Thud!
The stack of books comes crashing down, smacking me in the head and shoulders as they barrel towards the floor.
“Ouch!” I yelp, shielding my face from the onslaught of paperbacks. The thundering stops and I open my eyes to see a chaotic scene in front of me. Romance stories are scattered everywhere, stories all ending in a happily-ever-after. The irony is not lost on me.
I begin the tedious task of picking them all up and stacking them in shorter piles on the table.
I’ve been tucked away in a back corner of the bookstore all afternoon. We haven’t been very busy anyway, so that coupled with my seclusion has given me way too much time to think, and I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
All I can do is think about Fenton.
Everything reminds me of him. The cover model on one super-sexy book. The girl in a bikini on another. The grey paint in this part of the store would match his eyes and I know he’d hate the music playing over the speakers, just like he hated the similar music in the café we stopped at for breakfast on the way to the yacht.
It’s a miserable decline into the pits of remorse.
I’ve always heard you shouldn’t regret your decisions. You should analyze them, learn from them, and be grateful. I wonder if those people have ever experienced Fenton Abbott and then had him turn away.
Doubtful.
“Ugh,” I groan, picking up a book with a boat on the cover. It looks romantic and fun and I hate it instantly. I hope the heroine knows how that ends. He’s going to drop her off at home and she’ll be heartbroken in the bookstore at the end of the novel.
I slam it down a little more forcefully than necessary.
I’m not heartbroken.
I bend over and scoop up a novel that’s hidden under the table. It’s a glossy pink cover with a beautiful couple kissing under a palm tree. He has dark hair and a strong jawline, just like Fenton.
I press it to my chest and take a deep breath. If I try hard enough, I can smell his cologne.
“Brynne? You can take your break now,” my boss says as she walks by, carrying a stack of magazines. “There’s coffee cake in the break room. I made it this morning.”
“Thanks,” I grin, feeling relieved. I need a shot of sugar and some time to get myself together.
Working my way to the break room, I spy the dessert, take a chunk and cuddle up on a loveseat as my phone lights up with a number I don’t know. I swipe it instantly. “Hello?”
“Hey, Brynne.” Grant’s voice shoots through the phone, rougher than any I’ve heard in awhile. The familiarity I once found in his timbre is long gone.
“Grant?”
“How have you been? I was by a couple of days ago.”
“So I heard.”
“You okay?”
Dropping the rest of the cake in the garbage next to the chair, I sit up and sigh. “I’m great. What do you want?”
“Will you have dinner with me?”
“No.”
He sighs and I know he’s scratching his head. He always does that when he’s frustrated. “Please?”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“We do, actually,” he says, his voice lower now. “I want to talk to you about some stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Just . . . stuff. I can come over, if you want.”
Remembering my father’s warning, I give in. I know Grant’s going to show up. That’s just how he is. If I at least hear him out and agree to do it somewhere publicly, maybe he won’t come by the house and cause a scene.
“No,” I groan. “Don’t do that. I’ll . . . I’ll meet you somewhere tomorrow night.”
“You will?”
I hear the surprise in his voice and instead of making me smile, I frown deeper. “I guess. You’re leaving me no choice.”
“Perfect. I’ll text you a place later. Does that work?”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“Awesome! I can’t wait to see you, Brynne.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I click off the phone and squeeze my temple. The son-of-a-bitch better have something to tell me. Before I can think about it too long, the phone rings again. I hold it in my hands, watching Fenton’s name at the top of the screen.
“Hello?” I try to sound as relaxed as I can, like I was just lying on my bed, watching television. The syllables come out forced, breathy, but it’s the best I can do.
“Hey, Brynne. It’s Fent.” His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket on a winter night. It tugs at the memories of being actually wrapped around him and that stings. Even so, I can’t help but feel the little hope budding in my gut at his attempt at reaching out.
“Fent, huh?”
“It’s a newly acquired moniker given to me by a beautiful, sassy, bikini-clad girl. I kind of miss hearing it, actually.”
“Whoever gave it to you was clearly a genius.”
“That might be stretching it . . .”
The laugh that radiates from me betrays my attempt at sounding cool and unattached. Our banter is too comfortable. It’s almost as if we haven’t lost a step in the easy way we have together. Had together. Whatever.
The uncertainty of where we actually stand and the anticipation of why he might’ve called riddle me, and as much as I want to just start talking, I don’t. The ball is in his court.
“I thought I’d check on you,” he says.
“I’m good.”
He breathes heavily and I know he’s squeezing his temples. I wonder where he’s at and how things are going for him. And before I know it, I’m asking. “How are you?”
“Hanging in there. What did you do today?”
“I’m working, actually. On a break. What are you doing?”
“The same.”
His answer is super simple, leaving both nothing and everything to the imagination. He didn’t say enough for me to decide if it’s a good day or a bad day, and I’m not sure I’m supposed to press for more.
