Always Only You (Bergman Brothers Book 2)

by Chloe Liese

  Ren laughs. “Frankie. You’re badass and cool. Your friends telling a few barely embarrassing, entirely hilarious stories only rounds out the picture.”

  I grumble under my breath and shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Kind of hard when both of your hips hurt.

  Ren grips the steering wheel at exactly ten and two o’clock, leaving two o’clock just long enough to adjust his rearview mirror at a red light. “You weren’t serious about Pazza pooping on the couch, were you?”

  “No, I wasn’t. She’s crated for the day. I mean it’s been years since she chewed out of her crate and ripped up my entire living room furniture set.”

  Ren makes a strangled noise and hazards a glance at me. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

  I grin. “You’re fun to tease, Zenzero. I can’t help it.”

  “Trust me, I’ve heard that one before.”

  Guilt hits me, settling heavy in my gut. Both because I’ve borne the brunt of missing a joke or tease too many times to count—happens a lot with a highly literal brain—and because he told me the other day that he was one of those kids for whom high school was pure misery. He’s probably been messed with enough for two lifetimes.

  “Hey. I’m sorry.” I set a hand on his thigh, and Sweet St. Nicholas Stuck in the Chimney this man’s legs are granite hard. I yank my hand back like I burned it.

  Ren clears his throat and accelerates as the light turns green. “You don’t need to apologize, Frankie.”

  I feel like he’s holding something back, but I’m terrible at figuring out moments like these. These are the times when being autistic is frustrating and exhausting. Especially when people don’t know what you’re up against.

  I don’t talk about autism at work. I mask, which is another way of saying, I do what I need to do in order to seem “normal,” which is why Ren and the guys only see Frank the Crank, serious, no-smiles me. But sometimes I wish Ren knew. Because right now he doesn’t understand how much I need him not to dance around the truth but give it to me straight. I can’t see through those gauzy linguistic layers like so many can.

  It nearly comes tumbling out of my mouth, but instead I shift in my seat again and change the subject.

  “So…I have something to tell you.” Might as well lower the boom now. “Paps got a picture of us leaving for lunch together. Twitter blew up. There might be minor conjecture that we’re together.”

  Ren hits the brakes hard, lurching us forward. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “It’ll blow over, Zenzero.” I grip the handle above the car door, just in case I’m in for another jolt.

  A furious blush crawls up his neck and darkens his cheeks. “Oh.”

  “Oh?” I poke his shoulder. “You’re going monosyllabic on me.”

  He starts sputtering, his cheeks darkening to raspberry red.

  I try to ignore that stab to my pride. Is it so terrible to be temporarily linked to me this way?

  “Ren. Relax. It’ll die down on its own. And if you want it to go away faster, put yourself out there and go on some actual dates. Got yourself seen with another woman—”

  “No,” he says sharply. Taking a long slow exhale, Ren grips the steering wheel tight, then relaxes his fingers. “Sorry, that came out harsh. I’m flustered. What I meant to say was, I’m not interested in dating right now.”

  A weird surge of jealousy pricks me. Who is this woman he’s waiting for, who has this deep claim on his heart?

  “This woman better be worth it, Bergman.”

  His mouth is tight. He shakes his head. “I’m…it’s not…” Sighing, he turns the van into the hospital parking garage and nabs an accessible parking space. I pull out my parking sticker and hook it around his mirror.

  “Will this impact your job?” he asks. “Do you want me to touch base with Darlene?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t worry. I already emailed her to explain earlier. I’m just sorry you have to deal with people thinking you’re with me—”

  “Frankie.”

  I freeze mid-unbuckling. “Yes?”

  Ren turns in his seat and locks eyes with me. “I’d be flattered if someone thought you were with me.”

  My ears ring. A dull ache tightens my heart as every alarm goes off inside me.

  Danger! Danger! You are catching feelings for Ren Bergman.

  While living with him. And trying to keep my professional integrity intact. And keep my heart sealed off.

  Shitty shit shitballs. Terrible, terrible timing, Francesca.

