I fight a smile, shaking my head. “That would be bad for business.”
“Mm-hmm.” Jackson shakes his head. “I need a drink.”
“This way.” I grin, leading him to the bar. “Stay out of trouble. You may have saved the bride’s hair, but we still need to make it through the rest of the day.”
“Maybe you should start looking for trouble a little bit more, Willow,” Jackson says as we walk up to the bar. “Might help you move on from a certain, gray-eyed beauty of a man.”
A blush stains my cheeks, and all I can do is shake my head. “I have to go check on the caterer.”
As I run away from my friend and all his truths, my heart stutters. I can’t think of Sacha Black. I can’t. He’s the one man I allowed myself to care about, and the biggest mistake of my life.
I won’t let that happen again—with him or anyone else.
2
Sacha
My grip on the steering wheel tightens as I drive toward the Woodvale City Centre for the first time in ten years.
I left here at nineteen, thinking I’d never set foot in this godforsaken place again.
I was wrong.
Woodvale—what a name for a place like this. Sounds like it should be some forest paradise. Some enclave of nature and serenity.
This town should be called Hellvale.
Today, on a beautiful Friday in the summer, this small city in the Pacific Northwest is bright with sunshine. It looks almost pleasant, but my memories of the place are gray and dull, tainted by everything that happened here.
Being part of the Black family in this town means one thing: power. But not for the likes of me.
Oh, no.
Only my father, who started as a lowly investment broker and built an empire here, has a claim to any of it. I was sent away when I was nineteen, and I hoped I’d never be back. There’s too much heartache hidden in these streets.
Almost unconsciously, my fingers reach toward the rental car’s keychain in the ignition and touch the familiar USB key I’ve attached to it. I never go anywhere without it. It contains years of evidence and documents that were given to me to keep safe.
Now, I’m walking back into the lion’s den.
Driving down Main Street, I note all the things that have changed, and all the things that haven’t.
Bert’s Diner is still there, on the corner of 4th and Main. The barber shop still has a faded sign out front. There’s a new, hip café across the street from a Starbucks, and a slew of restaurants I don’t recognize. People are out, enjoying the sunshine as they spend a quiet Friday morning in town with their families.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d call it quaint.
But I do know better. This place is the spawn of the devil.
The devil being my father.
If you were coming to Woodvale for the first time, you’d see a beautiful city with big parks, nestled on top of a cliff that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. You’d think it was lush, and green, and beautiful. You’d say the people were outdoorsy and friendly, and that the median wage was probably above the national average.
Meaning people here are rich. Filthy rich.
One of the reasons for that? My father, Alastair Black.
My father’s investment brokerage has been so successful that pretty soon, his clients included almost everyone in the upper middle class in Woodvale.
As they made more money, so did he.
You don’t see my father’s name anywhere, except on a small office building on the far side of town. I drive by the Black Investments sign, trying not to shudder. My family owns this town, but I’m not proud of it.
Turning left off Main Street, I make my way toward the east end of town, shaking off the bad memories and focusing on the future.
I’m here for one reason only: my best friend’s bachelor party.
When I pull up outside the familiar weatherboard split-story house, my shoulders start to relax. The only happy memories I have in this godforsaken place were made inside those walls.
The Wise house was my second home. Max was like a brother to me. Mr. and Mrs. Wise worked for my father for most of their lives, until everything unraveled ten years ago.
When I heard Mr. and Mrs. Wise died a couple of years later, it felt like my own parents were the ones who had passed away.
Might as well have been my parents. It’s not like my mother and father were ever there for me. The Wises took me in and treated me like their own. Max was like a brother to me. He was by my side through everything.
And Willow?
My heart clenches. I’ve tried my best to push her blond hair and big, blue eyes from my mind. Anytime I see a blond chick dressed like a rainbow, I think of her.
She always loved color. Mismatched socks and clashing prints were her signature. Everywhere she went, she spilled happiness and sunshine. Being around her was like drinking bottled summertime.
Is she in the house, I wonder?
I park the car in the driveway just as the front door flies open. Max stands in the doorway with the same shit-eating grin he had when we were teenagers. I climb out of the car as a smile stretches across my own lips.
The movement feels almost foreign to me, as if my face doesn’t quite remember how to curve my mouth upward.
“Sacha, you dirty old bastard. Get over here!”
Max has gained a bit of weight around his middle, but otherwise looks unchanged. He always had a smile that could disarm the most guarded of people, and eyes that would get us into—and out of—all kinds of mischief.
My best friend wraps his arms around me in a bone-crushing hug. He grunts, holding me close.
“It’s good to see you, bud.”
“Same,” I say, backing up as I rough my hands through my hair. When was the last time someone hugged me? I’m not sure I can remember.
I glance at the house, seeing the silhouette of a woman walk across the living room windows.
Don’t ask about Willow. Don’t ask about Willow. Don’t ask about Willow.
“Where’s your sister?”
Fuck.
Max arches an eyebrow. “She moved out a couple of years ago, man. Got her own place. You remember Mrs. Warshawski, the old English teacher?”
I nod.
“Willow bought her house after she died.”
