Shouldn’t Want You: A Brother’s Best Friend Romance

by Monroe, Lilian

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  The two of them shuffle to the front door and I follow them out. I’m glad I’ve only had half a glass of wine when I make the short drive across town and pull the car into the familiar driveway.

  This isn’t my sister-in-law’s house, or my brother’s house—it’s my house. It’s the little patch of earth where we grew up, where all my happiest and saddest memories were born. It’s the home my parents created with nothing but a couple of pennies to rub together, and where they taught me everything there is to know about how to be a decent person.

  It’s where I met Sacha, and where he broke my heart.

  Isabelle greets me at the front door with a tired smile. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “You need to stop apologizing for everything.” I grin. “Come on. I brought some wine and my laptop. And friends.” I gesture to Nadia and Jackson, who smile behind me.

  Isabelle visibly relaxes, tucking a strand of short, dark hair behind her ear. We sit down on the sofa, and my eyes drift to the chair where Sacha sat just a short while ago.

  My heart thumps, calling out to him across space and time.

  Silence answers back, cackling at my desperation.

  Maybe Jackson is right, after all. I’m hopelessly in love with a man who broke my heart when I was seventeen, and now I’m sitting here waiting for him to come home.

  Isabelle and Nadia discuss flower arrangements as Jackson doles out more wine than he should, and I succeed in taking her mind off the fact that Max is out getting plastered with two of the biggest troublemakers Woodvale has ever seen. Within an hour, my soon-to-be sister-in-law is laughing and relaxed, and back to her normal self.

  “You’re the best,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Why is it that no one has snagged you up, yet? You must have men lining up to date you.”

  “If they are, they’re wasting their time,” I answer, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that’s been there since 1992.

  Before Jackson can make a snarky comment, a noise makes us all sit up. A car door slams. Someone shouts outside. There’s scuffling, more shouts, and the car drives off.

  Jackson’s ears perk up and an interested grin tugs at his lips. Nadia glances at me, wide-eyed. My heart thumps, because I recognize those voices.

  “Max,” Isabelle breathes. “They’re here. Something’s wrong.”

  8

  Sacha

  Max takes a swing at me, stumbling over his feet. His fist moves through the air at a sluggish pace, slowed by the alcohol that poisons his system. I step back to avoid the punch.

  I don’t have to move very quickly.

  My best friend’s fist travels past me like he’s swinging through molasses, missing me by a foot and a half.

  With a grunt, Max catches himself before he falls flat on his face. A hazy gaze stares back at me, full of suspicion and hints of betrayal. Icy blue pierces through me, and I know he’s right to be mad at me. Pulling his arm back, he’s preparing for another alcohol-addled blow.

  Clear-headed and sober, I have a mind to stand still and take the punch. It might give me an excuse to leave this town without seeing Willow again.

  Max’s pink-tipped nose trembles as he inhales cool night air, winding up for a monster blow. The smell of alcohol wafts toward me when he exhales, and my hands tighten into fists.

  I brace myself. I deserve to get hit.

  Finn frowns when I stand my ground. He jumps forward, hooking his arms around Max’s. “Easy, buddy,” he grunts, struggling to contain the drunkard.

  “Stay away from my s-sister,” Max slurs, stumbling toward me. His index finger rises to point at me and his lips curl into a nasty snarl. “I fucking mean it, man. I see the way you look at her.”

  “I’m not going anywhere near her.”

  “I guess some things never change.” He spits. “You’ve been trying to get in her pants since you were fifteen years old. F-fucking creep. You call yourself my friend?” Straightening himself up, Max shrugs off Finn’s hold. Finn takes a step back, throwing me an apologetic glance.

  “Welcome back, old boy,” he says with a wry grin. “Is this the homecoming you were expecting?”

  “More or less.”

  Then, the front door opens, and my stomach drops to my feet.

  Willow’s here.

