Never His: A Second Chance Romance (Second Chances Book 1)

by Amelia Wilde

  “Pizza,” she says, lifting up the boxes. “You want it in here or in the living room?”

  I’m not a fan of eating in bed, and I get up with a smile, pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt. This woman thinks of everything.

  And what do you think of? The nagging bitch in the back of my mind won’t shut the hell up for a second. Nobody but yourself.

  Fuck it. I’m not falling into that trap. I’m going to go enjoy some pizza with the most gorgeous, perfect woman on the face of the earth.

  Addison is setting out the boxes on the coffee table when I get into the living room, arranging the cardboard plates.

  “Are those breadsticks?”

  She gives me a look. “What else would come in a small box from D.C. Pizza?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. I shouldn’t be so damn stupid.”

  She flops back onto the couch and pats the space next to her. I’m only too fucking glad to take it.

  There are two different kinds of pizza, all with tons of toppings, just the way I like it, and I take two slices of each. If Addison wasn’t here, I could eat both of them. I’ve got to stop behaving like a total jackass when it comes to lunch, fucking clearly, otherwise I’m going to end up with a beer gut. Or worse. Which is the last thing someone like Addison needs in her life.

  “What’s up with you today? Did something happen?”

  She asks the question so casually that at first I don’t register it as a serious question, and when I do, I’m not happy about it. “What?”

  “You just seem…off. Distracted. I was wondering if something happened.”

  I take in a deep breath and let it out, my stomach knotting. Why am I so pissed about her asking me this? It doesn’t make any fucking sense, and yet…

  “Nothing really.”

  “Okay.”

  Addison’s tone leaves something lingering in the air. “You don’t believe me.”

  She puts down her pizza and looks at me. “Brett, you can tell me about things. You always used to.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Okay.”

  I hate this tension between us, like magnets repelling instead of drawing together, like it was at first. And I know, I know, that I could defuse all of this right now, right this very moment, by just telling her that I ran into my father today and it was awkward as fuck. No—not even that. That he still seems to give a shit about me. That I might have been wrong ten years ago, and I might have skipped town for no fucking reason at all, that the decade spent without her might have been for nothing, and it would all be my stupid eighteen-year-old self’s fault.

  But I don’t. My abs tighten like I’m about to take a blow, and I chew through another piece of pizza with way too much attitude.

  Who the fuck am I?

  We sit in silence, all the words I could say hanging in the air between us for twenty minutes before Addison shifts on the couch. It’s like she’s waiting for me to do something, say something, that will let her know it’s okay to do anything. All the warmth from the hot fuck we just shared in the bedroom has dissipated.

  Then she yawns, closing one of the pizza boxes. “It’s been a long day,” she says, and then she leans over and kisses me on the cheek, lips lingering against my skin. It feels like fucking heaven. All I have to do is put my arm around her, but I don’t.

  I don’t.

  Then she’s picking up her purse, going to the door, shutting it gently behind her.

  Alone in my living room, I get a taste of what life after Addison is like.

  It feels like shit.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Addison

  I’m rattled by the conversation with Brett, rattled by the fact that we could go from sex where it felt like nothing else in the world mattered to stony silence, and all because—what? I wanted to know what was wrong.

  There’s no way he can deny that something has been eating at him, maybe more than one something. I just can’t wrap my mind around why it is he won’t talk to me.

  Is it the Air Force?

  Leaving the Air Force?

  At home I pick up a book and stare at the pages, reading them over and over, the words failing to sink in. I’ve never known anyone who joined the service before. Maybe this is just a typical reaction to getting out, moving home.

  It’s just that he seems so strained, so tense…and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Right now, anyway. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week at work, a long week with Brett, ups and downs and all kinds of couple bullshit.

  Couple bullshit.

  Despite all of it, the thought of being a couple—even if it’s not “official,” and Jesus, that thought makes me sound like I’m still in high school—makes my cheeks go hot.

  So why am I so torn?

  In a way, I’m not torn at all. I always wanted to be with Brett. Always. Ever since I first saw him. And now I am.

  It’s just…not exactly how I thought it was going to be.

  That’s not even an excuse. It’s not like we were apart for several months and then picked up where we left off. Some of it was like that. But the closer we inch toward real life, the more obvious it is that there’s still serious work to be done.

  A wave of exhaustion comes over me and smothers me like a wet blanket. My arms feel so heavy I don’t even want to lift the remote to turn on the TV.

  So instead, I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash off all my makeup, and then I stumble into my room and climb into bed.

  My mind starts to wander as soon as my head hits the pillow, and my heart picks up a little, although not enough to keep me fully awake. One thought rings in my mind: This is more than a bad day.

  And then: Something is wrong.

  I don’t knock on Brett’s door for the rest of the weekend. I tell myself it’s because I’m tired, but really it’s because I don’t want to take the chance on another weird non-argument. What we had wasn’t really a fight, but it doesn’t make it feel any better.

  By noon on Monday, my chest is tight, crushed with a mass of emotion that makes me feel more than a little crazy. There’s nothing I really want to say to him, except…

  I send him a quick text message. I love you.

