramp up, huh?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter, making my older brother laugh.

“Look, you’re smart to go after a guy with that level of family wealth. He’ll never be as rich as us, but he comes from major money,” Whit says. “He’d be closer to our level if they sold the company.”

“How much is their business worth?”

“Estimated in the billions,” Whit answers.

We chat a little more until I finally tell him I have to go and end the call, my mind filled with all sorts of things.

More like all sorts of questions.

I do a little research myself, trying to find the same photo and article Whit found on my own but I’m unable to locate it, which is frustrating. I do find other articles about the family, the business, his father, his mother.

West looks like his dad. I stare hard at the photos over the years, noting that his father looks thinner and paler in more recent photos. As if he’s not well.

Is his health poor? I think of my sister. Sylvie’s weight fluctuates depending what medications she’s on, or how ill she is.

Eduard Fontaine is thin and nearly as pale as me. When you compare the photos to ones from even two years ago, it’s a dramatic difference. He was stockier. Tanner. And he smiled much more too. He looked like a man who enjoyed working outside, and now?

Now he doesn’t look very well at all.

Giving up on my internet quest, I try to focus on homework, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t. Instead, I throw on a leotard, knot my hair on top of my head and go to my dance studio, putting on the comforting sound of piano music that reminds me of ballet class in London before I go to the barre and start on my daily stretches. Again.

I danced earlier, before classes started, because I couldn’t sleep. I was too worried, too confused by West’s disappearance. So here I am again, stretching my already loose body, trying to lose myself in the mindless task of my exercises.

I don’t hear the studio door open, and I don’t hear the faint shuffle of footsteps across the floor either. It’s only when I glance up and see him in the mirror’s reflection, standing just behind me, appearing in the room like a ghost.

A gasp escapes me and I turn to face him, baffled that he’s here. Standing in front of me.

“Where did you come from?”

West doesn’t move from where he stands in the center of the floor. “I just got back.”

The music still plays, the lilting piano cheerful and seemingly false in the otherwise somber mood of the room.

Of him. Judging from the stiff way he holds himself, the stark expression on his handsome face, he doesn’t appear happy.

“Where were you?”

A ragged sigh leaves him and he rakes his fingers through his already disheveled hair. He looks tired. His face is drawn and there are bags under his eyes. His cheeks and jaw are lined with stubble and he’s clad in a navy blue hoodie and gray sweatpants, but despite the exhaustion I see in his eyes, he still looks good.

I missed him. My entire body is leaning in his direction, and I yearn to run to him. Feel his strong arms wrap around my waist while I circle his neck with my arms, resting my cheek against his chest, so I can hear his thundering heartbeat. The need to actually touch him is so strong, I swear I can feel it vibrating in my bones.

But I do none of that. I remain in place, my breathing erratic, thanks to my stretching and his being here.

“I went to New York to meet with my father. He summoned me,” West starts, wandering over to the chair where my speaker sits. He turns it off and sets it on the floor before he settles into the chair. “He wanted to talk.”

I’m afraid to ask what about, especially because he has to be lying to me. He wasn’t in New York. He was in California.

“How did your talk go?”

“It was … fine.” He angles his head to the left, staring out the window. “I went back to California with him.”

All the tension leaves my body at his admission. “Your parents live there, right?”

“Yes. They moved there when I started high school. I don’t spend a lot of time with them anymore.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Not particularly.” Another sigh leaves him. “It’s difficult, being the only child. The only son. A lot of expectations are put on me.”

I think of my brother and all the expectations riding on his shoulders. How my parents don’t do that to me at all, just because I’m female? Or because I’m the youngest? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s a combination of both. “My brother deals with the same thing.”

He cuts his gaze to mine. “Are you close with your brother?”

“Sort of.” I shrug, careful not to mention I just spoke with him, and the conversation had everything to do with West. “It feels like as we get older, we get closer. Plus, I was in London for so long. I rarely spoke to either of my siblings.”

“How was that? Being so far away from your family in London? I thought it was bad that my parents moved across the United States, but you lived in another country.”

“It wasn’t awful. I left by choice, really.” Panic rises, threatening to close my throat, and I close my eyes for a beat, dredging up the courage to tell the truth of my fucked-up family. “My parents were fighting all of the time. My father was involved in a long-term affair, and my mother was focusing on my sister Sylvie instead of her marriage because, deep down, she knew it was crumbling. My brother had turned into a raging asshole—basically the entire family was falling apart and I wanted out. I wanted away from it. The only thing that was important to me was dance, and I used that as an escape.”

“An escape from your family?”