“Sounds fun,” I reply and then decide to take a gamble. “Did you ever work out that big problem you had?”
“Maybe,” he grunts. “But I don’t want to call you and talk about work.”
“Well, what do you want to call and talk to me about?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. I’m holding my breath, hoping, maybe even praying a little bit, that he’ll say something I want to hear.
Instead of something over-the-top, or even hopeful, he laughs. “I just wanted to hear your voice, to tell you the truth.”
“Well, here I am. Hanging in there, as you say.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” A long moment passes between us and I wait for him to continue. “Do you have plans tomorrow night? I’d love to see you now, but I have meetings that are probably going to run late,” he sighs.
I have half a notion to tell him I don’t. I want to see him so much that I would blow off Grant and maybe never hear what he has to say just to lay my eyes on Fenton again. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know I can’t do that. I’m just a distraction for Fenton and I need to hash this out with Grant.
“I do, actually,” I say, feeling the words fall off my lips.
I don’t miss his groan in response, but I can’t make out the words he mutters.
“What do those entail?” he asks cautiously.
“Dinner. Then wine.”
“With the same person?”
“Not necessarily,” I shrug. “I might have wine at dinner, but Presley and I will also be having wine when I return.”
“So it’s safe to assume you’re not having dinner with Presley?”
“That’s true. It’s also safe to assume, for what it’s worth, that I won’t be wearing a bikini.”
“Brynne . . .”
The deep timbre of his voice floods through me, sparking the spots in my body that only he can. I shiver from the onslaught.
“Who are you going to dinner with?” he asks, his voice rough, not at all the cashmere effect.
“Grant.”
Tension fills the line and I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear in some sort of pointless self-defense maneuver. Without being able to see him, I know his eyes are narrowed, his strong, sexy jaw pulsing. He would be looking down at me, taking a step closer to me, invading my space and my senses with all that is Fenton.
I gulp, the mere vision of him making me sweat.
“Can I ask a favor of you?” he says finally.
“Sure.”
“Don’t go to dinner with him.”
I snort. “Fenton, really? This is none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“Too freaking bad.”
He laughs, but the rumble isn’t filled with amusement or sincerity. “Go to dinner with me instead.”
I leap off the sofa, my cheeks aching from the smile stretched from ear-to-ear. Pulling the phone away from my face, I exhale a rushed breath.
It’s what I want—definitely what I want—to see him, to spend time with him. But as I pace across the break room floor, reality sets in. If not because I need this resolution with Grant, but because I’m not letting him think he can just call the shots. That’s not how I roll for him or anyone else.
He needed a pause to this relationship and now I do.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
The innuendo thick in his voice makes me shiver, my thighs clenching shut at the promise of things to come.
“I’m sure you would, Fent, but I really can’t.”
A low rumble ripples through the phone and I clamp my legs together harder. “I don’t understand why you are so hell bent on seeing this kid?”
“I, for one, have a little respect for a couple of years spent with someone.” It’s not the complete truth, but I don’t want to bring up Brady. I want to keep it simple.
“Like he respected you? Like he respects you now?”
“You don’t know him.”
“How well can you know him, Brynne? How can you sit there, someone as intelligent as yourself, and tell me you respect some guy that only took from you? Some kid,” he spits, “That you don’t know anymore, if you ever did.”
“I didn’t say I respected him, Fenton. I said I respected what we had. And I’m going to dinner with him, and I’m going to hear what he has to say.” I take a deep breath and realize I’m going to have to just be honest. “He says he has something to tell me and he won’t say what unless I meet him. And on the off chance it’s about my brother . . . I have to go. And if it’s not, I can walk away and feel like there’s not something I didn’t do that could change things.”
The line stills. “Do you think he really has information?”
“Probably not. It’s most likely just another ploy to stay connected to my family, although there’s a chance his employer paid him off. But I can’t take the risk. I have to give him one more chance. My father thinks he’s on the verge of cracking.”
He blows out a heated breath. “No matter what I say, you’re going, huh? Like the fucking bikini.”
“Yes. Like the fucking bikini.”
“Shit,” he hisses. He mutters under his breath again before clearing his throat. “Okay. Have it your way.”
“I fully intended to.”
“You’re something else, you know that?”
“It’s been said,” I say, my words pierced with as much levity as I can insert. “But my break is almost over, so I really need to go. Thanks for calling, Fent.”
“Goodbye,” he whispers and I end the call.
The deep blue dress kicks out as I twirl in front of the mirror. It’s pretty, especially coupled with Presley’s red harlot heels, and fits my waist perfectly. The top couple of buttons are undone and I notice my ample cleavage. I hurriedly fasten one, lest Grant get any ideas.
After work yesterday, Fenton sent me a few texts to change my mind. As hard as it was, I held my ground and managed to turn down his final offer via text when I left work this afternoon.
