by Alex Kidwell
Brady smiled at the praise. “Good,” he said, crossing his legs and leaning back. “That was the hope.”
He looked damn good in that suit too. Everything about him seemed so refined, so cool and in control. Brady had always seemed that way, but here it was like he was so much more, like he’d settled into his element. I liked him mussed and on my couch, in my kitchen, but I was a little surprised to find how much I liked him here, too. How much that confidence fit him.
“Brady.” A young woman appeared beside us in the same sort of uniform Conner had been wearing. She flashed me a smile, polite but busy, and I relinquished my hold on Brady’s hand. “We’re having a minor quiche crisis. Do you want to—”
“Serve take-out burgers? You have no idea, Gwen.” Brady sighed, giving me an apologetic look. “Sorry, sweetheart. My magic fingers are needed elsewhere.”
“Too bad.” I tried for an innocent look. “I had plans for those.”
I’d admit, it still felt strange, teasing like that. Talking about intimate things, things that were meant for between sheets and skin and panted kisses. But the uncomfortable twist in my stomach was pushed to the side in favor of the warmth, the connection. Brady’s look was unsure, but his lips twitched upward, a hopeful expression hovering on his face. The last time I’d reached out, I’d also retreated just as completely, and he was hesitant. That was okay—so was I.
“I’ll make sure to keep them safe for you,” Gwen smirked, taking Brady’s elbow.
“Give me ten minutes,” he promised me. “Then I’m going to try and convince you to dance.”
“Ten minutes,” I agreed, catching his hand to squeeze his fingers lightly with my own before he strode back toward where I imagined the kitchen to be.
Left to myself, I dared to wander, coasting along the outside of the main group. It was like someone had swept the autumn leaves inside, the bright colors flitting around the floor in succulent fabrics, rich reds and golds and greens caught up in candlelight. The music was slow and sweet, an undertone for the ebb and flow of conversation that wrapped around the room.
It was enchanting. And Brady had created it. Every detail, from the heavy linen napkins to the gold-rimmed glasses, had come from his imagination. It was a side of him I hadn’t seen yet, and I was suddenly grateful I’d decided to come. All the awkward dancing in the world was a small price to pay.
I found myself at a small table tucked toward the back, taking in the room. I liked to watch the people, to see how they mingled. One by one, in drops and trickles, couples moved to the dance floor. Champagne was being offered by waiters and I gladly took a glass, sipping it slowly as I waited. It’d been more than ten minutes, but it didn’t matter. Brady was busy orchestrating all of this, and I was perfectly content to sit and let the party wash around me.
I did wish for a pen and paper, though. Something about the deep colors, the people in their best clothes and masks, made me want to try and capture it all. To attempt to find the story in the lines and curves and tones. Like many things, the idle thought turned into an obsession and I was mentally cursing the fact that men didn’t carry purses. If I had a bag with me this wouldn’t be an issue.
After a few moments, I decided the off chance of me actually drawing something other than dirty stick figures was worth a little inconvenience. Moving around the edge of the room, I found the door that seemed to lead to where all the servers and staff were coming and going from. This was a library, after all. Surely somewhere around here was some paper and a writing utensil.
The hallway was dimly lit, the noise from the party muffled. I could hear the music echoing in the walls, a muted memory of sound. Standing aside for another wave of servers with trays full of delicious-looking finger foods, I followed the trail, bright lights behind swinging doors beckoning me.
It was a kitchen, loud and brash after the hushed softness of the hall. The lights were bright and stainless steel gleamed everywhere. The kitchen normally served sandwiches and coffees to the cafe the library had added on a few years ago; now, though, it was a three-ringed circus. At the center of it, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, bow tie loosened, was Brady. He was barking orders and moving like a dancer, gracefully stepping around a woman at the stove, darting in to taste everything, chopping with such finesse and speed I couldn’t stop staring. There was poise there, and command; there was elegance and strength. It was Brady as I’d never seen him, as I’d always known him, in his element.
He was beautiful, this man.
I found a corner, out of the way, and I watched. Instead of the candles and luscious fabrics out there, here there were pots clanging and the scent of things cooking. Here there was chaos that was controlled so finely, so gently, you almost couldn’t see the steps. Every move was choreographed, though, every moment deliberate. They all danced together with Brady in the center, in a thousand places at once and each one exactly as they needed him.
There was an abandoned yellow notepad on the table, a few pencils. The first pages were filled with notes, but I flipped past, fingers aching to draw. To let the lead soar across the page, to capture a scene that was drawing me in more every second. I let myself go. I forgot the ball, the shoes that pinched my feet, the tie. I sat on the table, unnoticed by those in the kitchen, and I drew. It was bliss, to rip off the binding scar, to finally, finally pour myself out onto paper again. To see lines and blobs morph into something more.