  We admitted that to one another. We said that out loud only days ago, and I meant it then and I mean it now.

  Ten minutes later my phone buzzes.

  I love you, Addi.

  It puts me at ease for an hour or two, but then the tightness descends upon me again. I swallow back the lump that keeps rising up in my throat, but by one-thirty, I can’t take it anymore. I need to get out of here.

  My boss, Carla, is a grandmotherly woman who is as tough as nails. I’ve seen her go to bat for people who have absolutely no chance of getting services and come out on top, even against the State itself. She is also about the farthest thing from a micromanager I’ve ever encountered—not that I had many jobs before this one.

  I knock on the door to her office and wait for her to end her phone call. When she sees me at the door, she cocks her head to the side. “Afternoon, Addison. Any trouble?”

  “Any trouble” is her calling card. It’s the first thing she wants to know if you call her or show up in the office. Some of the interns I’ve hired think it’s her way of insinuating that you can’t handle the job. I think she’s just spoiling for a fight that only she can win.

  “I’m going to head out for the afternoon. I’m really not feeling well.”

  She nods twice, her forehead wrinkling. “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

  I give her a pinched smile, shaking my head. “No, I’ll be all right.”

  “You call me if you need anything.” Somehow she knew when Jamie moved out, even though I didn’t tell her. She probably assumes I don’t have anyone else around to call on for help if I need it.

  Brett’s face floats into my mind, and my stomach pinches at the same time my cheeks flush red. Do I have someone? Or don’t I?

&nbs
p; I just need an afternoon to sort this out.

  Carla dismisses me without much more preamble, and I head out into the gray afternoon. The cold isn’t quite biting, but it’s definitely fall weather. It doesn’t thrill me.

  The drive home is non-eventful. Brett’s car is parked in his driveway when I get there. I ignore the urge to head over to his place and knock on his front door, instead going inside my own house, changing directly into yoga pants, and then stretching out on the couch.

  I take in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, three times, then four, until the pressure is almost gone from my chest and my mind quiets.

  The fact of the matter is that Brett clearly needs some space. And I can give it to him. I’ve survived nasty breakups before, and this isn’t one of those. It’s just a rough patch.

  I’ve never been a clingy woman before, and I’m not going to start now, even though he lives right next door. Absolutely not.

  I’m just going to give him the space he needs.

  I hate staying away from him—hate it.

  But I’m not eighteen anymore. I can control myself. I’m not going to collapse and die if I can’t see him.

  At least I hope not.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Brett

  All day, from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep, Addison is on my mind, consuming my thoughts.

  She’s been away at work most days, and by the time I notice that her car has pulled into the driveway, it’s too late to text her.

  The house looms over me now, every single task that’s left undone calling on me to finish it like my life depends on it.

  If I can finish this, if I can make it as perfect as possible, then I’ll have proof. I’ll have proof that I could at least do something. Even if that something is in Lockton.

  I just wish Addison could see why I’m doing this. She doesn’t seem to understand. But it’s for her.

  I stop installing trim in the kitchen and look across the yard in the direction of her house. Her living room is dark, but I still see the light of the TV flickering behind her curtains, so I know she’s up.

  Maybe she does understand.

  The one constant in my life has always been that Addison is the one who understands, even in silent suffering, even when nobody else does. How many times did I whisper to her in the backseat of the car that I had no idea why I’d wasted so much time with this girl or that girl just to feel her nod against my shoulder? She always hugged me tighter after that. This could be her way of demonstrating that she gets it—that the house has to be my top priority.

  Something nags at the back of my mind, though, like this is some kind of fucking half-truth. I shove that idea right out of my head. No. I’ve made some dumbass decisions in my life, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep wallowing in the fact that I’m in Lockton, letting this idea of failure ruin everything else. Letting it ruin my life. Our life.

  The house needs to get done.

  I work on it until so late at night that my eyes burn. When it gets so bad that I can’t keep them open anymore, I collapse into bed fully clothed and fall into a restless sleep, dreaming of Addison.

  I just need to get this house done…

  Tuesday rolls by in a haze of nonstop work, and it’s a fucking shock when the sun sets. My jaw is clenched in irritation, but it’s not for another fifteen or twenty minutes—I don’t know, I’ve lost track—before it occurs to me that it’s hard to see because the light outside is fading, not because I’m slowly going blind or because the lightbulbs are flickering out one by one.

  I had bought floodlights at the hardware store so I flip them on, illuminating the section of cabinetry in the kitchen that I’m on the verge of finishing. Two hours, three at most, and I’ll be—

  The doorbell rings, echoing through the silent house. I had music playing on my phone at some point during the day, but now it’s deadly quiet. Did the battery die? I have no idea.

  My heart throbs a little while I move toward the door, my mind still back with the cabinets. If it’s Addison, I’ll take her to bed right now. I can spare a few hours. I can.

  But when I open the door, it’s a delivery guy in a t-shirt and a black baseball cap balancing two Styrofoam containers in his hands.

