Stay With Me

by London James

  Stay With Me

  London James

  Copyright © 2019 by London James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Description

  To hate or not to hate?

  Ashton King and I were total opposites.

  I was a nerdy bookworm. He was the star of my high-school.

  There was a secret no one knew and I dared not tell.

  I didn’t want anyone but him.

  But he only saw me as his best-friend’s little sister.

  And one crushing moment turned love to hate.

  It’s been years since I last saw him.

  He’s now a retired Navy Seal, and looking right me.

  We’re forced back into each other’s lives. I should’ve kept him away.

  If only I didn’t let things get too far.

  Fulfilling my fantasies came at a high price.

  I don’t think I can just run away from this one.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Want More London James?

  Chapter One

  Briony

  Unexpected party invites are kind of like Murphy’s Law—anytime you don’t want to be invited to a party, you’ll be dragged to one.

  I’m rarely not in the mood to hang out with anyone, but today is one of my rare, introverted moments despite the 4th of July holiday. I got a bottle of white wine from the store down the block, made myself some cheesy pasta, and I’m in my cozy clothes for a night in. My roommate and best friend Zara is out of town for the long weekend, so I don’t anticipate being interrupted by anyone but my cat, Chunk, who’s too busy sleeping on the windowsill to bug me.

  So, of course, my phone lights up with a call from my older brother Ben. He never calls, so I assume it’s serious.

  “Ben?” I ask, sounding way too alarmed.

  “Briony? Are you okay?” he asks.

  “What? I’m fine. I’m at home. You called me, didn’t you? Why would I be the one who wasn’t okay?” I unscrew the top of my wine — because I’ve broken too many corks in my life— and pour myself a glass.

  “I could have been calling to check on you. You sounded like you were alarmed.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, you’re coming tonight, right?”

  I groan. How could I have forgotten about his 4th of July party? “Shoot, did you send an invite this year?”

  “Yes, of course I did.” He doesn’t sound annoyed, thankfully. Not that he ever does. “But I figured the whole sibling thing meant that you were ride or die for the party, invite or not.”

  “I don’t go to all of your parties,” I scoff, standing up and sipping my wine, wandering toward my bedroom.

  “I know that, but it’s a rooftop party. You can’t not have fun at a rooftop party,” Ben continues. “You have to come tonight.”

  He isn’t wrong, to some extent. If there was any 4th of July party I was ever going to hit up, it would have to be one of Ben’s. Where did this party-planning gene come from, and why don’t I have it? He always manages to make everyone have fun, even if all he has is a kiddie pool full of some unholy combination of alcohol, juice, and soda, and a phone in a bowl to amplify its sound.

  Ok, maybe the kiddie pool full of liquor has more to do with the fun at that kind of party.

  “I’m already in my robe with a glass of wine. Convince me why I should come out when I have the apartment to myself, plus a whole season of Great British Baking Show to indulge in.”

  I flop backward onto my bed, staring at the splotch of water damage along the edge of the ceiling and holding my glass of wine on my stomach.

  “Wait, are you ok? You’re never down like this,” he says, suddenly turning into Soft Ben. Our family jokes that he has two modes—Energy Ben, the extremely extroverted guy who throws parties and loves to go skydiving, and Soft Ben, the emotionally connected protector. Soft Ben comes out whenever I seem to be in the slightest bit of trouble. He can sniff it out like a bomb dog.

  “Ehn,” I sigh. “Just another few bad dates.”

  I say it as casually as I can, but the sting of being strung along by some guy yet again burns, badly. This time it was a guy who I’d thought was great—at first, he’d responded to texts in a reasonable amount of time, not waiting a long time just to not seem too interested. We’d had some nice conversations over a few dates and had just enough in common for things to not be boring. We slept together once. It was… fine. A solid B-minus in the sex department. But I’d figured it was something we could work on once we learned about each other’s bodies a bit more.

  Apparently not, though, because he ghosted me. Why can’t anyone just come out and say when they aren’t interested anymore? It would save both of us so much trouble. I wouldn’t have spent as much time as I did staring at my phone, wondering what happened.

  What had happened? Was it the sex? That would hurt the most. I’d been dumped at least twice in college for not putting out, and now a decade or so later, I’m getting dumped for putting out. Badly, apparently, though he got an orgasm out of it. I can’t say the same for myself.

  “I’m sorry, Little B,” Ben says. “You deserve some guy who’s not a douchebag.”

  I swallow the knot in my throat. “Thanks, Big B.”

  “But seriously, come to the party. It’ll make you feel better, and it would mean a lot to me if you came,” he says, in the rare state of Sort-of-Soft-but-Turning-into-Energy Ben.

  “You have a 4th of July party every year. What’s so special about this one?” I ask, feeling slightly suspicious. He’s also the kind of person who thinks surprise parties are fun rather than heart attacks waiting to happen.