I sketched with abandon, just like they cooked. Pages filled but I hardly noticed. There were smudges on my fingers, probably one on my nose from where I’d absently rubbed it, but I was lost inside the art, the creation, the moment. Hands resting on my legs, a voice saying my name, brought me back.
Blinking, I looked around. The bustle had faded a bit and Brady was in front of me, smiling in a way that sent my stomach into flips and knots. “Hello,” he murmured in that low drawl, honey and milk. “Sorry, that took way more than ten minutes. I got into crisis mode and all neglectful and—”
Impulsively, I leaned forward and kissed him. It was sweet and easy at first, a gentle press, but then my fingers hooked into those intoxicating curls and he slid forward between my legs; his tongue teased between my lips and he was devouring me then, with a drawn out groan.
“Get a room, Banner.” One of the cooks sailed past us, already tapping out a cigarette from her pack, giving both of us a look halfway between a smirk and a scowl. “Jesus, there’s food in here.”
“You’re just mad because your boyfriend didn’t show up in a tux and kiss you,” Brady shot back, and she snorted, not arguing the point.
“I’ll be back in five,” she nodded at us, which I took as a greeting. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
She disappeared through the swinging doors and Brady grinned. “That’s Susan. Hell of a cook, even if she is prickly. If you listened to her talk, apparently my whole line would lay down and cry without her.”
“Would they?” I asked, chasing Brady’s smile with my fingertips.
“I refuse to inflate her ego any more than necessary” was his answer as he gave my fingers a playful bite, as he slid his arms around my waist. As he came home, and I was right there, was there with every part of me.
It ached, yes. Ripping off scabs always did. But after the blood was gone, after you’d cried and bled out and hurt, wasn’t that when you healed? I had to believe there was something good after all that pain.
I think Brady could sense the difference, the way I was trying so hard to be present, because as he kissed my chin absently, his eyes were on mine. There was hope there, yes, wary and fragile. We were perched on a soap bubble, teetering between solid ground and nothing. What I’d done had hurt him, I realized all at once. Not just a little, not just an annoyance—waking up alone in that bed, having me shut him out, had hurt far more than just angry words and a rant. He didn’t know if he could trust me.
There was a drop in my stomach, a frown creasing my forehead. “I’m sorry,” I told him
softly, tracing a path across his cheek with my fingers. “About before.”
“Quinn—” He tried to stop me but I kept going, stubbornly.
“It was my fault. How I handled things was shit.”
He sighed. “I know. But we already talked about this, Quinn. It’s okay, we’re… moving on.” He nodded a little, trying for a smile, this one less brilliant than the ones I treasured. “And everyone is going to make mistakes. I do, all the time. It’s human. We are human, nothing more.”
I rolled my eyes, teasing him. “You’re disgustingly sweet.” But he laughed and I kissed him again, hooking my hands lightly around the back of his neck. It was getting easier.
The graveyard was still with me; Aaron’s ghost was still there, yes, but this was so solid and real I was beginning to let myself see the difference. To feel what it was to be alive.
“You drew?” Brady was surprised as he saw the notepad and the evidence of my efforts. Flipping through the pages, his eyebrows raised, studying each sketch intensely. There were dresses made of butterflies and kings dancing with nymphs, but in the middle of it all was the god of the sun. He was brilliant, and he orchestrated the world around him with deft movements; his smile took over the page, beaming light down on the masses. “This is really good, babe.”
A bit uncomfortable with his praise, I shifted, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. “They’re sketches,” I dismissed, but he shot me a look.
“They’re good,” he insisted simply, flipping to the next one, a simple picture of him in the kitchen. There were plates and bowls flying around him, but he was calm, commanding, a captain at the stern of his ship. Brady laughed quietly, holding it up to study it in better light. “This one especially,” he kidded, nudging a hip against one of my legs. “Excellent subject matter.”
He was teasing. I wasn’t, though, when I murmured, “I thought so.”
God, that look again. The hopeful, worried, hesitantly pleased one. It seemed so out of place on Brady’s face, like he’d gotten too skittish to be really sure of anything anymore. Instead of making me afraid, though, I found myself wanting to take care of him. To show him he could trust me to be careful, to match his strength. I wanted to be better because of him.
“I need to go and check on things out there.” Brady took my hand and I laced my fingers with his, squeezing them lightly. “Can I interest you in some hors d'oeuvres and my charming company?”
