by Kyle Autumn
She never would have dressed like this before though. Before, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in “businesswoman clothes.” Her dream was to be her own boss, and that meant being able to wear yoga pants every day—not stuffy suit jackets and uncomfortable skirts that hemmed her in. Between her clothes and the tiredness in her eyes, I’d say she isn’t quite living her dream.
I tried to tell her she wouldn’t be able to with him. But she was too stubborn to listen. Or just not convinced. If asked, she’d say something along the lines of the latter, but even the former isn’t quite true. It was fear that held her back. And if she wouldn’t take that leap with me, I couldn’t make her. So, in the end, I stopped trying. I left instead.
Now, I feel like I’m right back where I started even though we’ve barely said anything to each other. Even though there’s been no knock-down, drag-out fight over why we can’t be together. Even though she’s standing there, looking at me like she’s realized in only a few silent moments how wrong she was to say no to me. But I won’t beg again. I’m a much different person than I was when I left everything I knew behind.
Those thoughts give me the strength to clench the handle of my bag in my hand and walk past her to the door. After snagging my keys from my pocket, I unlock the door and leave it open for her to follow. I don’t have to tell her she’s welcome in my house because, even though I have to remind myself to never forgive her, she knows she’ll always be welcome in my house when she’s with Mason.
In the hallway past the foyer, I drop my bag. I’ll do laundry when I can think straight. For now, the bag can stay there. Though, with every click of her heels along the tile in the foyer, I wonder if I should do the laundry now just for the sake of something to do. Something other than rage on the inside.
“Mason’s here for a business meeting with Launchpad Systems,” she informs my back. “He thought it’d be good if I came with so we could all have dinner or something while he’s here for the week.”
That answers why she’s in town, but that doesn’t answer why she’s at my house. Why isn’t she with her boyfriend? Or maybe he’s her husband by now. It has been six years, after all. A lot can change.
In fact, maybe they have kids and a house and all the things Nic thought I couldn’t give to her because I was a dreamer. Because I wanted to live a life where happiness was the priority, not financial security. Instead, she found a man who’d give her that, no matter the cost.
Now’s not the time for such questions. I can’t do heavy right off the bat with her. Things are always heavy with her, so instead, without really looking at her, I ask, “If you’re going to be here awhile, can I get you something to drink, then?”
Because no matter how furious you are at the person you love with every fiber of your being for having broken your heart, you should always be a gracious host to your brother’s woman.
∞∞∞
Nic
After two thousand miles and six years of heartache, he wants to know if I want some goddamn water.
I shouldn’t think that, but that’s what slams right across my brain as he stares through me like he doesn’t even see me. And that shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Like a punch in the gut or a stab in the heart. It stings and aches more than I imagined it would. Which is ridiculous because I knew how bad of an idea this was when Mason first mentioned it. We haven’t seen each other since Aidan left us all, so of course this was going to kill me.
Instead of showing him that though, I lick my dry lips and say, “That would be nice.” I play my part, say my line, and follow him into the kitchen.
His kitchen, I suppose. It took a miracle to get the address, and I have no idea if he owns this place or if he rents it. Or maybe he has roommates. Perhaps a girlfriend.
Or even a wife. Kids. Who knows. I sure don’t.
One might think I’d have heard news throughout the years, seeing as I’m with his brother. Aidan and Mason were never that close, so Aidan’s never mentioned at home, even at the holidays. It helps that I’ve made it a point to never even say his name out loud since he left, so it’s not like I’m asking their mother what’s been up with him. I know they talk because I’ve heard her on the phone with him occasionally. But she’s never told me anything about him. It’s like she’s always known not to breathe a word of him to me.
As he reaches for a cup from a cabinet, I notice how much he’s changed. He looks at home in this space. Like he could have gotten that cup with his eyes closed if I’d asked him to. I’m sure I could ask him where he keeps his frying pan and he’d point to the cabinet in less than a second. Or maybe he doesn’t have a frying pan anymore. He sure looks like he’s gone a long time without fried, unhealthy food.
That’s actually the first thing I noticed about him, but I shouldn’t go there. The last thing I should do is allow myself to imagine what he looks like under that muscle tank and those basketball shorts. But I’ve never been smart enough to do the things I should do. Instead, I do the safe things. And my brain struggles to decide which category this falls under. I should stop myself from picturing the six-pack he no doubt has under that shirt, so I probably won’t. But the safe thing to do is not do it.
He snaps his fingers right under my nose, which jolts me back to reality and out of my confusing thoughts. In front of me, he’s holding the glass of water out to me, and I blink hard to shake those nearly naked images from my brain. Then I clear my throat and take the cup from his hand.
“Thanks,” I tell him, grasping the cup in both hands because I don’t know what else to do.
It’s clear things haven’t changed on my end. I didn’t have the closure of leaving like he had. Instead, I’ve had years of a relationship I’ve grown comfortable in. Now, being back in his presence, I’m reminded of exactly how I felt the day he left. I’ve been able to push it away and never think about it because I haven’t seen him since. However, it’s impossible not to think about now that he’s standing right in front of me.
Now that I’m in the middle of the life he built. The one he’s built without me.
Suddenly, my throat is so dry. This was Mason’s worst idea by far. I try to take a sip of water, but it feels like sand in my mouth. I do it again anyway because I know it’ll help. Honestly, that’s the first smart decision I’ve made since…well. It’s been a long time. I’ll leave it at that.