  Her huge, wide eyes are glued to mine and another jagged scar on my heart splits open, sending shockwaves down to my toes. I can’t look at her without feeling like I’m falling off a cliff. My blood turns to liquid fire as I watch her red lips part, the slight movement enough to make me rock-hard.

  A gargled scream is the only warning I get that Max has seen the look I gave his sister. Hell, maybe he saw the twitch in my crotch. He launches himself at me, no longer stumbling, and slams his body into mine like we’re back on the high school football team. His heavy, thick arms wrap around me as his shoulder hits my sternum, knocking the air out of my lungs. My feet fly up underneath me and a surprised yelp slips through my lips. I don’t have time to react before he tackles me to the ground.

  I land with a grunt, with two hundred pounds of brawn and muscle in the form of Max Wise on top of me. With a hand, he mashes my face into the lawn as his knee connects with my stomach. I grunt, swinging wildly. My fists connect with air as I struggle to get this drunk, angry animal off me.

  Vaguely, the sounds of shouts ring in my ears, but I don’t have time to react. Max’s fist makes contact with my temple and pain explodes across my face. I scream, swinging my arms wildly and pounding any bit of flesh and bone I can until Max is dragged off me, and I’m left panting on the ground.

  I slump over to my side, coughing into the grass as bruises start to bloom all over my body. The center of my chest pulses in pain as I wheeze with every breath.

  Finn hauls Max back as Isabelle cries out, dragging him toward the house and as far away from me as possible. Two other faces stare back at me, a guy and a girl. I don’t recognize either of them through my blurred vision, but the guy seems vaguely familiar. Turning on my side to cough, I hear the front door close, and the sounds of their voices are muffled inside the building.

  I’m alone.

  Happy homecoming, indeed.

  As much as I thought it would be rough to come back here, I have to admit I wasn’t expecting my best friend to punch me in the face. Still, maybe Max is right. I’ve been pining after his sister for the better part of two decades. If that doesn’t deserve a black eye, I don’t know what does.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to take a full breath as my lungs scream in protest. I can feel the blood pooling around my eye, and I know his fist is going to leave a mark.

  The worst part of all this?

  Willow seeing the hit.

  Watching me go down.

  Pulling away from me as soon as I hit the ground.

  But then, I sense her presence. Looking over my shoulder, I see Willow only a few steps away from me. Maybe she didn’t follow her brother inside the house, after all. Her eyebrows are drawn together as she kneels down on the ground beside me.

  The air around her is sweeter. I inhale her magic as the cool night breeze carries it toward me, lying on my back as I stare up at the woman I’ll never deserve.

  I rest my head on the lawn, exhaling as Willow’s hand reaches toward me. Her fingers stroke my skin, gliding over me like a velvet kiss. My eyes close, and all my pain vanishes. The only thing I feel is Willow’s touch. Her hands on my face, dancing over the skin that’s surely starting to bruise.

  How many times have I dreamed of her touching me? Too many to count, and still, somehow, it’s better than I imagined.

  “I should get you some ice,” she says, her voice soft and honeyed.

  Fuck, I missed that voice. It echoed in my head for a decade, reminding me of everything I’d left behind.

  Opening my eyes, I find her gaze. Blue, clear, questioning.

  Forbidden.

  “I’m fine,”
I croak. My brain screams at me to get up, to move, to walk away, but I’m frozen in place. Willow’s gaze makes my body turn to lead, and her touch sends sparks running down my spine.

  I couldn’t move to save my life.

  A finger traces the outline of my jaw and I watch Willow’s breath tremble. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, and I have to close my eyes again. Her beauty is blinding. Her presence is more intoxicating than alcohol and more addictive than any drug.

  One finger on my jaw is all my cock needs to turn to steel. What would that finger feel like if it trailed farther down, I wonder? If her soft legs spread open for me, if my length was buried deep inside her?

  I exhale to clear my head from the pulsing in my pants.

  Max is right about one thing: I need to stay away from Willow.

  I mean, look at what happened tonight. I’m in town for less than six hours, and I’m already causing a fucking fistfight.

  I’m no good for this family.