  I throw open my car door, which I know will end this conversation, at least for now, because Ren is hell-bent on chivalry. He all but sprints to my side, holding open the door and offering me a hand, like he does every time we descend the travel bus and he’s ahead of me.

  Not because he thinks I’m fragile or I can’t do it on my own, but because Ren should have been born two hundred years ago, when men stood as women entered a room, and courtship was stolen kisses in moonlit gardens.

  “We’re not done with this conversation,” he says firmly.

  I pat his shoulder reassuringly and stifle my grin. “Whatever you say, dear.”

  11

  Ren

  Playlist: “Port of Call,” Beirut

  I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not—

  Carbuncles. I’m crying.

  I’d ask whose idea it was for me to read Wherever You Are, My Love Will Find You to a group of toddler and preschool-aged patients, but I have no doubt it was Frankie’s doing.

  She leans against the wall, with a smile that’s so dangerously beautiful, I’m worried my heart’s going to beat right out of my chest. At least I’m at a hospital. Someone could probably do something about that here.

  “You okay, Mr. Ren?” My new little buddy, Arthur, smiles up at me and adjusts his glasses. He’s sitting close and rests his small hand on my arm.

  “Yeah, Arthur. I’m okay. Sometimes I feel big feelings and they make me have tears.”

  Arthur’s smile widens. “Me too. I cry when things hurt. And when I miss my family. Daddy told me that’s okay. He said mommies and sisters aren’t the only ones who cry. Brothers and daddies have tears, too.”

  “That’s what my daddy told me when I was little, too.”

  Arthur grins and leans in closer, poking the book. “Can you read more now?”

  “Right.” Picking up the book, I clear my throat and blink away the wetness blurring my vision. “‘So hold your head high and don’t be afraid to march to the front of your own parade. If you’re still my small babe or you’re all the way grown, my promise to you is you’re never alone.’”

  I swallow another lump in my throat. Christ, these books. It doesn’t help that half of these kids have parents who can only visit occasionally. California’s a huge state, and this is a top hospital for childhood illnesses. A lot of these kids’ parents have to work to pay for their child’s treatment while living hours away. If anyone needs to be reminded that love doesn’t fade when Mommy or Daddy leave for a while, it’s these little ones.

  I glare up at Frankie who’s holding her phone with the concentration of one filming a video, biting her tongue square between her front teeth. She always does that, and it always stirs my body.

  I’m starting to have a response that is beyond inappropriate for a children’s hospital reading time, so I blink away and refocus on the book. After I finish reading, we make a craft, eat some healthy snacks, and I give hugs goodbye, promising Arthur I’ll come by soon and say hello again.

  Walking down the hallway, I notice Frankie’s limp is a bit more pronounced, but I’ll be damned if I say anything about it or offer to pull the van right up to the exit. She’ll shove that wand of hers up my butt faster than I can open my mouth to say sorry I asked.

  “Well, that was a home run,” she says. “And I won the bet with Nicole in PR.”

  “What bet was that?”

  She grins as we stop in front of the elevators and
pushes the down button. “That you couldn’t read that book with a dry eye.”

  “Wow. I made you some money with my soft side, Francesca. How nice to be used for profit.” She shoves me, and bounces backward, since my body doesn’t budge. I catch her by the elbow and steady her. “Easy.”

  Frankie peers up at me. Heat slides through my hand, as I hold her arm. She flexes her lean bicep underneath my grip and cocks an eyebrow. “Careful,” she says. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  I give the muscle an experimental squeeze, narrowing my eyes in feigned concentration. “Impressive.”

  Her smile fades as her gaze drifts to my mouth. And suddenly it doesn’t feel like we’re being playful. Not anymore.

  The elevator door springs open, I drop my grip, and the moment is gone.

  Once we’re in the van, making our way down the 110 South toward Manhattan Beach, Frankie disappears into her phone, muttering to herself as she answers emails and checks in on social media platforms. Then she picks up her phone, working her way through voicemails. I steal every possible glance I can safely take and tell myself I can handle this. I can have the woman I’m crazy about in my home and keep myself together. I can—

  “Ren!”