“An escape from my entire life.” I swallow hard, surprised by how much I just revealed to him. I don’t talk about my family problems with anyone.

“Come here.”

I startle at his rough command, the emotion thick in his voice. The look on his face is unfamiliar. Troubled. His gaze is clouded, and when he lifts his eyes to me, I go to him, perching my butt on his leg and breathing a sigh of relief when he slips his arm around my waist, pulling me into him.

It feels … good. Comforting, having his strong arms around me, my body leaning into his. I absorb his warmth and his scent and his strength, my arms going around his neck, just as I envisioned. He holds me closer, until I’m pressed completely into him, and I close my eyes, savoring it.

Savoring him.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into the skin of my neck, and I cling to him harder, wishing I could say the words out loud.

I missed him too.

His fingers streak down the side of my cheek, slipping beneath my chin to tip my face up, our gazes meeting. Locking. He stares at my lips, his own parting, and I lean forward, brushing my mouth with his. I stay there, our parted lips close enough to touch, inhaling his exhales and he tips his head up, his mouth closing on mine.

He’s kissing me, soft and slow. Our lips connect. Break apart. Meet again. Over and over, his tongue sneaking out for a teasing lick. Mine sliding against his.

I turn to face him fully, straddling him on the chair, pressing my torso against his as the kiss deepens. He cups the back of my head and I drown in him, our tongues tangling, our breaths increasing. I’ve got my hands buried in his hair, and he’s got both hands gripping my ass, pulling me into him, so I can feel how hard he is. How hard I make him.

Power sizzles through my veins at the realization, and I grind against him, lifting my hips so his erection presses right against me. Sparks light up my skin at the connection, making my pussy throb. It would be so easy to come like this.

He ends the kiss, breaking away from me as if he needs to catch his breath, angling his head to the side. I stare at him, taking in his flushed cheeks. His sparkling eyes. His swollen, damp mouth.

“I can’t do this,” he says, his voice pained.

I frown. “You can’t do what?”

“Lead you on.” He grabs me by the waist and lifts me off him, rising to his feet and gently setting me to the side as if I don’t weigh a thing. “We can’t keep doing this. Hooking up at random times. It’s unfair to you.”

“What are you talking about?” I follow him as he heads for the studio’s door, my mind awhirl with what he’s trying to say. “You’re not leading me on.”

He comes to a stop, his expression grim. “I can’t be what you want from me.”

I gape at him, at a loss for words. “I never expected anything from you.”

“I can’t even give you what you consider nothing. It’s too much for me right now.” He rests his hands on his hips and glances down at the floor, his breathing deep. Ragged. “I’m leaving.”

“Fine. Go.” I wave a hand at him, hating how close to tears I feel. There is no reason to cry over this boy. He doesn’t mean that much to me.

He doesn’t.

“You misunderstood me.” West lifts his head, his expression full of remorse. “I have to leave here—soon.”

I’m confused. “And go where?”

“Help my family with the business.” I see it in his gaze that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Why? Doesn’t your father run it? Doesn’t he have a full staff and a board and whatever else that comes with the House of Fontaine? Aren’t you going to college first?”

“I don’t know where I’m going after I graduate. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He sounds positively miserable and my heart aches for him.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that yet, right?” I try to smile but it feels so forced, I let it fade immediately. “Let’s just enjoy this time together, okay? We have the rest of the school year to do whatever we want. All of our family responsibilities can wait.”

“That’s my problem—the responsibilities can’t wait. And it’s all crashing down on me, you know?” His gaze lingers on mine. “You probably don’t. You seem to have it pretty easy.”

I glare at him, his words infuriating me. “You think I have it easy? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You run away from your problems, right? That’s what it looks like to me. Hiding away in London for the last five years so you didn’t have to face anyone,” he says, and I wonder for the quickest second if he’s trying to goad me on purpose.

It feels like he is.

But I let it happen anyway.

“I didn’t run away from anyone. I chose to go to London because dance means everything to me. Just like I’m choosing to spend time with you right now. I’m not the one who’s trying to run away.” I pause, letting that sink in. “That would be you.”

My words hang heavy in the air and he flinches, as if I physically hurt him. “You’re right. I need the distance.”

That’s all he says before he turns around and heads for the studio door, pulling it shut with a loud slam only seconds later.

It’s my turn to flinch. Tears are streaming down my face and I don’t even realize it until I taste the salt on my lips. Now I’m even angrier. I don’t cry, especially over some dumb, random boy I made the mistake of getting involved with one hot summer night in Paris.

So stupid.

Once I hear the distinct clang of the building door sound in the distance indicating that he’s gone, I fall to my knees, burying my face in my hands.

And I weep.