  Never have been.

  Leaving was the best thing I did for them, even if Willow doesn’t see it that way. She doesn’t know the full truth, though, and I’m not going to be the one to tell her.

  Willow’s hand moves to my chest, her palm resting on my heart. I open my eyes again, bracing myself against the assault of her gaze. Anytime I meet her eyes, they’re two machine guns pointed straight at my soul. The tak-tak-tak of her look pierces my chest and rips my flesh to shreds, making my heart bleed once more.

  What’s left of my heart, anyway.

  But right now, there aren’t any machine guns peppering my body with bullets. Willow’s eyes are soft. Her lips full. In the moonlight, her skin has an ethereal glow and she looks like even more of an angel than I thought her to be, sent down to earth to show me that something divine does exist.

  I put my hand over hers, curling my fingers into her palm. Her skin feels like heaven. Vanilla and strawberries flood my senses, and the pain in my face evaporates.

  “Willow…” My voice scratches at my throat.

  She shakes her head ever so slightly, and I curse myself for speaking. The softness falls away from her features, replaced with the familiar stone mask that greeted me earlier today. All it took was for me to say her name, and her defenses are back up again. The chasm between us deepens. Willow pulls her hand away, and the movement hurts more than any punch from her brother.

  “Let’s get you patched up,” she says, her voice emptier than it was a moment ago.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll just grab my stuff and get a hotel. I don’t think Max wants me here.”

  I turn my head toward Willow as she starts to laugh.

  Fuck, I missed that sound. I missed the way her lips spread wide, revealing all her pearly, white teeth. I missed the way it makes her shoulders shake and her nose scrunch up. I missed the way it sends an arrow straight through my guts. It’s pure happiness in auditory form. It’s bottled fairy dust, sprinkled over us as her eyes shine and her laugh tumbles out.

  Willow shakes her head as her laughter fades. “You’ve been away for too long, Sacha. Max is already in there crying about how he hurt you. If you got a hotel, I’m pretty sure it would break his fragile little heart. He was drunk and he’ll apologize for this for the next twenty years.”

  “He looked serious.” My eyes stare into hers, and I wonder how much of our fight she heard.

  “What were you guys fighting about, anyway? I haven’t seen him that mad in a long time.”

  I grunt. “Nothing.”

  “Drinking,” Willow scoffs. “It only ever causes problems. Weddings would be a lot simpler if there was no alcohol involved.” She stands up, brushing a piece of grass off her bare legs. My eyes trail up the bronzed skin to the black denim shorts she’s wearing as heat pulses through my crotch. I’d kill to have those legs wrapped around my waist. To tear that scrap of denim off her and make her mine.

  Extending a hand to me, Willow arches a delicate eyebrow. I slide my palm against hers and brace myself against the shock of her skin touching mine. She helps me to my feet, taking a step back when I get too close.

  The distance grows between us.

  It’s only a few inches today, but it’s a canyon that was a decade in the making. Willow lets out a soft sigh and turns toward the house. I watch her walk in front of me as bitterness coats my tongue, my gut churning at the thought of losing her all over again.

  Scoffing, I shake my head. You can’t lose something you never had in the first place.

  The front door opens, and I recognize Jackson Ainsworth from high school. His eyes sweep over mine, and I get the distinct feeling that he’s checking me out. Then, he glances at Willow and arches an eyebrow.

  She ignores him, stepping over the threshold to go inside.

  As I follow her inside, my hand drifts to my jaw. Wherever Willow’s fingers touched my skin, I can still feel heat sizzling across its surface. I put a hand to my chest, wishing she were still pressing her palm to my heart.

  At the end of the day, no matter how much I try to fight it, or deny it, or walk away from it, my heart belongs to her. It stayed behind when I left, beating right here in Woodvale.

  Once upon a time, Willow Wise presented me with her love. She gave me her heart and told me she was mine, and I turned my back on her. I had my reasons, but regret has followed me like my own shadow, darkening my brightest days.