  I tap the brakes, look around, assuming Frankie’s seen something that I’m about to hit. “What? What is it?”

  She drops her phone. “Sorry. I wanted to stop you before we pass Hawthorne. I just remembered I was hoping to go grab my mail.”

  A sigh of relief leaves me. “Sure, Frankie, that’s fine.”

  We were just about to pass her neighborhood, so it’s only minutes later that I’m pulling in front of her house. “Can I get it for you?” I ask.

  Frankie opens her mouth. Closes it. Blinks rapidly. “Um. I was going to say I’m a big girl who can get her own mail from her recently broken into home, but now I’m feeling a little uneasy.”

  Throwing open my door, I give her a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  When I return to the van and set her mail in her lap, Frankie quickly riffles through it, stopping when she gets to one envelope. Her knuckles whiten as she grips it.

  I should mind my own business. Peeling away my gaze, I focus on pulling out and heading home. Frankie stares at the envelope until we’re so close that my place is in sight.

  Abruptly, she rips open the seal and yanks free a small pile of tri-folded papers. Pressing them open, her eyes dart frantically across the text, until a squeal erupts in the van.

  “I got in!” she yells.

  She got into what? I glance at the envelope’s return address. UCLA School of Law.

  Angels sing “Hallelujah Chorus” in my head. Frankie’s going to law school. Which means Frankie isn’t going to work for the Kings much longer.

  Which means soon…Frankie will no longer be off-limits.

  Parking the car, I stare ahead in a daze. A wave of belly-dropping fear hits me. Frankie’s going to leave. The waiting game’s over. Finally, I get to make my move. And suddenly, I realize I have no idea what that is.

  “Congratulations,” I manage hoarsely.

  Turning toward me, her eyes glisten with unshed tears. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her. “Ren, I’m sorry I’m freaking out. I just didn’t think I’d get in.”

  Finally, I find my voice, and shift in my seat to face her. “You didn’t think you’d get in? Frankie, of course you were going to get in. Are you doing sports law? You plan to be an agent?”

  She smiles up at me, wiping her eyes. “Yeah.”

  Be mine, I want to say. Except, as much as I’d love to have someone as smart and tough negotiating my every contract, what I want from Frankie is so much more. I want her smiles. Her body. Her humor. Her undivided attention and sharp wit.

  When I really let myself dream, I want her love.

  I want Francesca Zeferino. She’s been the ultimate goal. And now I finally have a clear shot.

  “You’ll be great Frankie,” I tell her. “You should be proud.”

  The tiny space in the van grows almost claustrophobic. I’m drowning in her orchid perfume, hearing her soft, steady breaths as she smiles at me, fairly glowing with happiness. Now that our possibility is before me, I’m confronted with the yawning gap between what we are and what I want us to be. I’ve been one of the guys to her for three years. I’ve held off, bit my tongue, waited. And waited. And waited.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t do this. After all, I’ve done it in the rink—bided my time, worked toward my goal until the right moment opened up, then acted on that patience with stunning accuracy. If I can do this in hockey, I can do it with Frankie.

  Right?

  “I can’t see you, Axel.” Tipping my laptop screen, I angle it so that my older brother can at least see my face.

  “You don’t need to see me,” he drawls, half off-screen. Something bangs, and he curses under his breath. “I’m listening.”

  “Wow, thanks. I feel like a really high priority right now, Axelrod.”

  He freezes, then leans into the screen, a long middle finger right up close. “See that?”

  I grin. “Thank you.”

  He sits on a sigh right in front of the screen and drags his fingers through his hair. “I stopped painting for you. Let the record show. How’s that for prioritizing?”

  Noise from inside my house makes me glance over my shoulder. Oliver and Viggo traipse through the kitchen and immediately begin to raid my cabinets, yanking food into their arms.

  I jerk my thumb toward them and look back to Axel on the screen. “They don’t even say hi. Just ransack my pantry.”

  He shrugs. “They’re animals. I think Mom was too tired by the time they were born to bring them to heel.”