  “Brett Miller?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Delivery.”

  No shit, I want to say, but instead I hold one hand up. “I didn’t order anything.”

  He cocks his head to the side and looks at the receipt. “It’s a delivery for Brett Miller. Looks like the order came in from A. Gray.”

  A flicker of a smile crosses my face. Addison must be all right with this after all.

  I take the Styrofoam containers from him and dig in my pockets.

  “It’s all right,” the guy says. “She paid the tip, too.”

  Then he’s gone, back into the night, his car needing a muffler repair.

  I mean to text her about it, but I get caught up in devouring the sandwich—hot and piled with three different kinds of meat and two different cheeses and a bunch of extras I don’t stop to examine—and while I’m eating, my mind narrows in on the cabinets. By the time I notice my phone is dead, it’s after two in the morning.

  Wednesday goes by like this, too. I remember to charge the phone, I even remember to text her. When was it that she sent me the message about how she loved me? It seems like a million years ago, but now it seems wrong to say it again, like it’s a weakness, begging. No. What I have to do is finish.

  If you finish this fast, if you finish this well, then Addison will see, everyone will see, Dad will see—

  I cut myself off. Dad? Who cares what he thinks? Do I care? I don’t think so, but my thoughts are muddled. The only thing that keeps me on track is to build, to destroy, to repair, to fix and sand and shine and paint.

  My to-do list shrinks and everything I do becomes more precise, more detailed. Rooms are painted, but the trim isn’t perfect, and so I rip it out and re-install new lengths along the baseboard with a nail gun I rent from the hardware store. I sand it. I paint it.

  I hire a guy name Marcus and a couple of other guys to finish some jobs in the house. The idea is that they’ll eventually move on to the siding, but everything I do seems to bloom into fifty other projects. I only want them here for a couple of hours a day in case Addison shows up, but it accelerates the process anyway.

  I dread the moment I’ll have to surface from this.

  I know that some kind of truth is coming, but for right now…

  For right now, the house is the only truth that means anything, anything, anything.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Addison

  Thursday is a slog. Paperwork has caught up with me because of the sheer volume of meetings I’ve been scheduling, and by five-thirty I’ve got a splitting headache. The names and numbers on my computer screen blur together, and I squint to keep them in focus.

  The knock at my door is a welcome interruption.

  “Girl, you cannot keep hiding in the office.”

  I smile in spite of myself. “I’m not hiding, Leah. I’m working.”

  “My job never keeps me this long.”

  “You work in the traffic department. Nobody stays after five.”

  “Fine. You win,” she says with a brilliant smile. “Let’s get dinner.”

  I should stay and finish this shit, but instead I save what I’m working on and snap off the monitor with a satisfied sigh. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Kirby’s?”

  “Sure.”

  Kirby’s is about two blocks away, and it’s not raining, so we walk. It’s a little Italian place—don’t ask me about the name, I have no idea—and the smell of freshly baked warm rolls sends a comforting sensation through my middle when Leah pushes open the door. Louis, the perennial host, seats us in a table toward the back of the establishment with a flourish, disappearing and reappearing in seconds with a basket of complimentary rolls. I tear one i
n half and pop a bite in my mouth, tilting my head back in appreciation. It’s hot and light and damn, it tastes wonderful.

  Leah follows my lead, and when she’s done swallowing, she starts in on the questions. “Where the hell have you been lately? It’s like you’ve totally disappeared.” Then she leans toward me across the table. “Don’t tell me you’ve replaced me with Brett Miller.”

  “First of all,” I say, picking up another roll. “It has been thirteen days since we last went out. That’s not exactly ‘totally disappearing.’ And second, could you blame me?” My stomach turns over as Leah laughs. I have been caught up with Brett Miller, and I want to be. I really, really want to be. The urge to keep all the recent weirdness to myself is so powerful that I almost don’t open my mouth again.

  “I can’t. He’s super hot.”

  Leah’s words trigger a surge of memories of being in bed with Brett—all recent and all fiery. Yes, he is hot. There is no better body on the face of the planet, and nobody who knows me better than he does. It almost sweeps me away, right there in Kirby’s.

  “What’s happening to your face? Are you fantasizing right now?” The last sentence comes out in a stage whisper, and I laugh, but my smile falters.

  “Some things are really, really good.”

  Leah never lets things get past her. “And other things?”

  I don’t know how, exactly, to explain this without making him seem less than worthy. And he’s not. I’m certain of that, totally certain. “I can’t wait to get home every night and see him.” That’s a good place to start.

  “That’s new.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “You never really wanted to rush home to Jamie. You were always just worried that he would be pissed if you stayed out too late.”

  It’s true, although I never thought of it that way until just this moment. Despite everything, another round of pink goes to my cheeks when I think about the sweet anticipation of knocking on Brett’s door, waiting to see his face. The next memory, hard on its heels, is of him shouting that he loves me across the yard and running back into his arms. That’s the kind of moment that I can’t let go. I can’t dismiss it as the anomaly, even if something is bothering Brett so much right now that it’s a struggle to connect with me.