Brynn

 

 

He takes control of the kiss almost immediately. His hand grabs my hip, the other cradles the back of my neck. He angles me the way he wants, the taste of his lips controlling me. I'm intoxicated by the scent of his skin and the mild jolt of whiskey that peppers his tongue as it glides against mine. He moans into my mouth and my knees weaken. My body heats and I melt at the same time.

Goose pimples pop up on my arms, my legs, and every single spot that I want to feel his touch.

I step even closer to him and he growls out my name. He wants more and dammit, I do too.

I can't.

This is Smith Booth.

I almost whimper as I pull back and break us apart.

His lips breeze over my cheek, leaving a soft trail of kisses that land on my ear. "That was worth the wait."

No, it wasn't. Shit. Yes, it was. That's why I tossed all common sense aside and went for it.

I've never been kissed like that. My ex-fiancé couldn't make my panties wet with just a kiss.

I resist the desire to kiss Smith again. I did it to prove a point to him and all I accomplished was to get myself so worked up that I'll need to come the second I close my bedroom door tonight.

I take a step back because I don't trust myself. "It was just a kiss, Smith."

"Are you trying to convince yourself of that?" he asks. His eyes are dark as he looks at the outline of my hard nipples through my dress. "You felt what I felt, Petal. Don't deny it."

So I felt aroused? Big deal. I haven't been with a man in months. It's not surprising that a kiss would ignite something in me.

"I kissed you to show you that a kiss is just a kiss." I reach to pick up my clutch. I'd tossed it on the bar when I made my move on him. "Now that we've settled that, we can finally stop talking about what didn't happen when I was seventeen. Agreed?"

"No," he says matter-of-factly. "I won't agree to that unless you agree to have dinner with me."

Like that will ever happen.

I kissed him to make him shut up about that night at Julian's when I was still a teenager. None of this changes anything between us. He stole the brownstone from me and I can't forgive him for that.

"I will never have dinner with you," I say coolly, my heart finally finding a beat pattern that doesn't mimic a tap-dancing troupe on a tin roof.

"Why not?" he challenges with a smirk.

Because you'll only hurt me more. You know every weakness I have and you're at the top of the list.

"You know why," I hiss out through clenched teeth, my nostrils flaring. "You keep acting like you didn't fuck me over, Smith. Maybe in your world you get by with just ignoring your wrongs until everyone else does too, but that's not how it is with me."

He draws in a deep breath and then releases it slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. "I need you to explain to me what I've done. Tell me, Brynn, because I have no fucking idea why you hate me."

I chew on my bottom lip contemplating how to respond. I can't tell if he's genuine or not. If he is, that means that all the anger I've held inside me for years has been in vain. Maybe he doesn't even remember that he stole my dream right from under me.

"If the looks you've been giving me could kill, I would have been dead days ago." He shoves a hand through his messy black hair. "I can't stand that you're in pain because of something I did. At first, I thought it was what happened at Julian's place years ago, but I get that it's more than that. Tell me. Petal, just tell me how I fucked up."

I hate that I kissed him just now. I hate that I want to again, but mostly I hate that I have to confess something to him that he should already know.

"You really don't know?" I ask softly, leaning in so he can hear me over the woman singing the final verse of, "Like a Virgin," at the top of her lungs.

He looks directly into my eyes. "I swear I don't know."

Knowing that hurts almost as much as the moment my broker called to tell me the home I wanted so desperately had slipped through my fingers.

I texted one of my dad's associates almost immediately once I got the news the brownstone was sold. I wanted the name of the buyer and he wanted me to put in a good word for him with my dad. He reached out to a couple of brokers he knew and within the hour I had the confirmation I didn't really need.

The buyer was Smith Booth.

I didn't discuss any of it with my dad because my opinion matters little to him. I got what I wanted out of the agreement and it changed what I felt for Smith from that moment on.

I turn to the stage as soon as I hear the beginning chord of "Sweet Caroline."

It was my grandma's name.

Caroline. Sweet Caroline.

I can't bear hearing her name right now.

"I'm leaving." I turn back to Smith. I've thought over and over about the moment I'd eventually confront him about what happened. There was never once a scenario in my mind where would he say that he had no idea why I'm upset. I assumed that he was living under an umbrella of guilt for taking away something so precious that was within my grasp. I've had it wrong all along. I don't know what to make of that or what I'm feeling after that kiss.

"Do you want me to come with you, Brynn?"

The question catches me off guard. I should want to walk away from him right now. I need to take some time to think through what's happened between us tonight. Instead of telling him I want to be alone, I look into his eyes. "If you want to."

He stands, his hand circling my waist. "I want to more than anything. Lead the way."

 

***

 

My first thought was to take Smith home. Not with me and not so we could round third base even though that's the only thing that consumed my thoughts my senior year of high school.

I wanted to take him to his home; the brownstone on East Sixty-Seventh Street where I should be living with Pike. As soon as we hit the sidewalk outside Easton Pub and I felt the lazy heat that fills summer evenings in New York, I changed my mind. 

I craved the calm that comes from the city. Some people find it chaotic and loud. To me, it's the center of peace.  When I need to think there's no better place for me than outdoors, even in this jaded, unpredictable city.

Going to Smith's place would mean I'd see all the rooms that my grandma wanted so desperately to see again. I want that, but right now my mind is reeling. I'm still trying to process the kiss, not to mention the fact that Smith seems oblivious to the reality that he stole something from not only me but my grandma too. She wanted to live in that brownstone and spend the rest of her life in the house that she always imagined she'd call home.

She first told me about it when we were hurrying down a quaint street on the Upper East Side on a rainy afternoon when I was in college. She stopped mid-step to stare at the façade of a home and I could tell by the look of enhancement on her face, that the building owned a piece of her heart.

I pushed for more details and over the weeks and months that followed, she told me tales of her mom and the work she did there. I smiled when she explained how she and her sister would spend summer days in the kitchen of the brownstone when my great-grandmother couldn't find a neighbor or friend to take care of them.

I laughed when my grandma told me that she'd written her name on the inside of the pantry door. It was a tangible sign that she'd grown up in that home in a very limited, restricted way.

The picturesque red-bricked townhouse brought a light to her face; a face that had aged beautifully and gracefully even though her body and mind had become worn with the passing years.

"Where are we going, Petal?" Smith's voice breaks through the mountain of memories.

I look up at him. I want to ask him about Sigrid Hull, the woman he bought the brownstone from. She was a model at the time and he was the host of a nationally syndicated entertainment show. Their paths crossed at a charity fashion show here in New York. He was based in Los Angeles back then, but for some inexplicable reason, he bought her place.

He knew I wanted it. I'd reached out to him twice asking him to arrange a meeting between Sigrid and me. I left messages for him both times explaining the sentimental value that property held for my grandma. I wanted to appeal to Sigrid's heart after I'd put in my offer. It was full ask, all cash, with no contingencies and a thirty-day close.

I thought I had it within my grasp, but then Smith swooped in and signed on the dotted line, for less money, terms that didn't match mine and a list of contingencies a mile long. Two days later he escorted Sigrid to the Met Gala.

My grandma died three months later still holding onto the hope that she'd live in that house one day. She left me everything, including Pike, and the guilt that I couldn't fulfill her last dream.

"We're going to the top of the world," I say, finally. I don't need to add anything to it. There's no explanation necessary. Smith knows.

His mouth curls up in a soft smile. "I'll get us an Uber."