  Viggo and Oliver are as different as night and day but just as inextricably bound. Exactly twelve months apart, they’re often mistaken as twins, because now, fully grown, they’re the same height, the same lean build, the same pale eyes as me. Their only obvious physical difference is Viggo’s hair, which is rich brown like Axel’s, while Oliver’s is blond like Ryder’s.

  “What’s this about?” Ax drums his fingers on his desk. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s wait for Ryder to dial in before I explain.”

  “I would eventually like to go back to painting, by the way. I don’t have all night.”

  My older brother is a particular and rigid personality. He’s not overtly affectionate, avoids being touched, is solitary and incredibly direct. Most of the time, his expression is serious, his delivery terse, but beneath that prickly exterior is a loving, loyal person. You just have to see past the standoffishness.

  “I’m aware,” I tell him. “I won’t keep you. It’ll be brief. Once we’re all here.”

  Ax laughs drily. “Us? Brief? It’s almost like you don’t know your own family.”

  Viggo drags the sliding door shut behind him and Oliver as they step onto the deck. “Quite the criticism,” Viggo says, “coming from the guy who moved to Seattle and visits twice a year.”

  “Traitor,” Oliver grumbles.

  Ax scowls. “First of all, I’m down in sunny fucking LA at least ten times a year, okay? And you know how much I hate flying. Second, I’m an adult. I have my own life. It’s a foreign concept to you two man-cubs, but one day having a career and fending for yourselves won’t be an abstract concept. Then, you’ll understand.”

  Viggo sits and rips open a bag of chips, as Oliver pops off the lid to a jar of salsa. “And somehow,” Oliver says, “we’ll manage to do it without abandoning our family.”

  Ax’s face tightens. I turn and give Viggo and Oliver a look. “That’s harsh, and you know it. He didn’t abandon anybody. He moved to the place that makes him happiest.”

  Viggo snorts as he dips a chip into the salsa and crunches. “Axel. Happy. Hah.”

  Ax opens his mouth, looking both pissed and defensive. This little assembly is getting away from me.

  “Okay.” I raise my hands. “Let’s t
able this conversation for another time.”

  Ryder’s face flickers to life on the screen. “Sounds like I showed up at the right time.”

  Oliver stops inhaling food long enough to wave hi to Ryder.

  “Hey, Ry!” Viggo calls.

  Ax leans in and squints. “Is that my brother or a yeti?”

  Ryder flicks off Ax. “The beard isn’t going anywhere, no matter how much you hate it.”

  “You were beardless the first twenty years of your life,” Ax says. “I just don’t see why people have to change things like that. It bothers me.”

  Ryder snorts a laugh. “I’m so sorry to upset your routine by growing facial hair, but I like it.”

  “Guys.” I clear my throat.

  Ax starts arguing with Ryder. Viggo and Oliver are playing tug-of-war with the bag of beef jerky. No one is listening to me.

  “Guys!”

  Everyone freezes in a tableau titled Guilty.

  Ryder and Ax both straighten in their seats on screen. Oliver lets Viggo have the beef jerky. Viggo rips open the bag and throws a hunk into Oliver’s lap. They both tug the meat between their teeth, the simultaneous snap as it breaks the only other sound besides crashing waves along the shore.

  “Thank you for joining the emergency meeting.” Clearing my throat again, I glance inside, making sure Frankie hasn’t come home early. She’s supposedly at water aerobics and said she’d be home late, muttering something about getting out of my hair. It was on the tip of my tongue, to tell her just how off the mark that is.

  “Okay, so as everyone here knows, I’m a bit of a klutz when it comes to the ladies.” A chorus of snorts and suppressed laughter interrupts me but quickly dies away. They all school their faces.

  “Proceed,” Axel says seriously.

  “Right. Well, you guys remember Frankie, who I’ve mentioned. She’s our social media coordinator.”

  Ryder wiggles his eyebrows. “Willa was riiiight,” he singsongs. I give him a look. He only grins wider.

  “I’m attracted to her,” I tell them. “I’d love to ask her out. I’ve wanted to since I met her, but Frankie and I can’t date right now, not while we work together.”