This night has all the potential in the world to go a number of ways and nearly all of them are bad. The one good outcome would be Grant delivering a brilliant bit of information that helps my brother get home. The odds of that are nil.
So why am I even doing this?
I swipe my eyes with another coat of mascara.
I’m doing this because I have to. If Dad is right and he’s on the verge of breaking down, I want to know what he has to say. And if I don’t meet him, he’ll show up here and that’s not safe. So we meet in public and I convince him to leave me alone, and I can come home and pretend I’m back in Vegas with Fenton.
Launching the mascara at the mirror, I hate myself for thinking of him. He pops into my brain like a flashing light and it’s beyond frustrating.
My phone buzzes in front of me and I see it’s my mom. I lurch forward and swipe it on.
“Hey, Mom! Is everything okay?”
“Hi, sweetie. Yes, relax. I’m not calling with news.”
Sighing in both relief and disappointment, knowing that means Brady isn’t free and he isn’t dead at the same time.
“So, what’s up?” I ask.
“Just checking in. Seeing how you are.”
“I’m good,” I say as brightly as I can manage. “Just got off work. Going to dinner in a few.” I think back to the place Grant texted me to meet him. “Checking out a place I haven’t been to before and I hear it’s really good. I’ll probably come home stuffed,” I laugh.
“That’s good. With anyone I know?”
“No,” I lie. I don’t want to get into Grant with her. Not that I have the energy or desire to do it ever, I don’t think she has it in her today either. “Just an old friend. We’re just catching up.”
“You have no idea how happy it makes my heart that you’re going out to dinner,” she sighs. “We have to keep pressing forward, Brynne.”
“I know. And we will. Every day I think of Brady as soon as I get up, and sometimes, just imagining him yelling at me to get up and go is the only reason I actually do.”
“He was always such an early bird,” she whispers wistfully. “You know, sometimes I get up before the sun comes up and watch it and wonder if he saw it rise. The same sun shines on all of us. I just wish it could tell me where he is.”
I wish I was there to hug her. To comfort her. To be home, surrounded by my family. To go into Brady’s childhood room and feel a little closer to him.
“Hyland has a meeting with one of the owners of Mandla this week who has personal ties to Zimbabwe, so he might know more than he’s letting on.”
“Wait up. So one of the guys Brady was working for is from there?”
“I guess. Your father thinks maybe that’s tied in to Brady’s abduction. Maybe he was taken as some sort of retaliation against Mandla.”
I pace the floor in my heels, wishing I could wrap my hands around Brady’s boss’ balls and squeeze until they fall off in a big, dead lump and then feed it to him.
“If that’s true, they aren’t going to tell Hyland anything! If they know this is more than some random thing, they aren’t going to want the blame placed on their shoulders!”
“I know, honey. We’re working on all of that.”
Anger boils in my chest at the thought of my brother sitting for months with a bunch of crazy assholes while this company, out to make money, leaves him for dead.
“Okay. Just checking in. I need to run some errands before your father gets home. Have a good dinner.”
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll try?”
“I will.” She doesn’t respond, curious as to my little slip of the tongue. I try to smooth it over so she doesn’t also worry about me. “It’s just a long drive and you know I hate traffic.”
“You get that from me,” she laughs. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Mom.”
I glance up and see Presley’s head sticking around the door. I roll my eyes and she mimics me, walking on in.
“You look gorgeous. I’m a little afraid to ask why you’re going to see Grant looking like that . . .”
“Is it too much? We’re just going to Pano.”
Presley pops a hand on her hip. “That’s still a really nice place. How is he paying for that?”
“Oh, I probably will if nothing’s changed,” I snort.
I turn away and back towards the mirror again and second guess my outfit. It’s a dress I bought on clearance a couple of years ago and have only worn once. I want to look nice—enough to make Grant realize what he’s missing. But my normal wardrobe is too blasé for Pano and it seems wrong to wear the stuff Fenton bought for me.
I shake my head, trying to keep thoughts of him at bay.
“I’m not going to even ask,” Presley comments, chiding me. “I know that look.”
“You do not.”
“No, I do. That’s the look you get on your face when you imagine Fenton eating your pussy.”
“For heaven’s sake, Presley!”
“What? Did he not? Do I not recall a conversation about his oral skills?”
“I can’t even with you,” I say, grabbing my phone again as it starts to jingle. I gasp at the number.
Presley stills. “That’s him, isn’t it? That’s Cashmere.”
“I don’t want to talk to him, Pres.”
“Yes, you do. Just answer it. Or give it to me and I’ll find him and he can eat my pussy.”
“Get out of here!” I laugh, nudging her to the door.
She flicks her hair off her shoulders and winks. “I thought that would convince you.” She blows me a kiss and shuts the door behind her.