  Now, she’s lost to me forever. I can see it in the way her eyes dim when she looks at me, and how her shoulders hunch over. Even the clothes she wears are darker now.

  Even when I see a flash of the real her, underneath the layers of pain, I know I have no right to it. Willow isn’t mine to love, or covet, or admire.

  Her brother is right. I should just stay away from her and let her live her life. Coming here was a mistake, and I intend to leave as soon as I can. All I bring is pain, heartache, fighting, and conflict.

  Willow is doing well. She’s running a successful business. She’s created something of herself despite everything that happened.

  Isn’t that the reason I left? So that she could have a better life?

  If I stay, I’ll only bring her down. I need to leave and not come back.

  9

  Willow

  It’s difficult to put my wedding planner persona on when all my thoughts are consumed by a certain tall, gray-eyed Adonis.

  The following day, I do my best to make it through the wedding of a beautiful, young couple, trying to ignore the intrusive thoughts that remind me it’ll probably never be me saying, ‘I do.’ I’ve never been able to keep a boyfriend for more than a couple of months.

  But whose fault is that?

  Is it Sacha’s, for leaving, or is it mine, for not moving on?

  I watch as the bride and groom say beautiful vows full of love and forevers, and sadness weighs my shoulders down. They’ve found each other, and they’re so full of hope for the future. Their eyes are bright, their cheeks rosy, their families teary-eyed.

  It’s beautiful. It’s one of the fairytale weddings, where nothing goes wrong and it’s hard not to feel happy for the new couple.

  I turn away from the ceremony, shuffling toward the reception room next door. I need to find something to appear busy, if only to try to dislodge the lump in my throat.

  I’m in a daze. The wedding is beautiful, the venue is impeccable, the food is delicious…and yet I can’t find joy in it.

  It’s not my wedding.

  It’s never my wedding.

  That never really bothered me until today. It was an advantage when I could be clinical about wedding planning. When I didn’t believe it would ever happen to me.

  When I wasn’t jealous.

  When Sacha wasn’t here.

  By the end of the day, my feet hurt and my head is pounding. The guests filter out, and I help direct the cleanup crew. My work won’t end until every guest is gone, the bride and groom are happy, and the venue has been paid and closed up.

 
Today, that time doesn’t come fast enough.

  I need to get away from this happiness, this joy, this love. I need to sanitize my life of anything emotional, and go back to being the clinical wedding planner I was a week ago.

  When the wedding finally comes to a close, I feel like I’ve been to war. It’s taken all my energy to slap a smile on my face and pretend to be happy. I slide into my car and lean my head against the headrest, releasing a deep sigh.

  In a few, short minutes, I’ll be home. I can lock myself in my house, flick on the television, and drown myself in a vat of wine.

  The key turns in the ignition and my car jumps to life. That weird clicking noise in the engine is loud today, and I vow to deal with it tomorrow. I just don’t have the energy to deal with it today. I turn out of the parking lot and make my way back to Woodvale on the freeway.

  It’s at least a half-hour drive back to my place, so I turn on the radio to drown out my thoughts. I can still hear my engine clicking, though.

  And it’s getting louder.

  And louder.

  And louder.

  Then a thunk, a loud bang, and a bone-chilling hiss.

  Steam starts billowing from under the hood and my eyes widen. I quickly pull over onto the shoulder. Even after I turn the engine off, the hissing continues. Steam—or is it smoke?—almost completely obscures the windscreen. There isn’t another car in sight.

  Swearing under my breath, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over onto my cheeks.

  I can’t handle this right now.

  Just make it through the weekend, I tell myself. After that, Sacha will be gone. Things will be back to normal.

  Checking over my shoulder for oncoming vehicles, I open the door and move to the front of my car. It smells like burnt rubber and oil, and thick steam is still escaping out from under the hood. With a sigh, I pop the hood and open it up, staring at the labyrinth of tubes and compartments that make up the engine.

  Didn’t Dad always tell me I should know how an engine works if I wanted to drive a car?