  “Just trust me. It’s the first one in our new place, and the view will be great.” He pauses. “Please? Be the best younger sister ever?”

  I sigh again, sitting up. “Fine. See you tonight.”

  So I slap on the most patriotic outfit I can muster: a white spaghetti-strap sundress that hits me just below the knee, navy blue wedge espadrilles, and red lipstick. The subway ride from my apartment in Brooklyn to his in lower Manhattan is stuffed to the gills with people in red, white, and blue, holding coolers and arguing about leaving too late to get a good viewing spot for fireworks.

  Ben is totally right about his awesome roof. It has a phenomenal view of the rest of Manhattan and even to the Bronx and beyond, glowing in the setting sun. I already see some fireworks going off way toward the horizon. It’s going to be amazing when it’s fully dark.

  “Hey! You made it!” Ben’s girlfriend, Daisy, spots me first and gives me a hug. She always smells so welcoming, like flowers and sunshine, and hugs like she means it. Her long blonde waves tickle my bare shoulders as she gives me a squeeze.

  “Yeah, I decided last minute,” I shrug.

  “Want a drink?” She swirls around to gesture at the bar, the scent of jasmine wafting off of her.

  “Want a drink? More like need a drink.
Anything’s fine as long as it’s not whiskey or rye.” I follow her to the little bar they’d set up. There’s a big bowl of punch with hibiscus flowers floating in the middle.

  “Rum punch it is, then. Rough week?” she asks, pouring me some of the punch and handing me a glass.

  “Yeah.” If I go into the details with Daisy, I’ll probably end up spilling my guts and crying within fifteen minutes. Something about her gentle presence brings people’s walls down. So I take a sip of punch to occupy my mouth instead, and it goes down smooth and fruity.

  “Careful, it’s potent,” she warns.

  “Is this basically straight-up alcohol, masked by fruit?”

  “Yep. I’d stick to one or two glasses for the whole night,” she winks. “Unless you really want to go hard for our nation’s independence.”

  I laugh. “I’m not that patriotic. Where’s Ben?”

  Daisy waves vaguely in the direction of the little secluded garden in the corner of the roof. Because of the building’s shape, there’s the main level of the roof, then a slightly lower one connected by some stairs, which has a garden under a terrace. “He’s been showing people the garden and pointing out the Statue of Liberty.”

  “He’s Energy Ben?” I take another sip of my drink. God, this is delicious.

  “Full Energy Ben.” Her perfectly full but tidy brows furrow. “He’s been a little weird today, though. Like hyper, almost.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that too, over the phone.” I watch him, and two of his friends wander away from the garden.

  “I think it’s work stress.” Daisy bites her bottom lip, absently twisting one of her many thin, gold rings around her fingers. The golden bangles on her wrists jingle. “He’s been working long hours lately.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” I shrug. “He can be mysterious sometimes.”

  Someone catches Daisy’s eye over my shoulder. “Talk to you later? Some more people arrived, and I’m on the welcome committee.”

  “Yeah, definitely.” I watch her go, her walk fast and nervous.

  I skim the crowd that’s arrived so far, gently swaying to the music. It’s mostly Ben’s friends, with some of Daisy’s mixed in there. I debate who to approach—there are Ben’s friends from Stanford, who are nice guys but only know how to talk about five subjects total, three of which require a master’s degree to appreciate. There are Ben’s city friends from work, who I like, but they seem to be in an insular conversation about sports, which I don’t really follow. Maybe I’ll talk to Ben eventually. I look around, doing a little more people-watching to pass the time and get tipsy enough to forget my bad mood.

  I look for Ben again, finding him looking over the water with someone else. A very sexy someone else—he’s tall, about Ben’s height, but powerfully broad-shouldered, where Ben is more on the lean side. He has thick thighs and a nice ass too. I haven’t even seen his front, but my nipples are already tight. The guy who ghosted me basically gave me an appetizer and didn’t give me the meal when he fucked me and didn’t get me off. Sometimes I wish I did one-night stands, just because the orgasms from my vibrator can’t replace the warmth of a man’s hands and mouth all over me.

  Maybe I can make an exception, I think to myself, eyeing Ben’s hot companion again as I walk up to them. Just to scratch that itch. Yes, I like steady relationships, but I’m also going to need a wrist brace if I keep masturbating so much.

  “Ben!” I say, slapping him on the shoulder, bro-style.

  “Hey, Little B.” Ben hugs me back, his body a little stiff. Then I turn to introduce myself to the hottie he’s hanging out with and involuntarily shrivel back like a raisin.

  “Long time, no see, Briony,” Ashton King, my brother’s best friend, says, his voice smoother and deeper than I remember it being.

  Even though it has been more than ten years since I’ve seen him, Ash’s presence still electrifies me all over. He still has the big, sturdy build he had in the past, but he’s filled out nicely, all muscle without him looking like he pumps himself up with steroids. Just standing next to him, even in my heels, makes me feel unusually petite. His face has lost the tiny bit of baby fat he had too, revealing his perfect cheekbones and strong jaw, lightly covered in dark stubble. He’s so damn masculine that my body is humming with pure lust.