“The big house on the other side of town?” My eyebrows jump up. No one says it, but the ‘other side of town’ is synonymous with the ‘rich side of town.’ Also known as the side of town where my parents live.
Not that I’m going to head over there to visit. I’m staying as far away from that cesspit as I can.
Max laughs. “Willow’s a smart businesswoman. Lots of money in wedding planning—as Isabelle and I are finding out. We’ve had to double our budget already, and we’re not even doing anything extravagant. If I could convince Isabelle to just go on a road trip to Vegas with me, I’d be happy.”
“I hope Willow’s giving you a discount.” I grin. Even saying her name sends a spark of heat zipping down my spine. I inhale, looking away from my best friend. I shouldn’t be thinking about his sister like that. Willow’s off-limits, and I can’t forget that.
Max nods to the front door. “You need help with your bags?”
“Oh, I figured I’d stay at a hotel. It’s only a few nights, and I’ll be leaving again on Monday. Three nights at a hotel isn’t a big deal. I didn’t want to impose.”
“What?” Max frowns, laughing as he shakes his head. “No way. Isabelle!” he calls out.
A woman’s head pops out of the door. She has cropped, dark brown hair and full lips that are almost too big for her face. “Hi!” She waves, flashing a brilliant smile at us. I raise my hand toward her and glance at Max. He’s beaming.
“Isabelle, this is Sacha. Come bring him inside while I grab his bags. Sneaky fucker was trying to wriggle his way out of staying with us.”
“Well, we can’t be having that.” She laughs, walking barefoot towar
d us as we stand in the driveway. I can’t remember when I last saw someone walking barefoot outdoors. I’ve lived in the city for far too long.
Max’s fiancée surprises me when she wraps her arms around me. She pulls back, keeping her hands on my upper arms as she searches my face. Her eyes are kind, and her smile is easy.
She’s pretty much the opposite of me.
“So, you’re the famous Sacha Black. I was starting to think Max had made you up.” She smiles warmly at me, and the tightness in my chest eases ever so slightly.
For the first time in a decade, I feel like I’m coming home.
Ignoring my protests, Max grabs my bag from the trunk of the car. The two of them lead me inside, and I slip my keys into my pocket. I slip my fingers over the USB key, the movement calming me. Then, I head for the front door. I’m not prepared for the assault on my emotions that awaits me on the other side.
Everywhere I look, memories flood my brain. Good ones. Bad ones. Trivial ones.
Right there is the corner of the coffee table where I split my head open while Max and I wrestled at thirteen years old. Over there is where I would sit with the Wise family for dinner whenever my own parents forgot about me as they left town on business or worked late.
The same faded, brown couch dominates the living room, where I kissed Willow Wise for the first and only time, ten years ago.
I jerk my eyes away from it, forcing a smile on my lips. “Hasn’t changed in here at all.”
“We’re saving up to redo the kitchen,” Isabelle explains, brushing her hands down her pants. “Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“Beer?” Max grins.
“Beer sounds good.”
My best friend takes a seat on the sofa, and I take care not to touch it as I sit on the old Laz-y-Boy recliner in the corner. If I sit next to him on that couch, I know I’ll be thinking of Willow.
The way she looked when she sat there, beside me, asking to be kissed. The way my body trembled against hers. The way she made me feel alive when she pressed her lips to mine.
The way it tore me apart to leave without looking back.
Isabelle appears with three beers, handing one to me, one to Max, and keeping one for herself. She nestles in on the sofa next to Max, who slings his arm around her shoulders.
“So, getting married, huh?” I ask, nodding to them as I lean my head back against the recliner. “You’re a lucky man.”
Isabelle blushes, shaking her head. “I’m a lucky woman. Max is one of the good ones.”
I grunt in acknowledgement, taking another sip of beer. The bitter, golden liquid pours down my throat and causes my shoulders to relax.
“So, how’s the restaurant? I saw you were featured in Bon Appetit!” Max whistles. “Big leagues. Never thought Sacha Black would be the head chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant.”
I chuckle. “It’s going well. We’ve got a good team.”
“Mom always said you had a gift for cooking.” Max smiles sadly. “Too bad your parents couldn’t see it.”
“They didn’t want to.” I take another swig of beer and then clear my throat. “So, four weeks, huh? You must be excited.”
“For the wedding?” Isabelle laughs. “Mostly exhausted. I never thought it’d be so much work to plan it.”
“Hope that guy’s helping you out.” I point my bottle at my best friend, who gives me that same grin I remember from our childhood.
This is fine.
Everything is okay.
Willow isn’t here, and I can enjoy my best friend’s company. There’s nothing to stress about. I’m just here to visit Max for his bachelor’s party.
Nothing more.
All going well, I’ll be gone by Monday without even seeing Willow Wise, and then I won’t need to worry about her until I’m back here for the wedding. Then, I can just avoid her during the ceremony and leave early the next day. I’ll make up some excuse about needing to be at the restaurant.
Easy.
Simple.
Clean.
But just like everything in my life, things are not easy, simple, and clean. Nothing ever goes according to plan. I can’t even manage one weekend in my hometown without feeling like my stomach is falling out of my ass.