“When will Mason be back to get you?” he asks, pulling a chair out at his kitchen table. Then he takes a seat like this isn’t awkward at all.
He won’t look at me now. Instead, he thumbs the rim of his own water glass and leans back in his chair, his gaze on the table. I can’t blame him, but I can only blame myself for needing to make the wish that he’d just lift his eyes and see me. I don’t deserve that, though it doesn’t stop me from hoping.
I sit on the opposite side of the four-person table, carefully smoothing the back of my skirt against my bottom. “Probably in a few minutes, he said,” I answer. Then I add, “Oh, and he said to say hi, but he’ll tell you himself when he gets here.”
“How long were you waiting, then?” He still won’t look up at me.
If he did, I’d be able to see what his real question is. How long have you been waiting…to rub this in my face? To get me alone again? To tell me yet again that you choose my brother over me?
But I answer the question he asked instead. “A while, but it’s okay.”
It’s close to the answer to the question I wish he’d asked thought. How long have you been waiting to tell me you were wrong?
If he’d look at me, he’d be able to tell. So part of me is glad he won’t.
“If I’d known…” he starts.
“It’s fine.” I wave a dismissive hand. “Mason tried to call you, but…” When I catch what I was about to say, I stop. My tongue feels thick in my mouth as I try to form different words. Nothing comes out though.
Aidan finishes for me, his deep voice settling over me like a comfortable old blanket. “But he
doesn’t have my number, right?”
Slowly, I nod. “Right.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, but then I feel his gaze burning through me. I don’t have to look up to know he’s finally seeing me. Trying to tear the rest of the words I didn’t want to say from my lips with his eyes.
“But you have my number,” he methodically states, each word striking a match inside my chest.
The fire burns. Rages. Spreads throughout my body. Because that wasn’t a question. It means he received the text I sent him a few months ago. I wasn’t sure, but I am now. And I wish harder that the fire in my chest would consume me and burn me straight to ash.
Against my better judgment, I raise my gaze and face his intense wrath. I don’t know why I didn’t expect this. Aidan has always been intense. That’s a great word to describe him. But getting answers or information from him was like pulling teeth. So how I was I supposed to know he’d still feel this way after six damn years?
It doesn’t matter if I was supposed to know or not. That’s the situation we’re in. So I have to somehow make the best of it. I’ve gotten good at that over the years; I shouldn’t have a problem now. Yet I am. Everything is harder with Aidan.
Okay, not everything. Loving him was easy as hell. So easy that I just never stopped. But the effects of loving him are capable of destroying me. Which means I have to stuff it down and somehow forget about it all. If he felt that way about me, it’s gone now. Or else he would have at least responded to that message I sent. He didn’t though, and now, I have to face the consequences of my actions. All thanks to Mason.
Why can’t I say no to that man?
“Look,” Aidan says, breaking the thick silence. “You can stay as long as you want”—he rises from his chair—“but I need to shower and get ready for work in the morning. I can’t exactly sit and chat.” The tips of his fingers press against the table, turning white with the effort.
Though he gave his exit speech, he isn’t leaving. We’re just staring at each other, my heart pounding harder with every second that passes. It might beat right out of my chest soon. And my clothes suddenly feel like a prison, far too tight for my liking. When I start sweating, that’s my cue to get up too. I’ll just wait outside for Mason. This was a giant mistake.
But, like we’re magnets for each other still, as soon as I stand up and start to walk toward the door, he makes a break for it too. We run right into each other, chest to chest, and his arms go around me to catch me. I too throw my arms around him—to steady myself is the excuse I come up with. But that’s a huge lie.
Unable to help myself, I desperately try to memorize the hardness of his muscles against my palms and my cheek, the warmth of his skin against my arms, how he feels this close to me again. It’s been way too long since the smell of him has washed over me and filled my lungs. So I take a deep breath—my souvenir for when this trip ends and I have to go back to reality.
With no warning, he hurriedly steps away from me. “Just, uh… Make yourself at home while you wait for your boyfriend. My brother.” The emphasis he placed on those two identifiers isn’t lost on me.
I don’t have a moment to rethink the action before I’m reaching out for him. “Aidan, I—”
“Nope. We’re not doing this, Nic.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a smug look on his face. “I mean Veronica.” Then he heads for the stairs down the hall. “You said it yourself that Mason will be here soon, and clearly”—he faces me again and waves a hand from my head to my feet—“you’re doing just fine with him. Looks like you got everything you wanted.” On the first step, he says, “Well, almost everything.”
If he only knew how right he is.
“So I’m going to go upstairs, take a shower, and wait for my brother to call. Feel free to give him my number, since you have a better excuse as to why you have it now.”
Then he walks away from me. Yet again.
I get it. It’s self-preservation at its finest. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt though. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave me a mess of hate, anger, and love.
It means, much to my dismay, that nothing’s changed.
If you liked this sneak peek, you can
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About the Author
Kyle Autumn is the author of sexy contemporary romances that will melt your heart and your panties. She also writes erotic short stories series that will likely melt your panties more than your heart. She loves chocolate and pajamas. Can't be bothered to brush her hair most days. Can always be bothered to write her pants—er, pajama bottoms—off.
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