  But then another part of me, deep in my gut, feels a much milder version of the same burn I’m feeling over the guy who ghosted me—rejected, angry, and confused. Time has softened the impact of how Ashton treated me, which is the sole reason I’m not running.

  I straighten up. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can deal with the first guy who fucked with my heart. It’s been a long time. I’m basically over it.

  “Hi.” I’m not sure what to do. Shake his hand? Weirdly formal. Hug? Awkward.

  He takes the lead and gives me a side hug, holding onto his rum punch in his other hand. He smells so good—classy, musky, and expensive. Definitely expensive. He looks the part, too. Like Ben, he’s kept it basic in jeans, a navy blue t-shirt, and sneakers, but the quality of the pieces is evident.

  If eighteen-year-old Briony knew that twenty-year-old Ash would age like fine wine, she probably would have cried even harder than she did back then. He’s going gray at the temples, early, but it looks sexy against his dark brown hair. The setting sun catches the details of his green eyes, from the brown ring around his pupils to the bits of blue here and there.

  “We’re good, right?” Ben asks, glancing between the two of us anxiously.

  “Yeah. It’s been a long time. All that stuff is water under the bridge. You don’t have to go berserk on him again,” I reply, snorting.

  Silver lining if there ever was one: If Ash hadn’t led me on the way he did, I doubt I would be as close to Ben as I am today. When he learned that, after months of long-distance online flirting, Ash had come home from college at winter break with another girl, Ben became my protector. He brought me brownies as I cried on the couch, poorly made from a box mix that he’d picked up from the grocery store. He still can’t bake worth a damn, but brownies always remind me of him.

  Ben reamed Ash out so badly that they didn’t talk to each other for a year, despite Ash’s profuse apologies to both me and him. The logic in Ash’s apologies hurt like hell, but it made sense coming from a cocky, good-looking young guy—our weeks and weeks of texting and flirting weren’t anything serious. He was just playing the field and was sorry that he hadn’t made it clearer. That still wasn’t enough to make Ben not furious.

  They mended their friendship eventually, with an unspoken rule that Ash and I were not to cross paths. Until now. I know that Ash continues to go through women like socks, but Ben assures me that he’s now a lot more upfront with his intentions when it comes to girls. Past Me had been about to create some version of the Bat-signal to let girls around the world know that he’d dick around with your heart if you let him.

  So there’s all that, at least.

  “And I’m good if Briony’s good.” Ash smiles. Or as close to full-on smiling as he gets. He still has the brooding-and-serious thing down pat. I hate myself for still finding it sexy.

  “Cool. I’m glad you guys could make it.” Ben’s posture relaxes, and he turns back to the party. “I gotta go do my host thing—talk to you guys soon.”

  Ben walks off, shooting me a nervous look over his shoulder, leaving Ash and me leaning on the railing of the rooftop alone. Ash studies me again, in no rush to say anything. If you looked at each feature on his face individually, it would be a hard guess that he was handsome—a wide mouth, a strong brow, a nose that Ben accidentally broke in a game of pickup basketball—but all together, it just works. Between his looks and his aura of quiet confidence, I find myself squirming a little to calm down the heat blooming between my thighs.

  “How have you been?” I blurt, not able to stand the silence.

  “Not bad,” he shrugs. “How about you?”

  “Psh, you’re not bad? Understatement,” I grin. The tipsiness from
the rum punch finally decides to show up at that precise moment.

  “Hm?”

  Might as well keep going. “You’re thirty-three and worth billions of dollars from a tech company you built from the ground up. And you’re a former Navy SEAL, one of the most elite military squads ever, doing actual good in the world through aforementioned tech company. That seems better than ‘not bad.’”

  “I suppose you’re right. I’m successful,” he says as if this were obvious. Cocky ass. “How about you? Ben says you’re starting your own business?”

  Is Ben the town gossip or something? Why does Ash know this? “Well, trying to. I’m still working in marketing, but the business is my side project.”

  “What’s the company do?”

  “It’s an online floral decoration site. It streamlines the process of putting together flower arrangements and breaks things down into simple steps for the clients. A lot of people don’t really know much about flowers, so it gives helpful tips for what plants will do the best for their particular event.”

  Sure, the company isn’t off the ground yet, but it’s basically my child. The idea for BloomBrightly literally started on the back of a napkin at a bar—my best friend Zara was complaining about helping her sister plan her wedding’s flower arrangements, and I stepped in to help since I knew what I was talking about when it came to flowers. From there, it spun into the little startup that it is today.

  “Impressive. You always loved flowers.” Ash sounds genuine, and my pride almost explodes out of my body. Ash doesn’t say things just to be nice—or at least he didn’t when we were younger—so it means a lot. He is a damn good businessman.