Because right when I think I’m getting comfortable, the front door opens, and my heart stops.
I hear her voice before I see her. The wind blows a gust of air inside, carrying the scent of vanilla and strawberries toward me.
The same scent that has lingered in my dreams for a decade. The smell of my teenage obsession. Of my first love.
The scent of heartbreak.
Willow turns the corner into the living room, and my heart falters.
I wasn’t ready for this. Even if I thought I was ready, I was kidding myself. Willow Wise is ten years older, but she’s still the same girl I knew when I left this godforsaken town.
No, she’s not the same. She’s dressed in black from head to toe. Gone are the mismatched socks and glittery scrunchies in her hair. She doesn’t look like a unicorn threw up all over her.
She’s different.
She’s better.
I left her as a gangly, awkward teenager with eyes that were too big for her face, and I’ve come back to the woman of my dreams.
Doe-eyed, full-lipped, with curves in all the right places. A goddess. Too good to walk among mortals. Too beautiful to look at without feeling like the world is tilting on its axis.
Her eyes are drawn to mine, just as mine are drawn to hers. The words die on her lips as they fall open, and all I can think of is how they would taste to kiss.
“Sacha.” Her voice is strangled, and her smile slips off her face.
I stand up, letting my arms hang loosely by my sides. “Hey, Frogface.”
3
Willow
Willow: 9
Sacha: 11
“Why do your eyes bug out like that? You look like a frog.” Sacha’s ear-length, stringy brown hair fell across his forehead as he loomed over me.
“Shut up. I do not.”
“Do too. Froggy. Ribbit.” He puffed his chest out and made a frog noise again, taking a step toward me. “Ribbit. Ribbit.”
“You’re mean.”
“It’s not my fault you have a frog face, Frogface. Is that why you’re wearing a green shirt?”
He smelled like boy. I wrinkled my nose, turning my face away from him and squeezing my eyes shut. I felt him take another step toward me. His arm brushed against mine. His skin was hot.
My heart felt like it was going to explode. Why did he have to be so mean all the time?
Spinning on my heels, I ran. I ran through the trees and jumped over the stream behind our house, flying through the gate and into the backyard.
Mom was taking laundry off the line, and she wasn’t expecting me to crash into her legs. I wrapped myself around her, sobbing.
“He”—sob—“called me”—sob—“Frogface!” I wailed, tilting my face up toward my mother’s. I didn’t care that I was crying like a baby. Daddy said I was too old to cry, but sometimes things just hurt too bad not to.
“Shh, honey,” she said, rubbing my back as she knelt in front of me. Mom’s arms were warm and safe, and I melted into her chest. She cooed and sighed as she held me until I stopped sobbing. Then she cupped my cheeks and looked into my eyes.
“Willow, you are beautiful. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, especially not a silly boy.”
“He said my eyes bug out too much.”
“That boy doesn’t know a damn thing.”
I sniffled as my lip trembled. “That’s a bad word.”
“Sometimes bad words are appropriate,” Mom said, clucking my cheek. “But only when you’re older.”
I wiped my nose on my sleeve of my favorite frog-green shirt just as the back gate flew open and my brother came through, laughing with stupid old Sacha Black.
“Sacha,” my mother said in that voice she used when you were in trouble. She stood up
, putting her hands on her hips. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you it’s rude to call people names?”
Sacha’s eyes swung over to me and a wicked spark flashed in them. He looked back at Mom, and the wickedness went away. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wise.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Willow.”
“Sorry, Willow,” Sacha grunted, sticking his tongue at me as soon as Mom turned her back.
I buried my face in Mom’s thighs. She put her hand on my head, shushing me as the boys went inside to do whatever it is boys did. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be around stupid boys and their stupid name-calling anyway. Max was meaner when he was with Sacha.
Mom held the laundry basket against her hip and led me inside. I helped her fold it, and then she looked at me with a gleam in her eye.
“How about we make a cake? We haven’t made a cake in a while. I think we should have some girl time together. Just you and me.”
I smiled and pushed Sacha out of my mind. Cake sounded nice. I liked cake. And candy. And chocolate. Mom always made the nicest cakes in town. I knew it because Daddy said so.
Mom let me lick the batter off the beaters with a wink before putting the cakes in the oven. She disappeared down the hallway, and I sat at the kitchen table enjoying the sweet batter in peace.
Licking the batter was the best part about making cakes. I swung my legs back and forth under the chair and hummed to myself. Sacha and Max didn’t get cake batter, because they were too busy being mean, stinky boys.
Movement in the corner of my eye made me look up. Sacha stood at the back door with his hands behind his back. His chin was tucked into his chest as he shuffled forward.
“Hey, Willow.”
“Hi.” I narrowed my eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry I called you Frogface.” He looked at me from the doorway. His eyes weren’t too big. They were the perfect size. They widened a little as he took a step forward. “I got you something.”
Leaving the mixer’s beaters on the table, I slid off the chair and took a hesitant step toward him. Maybe he was sorry. “What is it?”
Shouldn’t Want You: A Brother’s Best Friend Romance Page 2