CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

HOLLY

“Okay, I’m not just saying this, but this is the best eggplant parm I’ve ever eaten.”

I bowed my head to the man sitting to the right of me. “I’ll tell the chef,” I said beaming, before digging in myself.

Oh, thank God, I haven’t lost my touch.

I closed my eyes as I chewed the fried eggplant, perfectly crispy around the edges and smothered in mozzarella, and I tried to remember the last time I had eaten eggplant parmesan. I knew it had undoubtedly been with Stephen in our little apartment. I tried picturing his face and whether or not he enjoyed it, but glancing up at Brandon, I knew instantly that none of that mattered. Not when I had this new man, treating the meal like the finest cuisine he had ever rolled around his palate. I couldn’t remember ever feeling quite that proud over something I had cooked, and I couldn’t think of anybody I would have rather shared it with.

Brandon put his fork and knife down, and ran a hand through his hair before looking around the kitchen with the sadness he couldn’t seem to shake all night. I wondered what was wrong, but fear told me not to ask; too afraid the night would end if I so much as mentioned it.

“Thank you for this,” he said softly, taking in the organized countertops that were just hours before piled with boxes.

He hadn’t asked me to clean or put things away, but seeing the shambles the kitchen had been in, I could sense that he needed me to step in and make it happen, to show him that he wasn’t nearly as broken as his house would’ve had me believe. He had then proven that he wasn’t when he quickly jumped in, putting things in cabinets as though he had always had a place for them in mind and bringing in furniture that had been in storage for years. All he needed was a gentle nudge in the right direction. Someone to show him he could, and I was pretty freakin’ happy that I could be that someone.

“Next, we tackle the rest of the house,” I laughed, not entirely sure I was ready to handle a job that big, assuming I even had a say in the matter.

We ate the rest of the meal in a state of comfortable chatter; talking about things that didn’t seem overly important and yet somehow felt crucial to what was happening between us. It seemed difficult to get him to talk about himself at times, always seeming to want me to carry the conversation while he kept his gaze on me and his cheek against his fist, but when I did get him talking, I found it hard not to lose myself in his animated storytelling. He had me laughing through stories about him and Nick, mostly tales from their time in college, and he would grab a hold of my laughter and get himself going. The sound filled the kitchen, carrying over into the foyer, and up to the cathedral ceilings, and I would catch myself looking into the crinkled corners of his eyes with a swelling in my chest that left me feeling comfortable and content.

Oh my God. I love him.

The thought punched me in the stomach when he stood up to carry our plates to the sink. I panicked, trying to scan my mind for some sort of timeline that would’ve indicated when the hell that happened and why I hadn’t stopped it. It seemed that it had been that way forever, but I knew that was impossible because I hadn’t known him forever. There didn’t seem to be a defining moment when I fell out of love with Stephen and into it with Brandon, but there I was, with the sudden knowledge that that was exactly what had happened.

“So, I thought we could maybe watch a couple episodes of Frasier,” Brandon said, walking back to the table and finishing the rest of his second glass of wine. “Do you like that show? Nobody else I know likes that show.”

I picked mine up, suddenly afraid that looking at him would cause me to fall even further in love with him, and I polished off the last drop, swallowing hard. “It’s my favorite,” I croaked, placing the glass back down on the table with a hand I wished to God would stop shaking.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said with surprise. “It’s like you were made for me or something.” He took my shaking hand, sending a thousand lightning bolts up my arm, pulling me to my feet. I diverted my eyes from his, making my apprehension noticeable. “Hey, what’s going on? Is something wrong?” His hands found my cheeks, holding my head from turning away from him.

“What are we doing?” I asked, startled by his hold on me. I wrapped my hands around his inked wrists, unsure if I should pull him closer or push him away.

His head inclined toward me, pressing his forehead against mine. “I wanted to see how things could be if we just …” His breath caught in his throat, as his thumbs stroked along my cheekbones, coaxing me to look into his eyes.

“Oh God, Brandon, I don’t think—”

My words were cut off by the sudden pressure of his mouth against mine. I considered that the wise thing to do would be to pull away, to not allow myself to start something new after ending a miserable excuse for a relationship, if you could even call it that. Yet, I found myself gripping the back of his neck and parting my lips, inviting his tongue to tangle with mine, allowing him deeper into my heart.

Taking charge, I blindly backed him into the foyer. His feet must have hit against the staircase, because the next thing I knew, he was somehow gracefully pulling me down with him to sit on the two bottom steps, never once breaking the kiss that I was certain would leave my tongue sprained by the end of the night. My hands left his neck to roam the length of his back, trying to memorize the tension of his muscles through the taught material of my old t-shirt, traveling over the ridges of his spine until I came in contact with the hem. I smiled against his lips, slipping my fingers under the material to brush my fingertips against the soft skin of his lower back and pulled upward.

Breaking the kiss to raise his arms, granting me permission to remove the shirt, I caught the hungry look in Brandon’s blue eyes, darkened by the intensity of months of now-obvious passion.

“Oh, you’re not going to stop me this time?” I teased, reminding him of the first time we had kissed in the parking lot at Reade’s too many months earlier.

“I’m never stopping you again,” he said, pulling the shirt off his arms and tossing it to the marble floor.

“Never, huh?” I said coyly.

He shook his head, and for just a second, the wanton desire left his eyes and was replaced by something beautiful and absolutely fucking terrifying. “Never.”

Before I could react to that flash of change, he reverted back to desperation and I followed suit. My eyes feasted on the bulging muscles, accentuated by the tattoos, and it was enough to leave my mouth slack.

“My God, you’re so fucking hot,” I breathed, all sense of class leaving me as I inched my hands towards his chest, feeling like a horny teenager about to get to second base.

Brandon feigned a gasp, dipping his mouth to my neck, and he said, “I’m not sure my mother would approve of me kissing someone with a mouth like that.”

I really did gasp then, with his mouth against my neck, kissing from below my ear to my collar bone and back up again. The kisses began lighter than air, painfully taking his time before gradually building up to a battle between his tongue and my skin. I leaned into him, burying my face into his shoulder without the strength to do anything other than moan and breathe him in, wishing for the torture to end. Preferably on my back, with him between my legs.

“Brandon,” I panted, my hands maneuvering to the bulging, buttoned fly of his jeans.

“Hmm,” he responded in a growl, muffled against my neck.

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”