“Who could say no to an offer like that?” I slid off the table and took his arm; we walked back out into the hallway. It was a rare moment of stillness: the music playing, trembling around us, the conversations muted. The staff was out in the main room and we were alone.
I stopped him there, and when he turned to look at me, eyebrows tilted upward in question, I took his hands and tugged him in to me. My arms went around his neck, his fingers curled around my hips, and just like that, just that easy, we were dancing. His startled look faded into a smile and I leaned up to kiss him, slowly, as we moved together.
“I thought you didn’t dance,” he murmured.
I nipped his lower lip and buried the noise he made into another kiss. “I’m feeling inspired to try new things.”
His forehead rested against mine, and we stayed there, in the dim light, in the soft sway of music. I touched his cheek and he smiled; his arms slid around my waist and I leaned into him, loving how he felt, wanting nothing more than the strength of him, gentle and sweet.
“Come home with me tonight.” I wasn’t sure how long we’d danced—the music had moved on to other songs, the chatter outside the door had risen and fallen, and he’d relaxed completely into me—but my voice broke the quiet between us. He raised his head, looking startled by the offer.
“Quinn….” He trailed off into a sigh. “Last time didn’t go so well,” he reminded me, regretful, thumb rubbing along my lip. “And this is good, babe. You and me, we’re so good. I don’t want to ruin that.”
“I’m not jumping ahead,” I told him seriously. “I’m right here.”
“What happens in the morning?” It was a valid question, and I made myself stop. I made myself acknowledge the tight hurt in my throat, the nerves that were skittering along under my skin.
“I probably will be a little sad,” I admitted, cupping his cheek. “But I’m going to make you pancakes and coffee. We’ll read the morning paper together and I’ll steal the funnies and you’ll suffer silently while I read the ones out loud that make me laugh. I’ll miss him, Brady, but I want to learn how to do that while I fall for you.” I met his eyes, wanting him to hear this, to hear all of it. Needing so badly to say it all out loud. “Because I am. Falling for you.”
Taking in a low breath, Brady didn’t move. His gaze flicked up to mine and then downward, those brilliant brown depths troubled. After a long moment where I was so sure I’d broken this beyond repair, he offered, quietly, “I’ve already fallen.”
My heart tightened, joy and fear all together making my whole being constrict painfully. But it was good; it was terrifying and wonderful. Just like love should be. Just like I already knew it could become.
Leaning up into him, I kissed him. While the music played, with his arms around me, I kissed Brady Banner. It was scary and exhilarating and complicated, but it was us. And I was beginning to wake up and see the world enough to want more.
“CAN I interest you in a salmon and crab cake with caviar?” Conner was at my elbow, flashing me a smile as he held a tray in front of me. “Or perhaps a fingerling potato and steak bite with truffles?”
I gave the man a look. Conner had been given strict instructions to make sure I didn’t get neglected, and he’d taken to the job with glee, making sure I got tastes and sips of everything that was flying out of the kitchen. “I think we’ve established the rules for the evening, Conner,” I told him sternly, eyes wide as I took in the offerings. “I want everything. Let’s not be bashful. Bring on the truffles.”
Conner laughed, handing me both appetizers and flopping down in the chair next to me. He’d been working the room all night, making sure everyone was fed and happy. “I hate these cocktail focused things,” he complained. “Sit-down meals at least have downtime. My feet are going to hate me tonight.”
Brady was back working, and I’d insisted he not worry about me. Conner seemed to like having someone to come by and talk with every so often, exchanging gossip about the other staff and some of the guests, refilling my glass, and checking that I was never lacking for something delicious. I’d also met the rest of Brady’s crew, one by one, throughout the night.
They were a good group, all of them fiercely loyal to Brady. I could see why; other than the stolen moments with me, he was working just as hard as any of them, ensuring the event went off without a hitch.
“So, am I what you expected?” I asked, almost dying of bliss at the first bite of the crab cake.
“Have to admit, you’re not Brady’s type.” Conner gave me a critical look. “He seems to be more into that high-maintenance gym bunny thing.”
Now this was the good dirt. “Oh really?” I asked, sipping my wine. I’d have to stop after this glass unless I just wanted to fall asleep once I got home. Look out, wild man on the loose—two glasses of wine and I took naps. “Who says I’m not a gym person?”
Conner laughed. Loudly. “Yeah, okay,” he smirked, gathering his tray again. “I’m just so sure you’re on the treadmill every day.”
I thought about being insulted. I was too busy shoveling my food in my mouth, though. “This is all natural,” I told him with an arch look. “And you really should only run if something is chasing you.” Fiddling with my glass, I cut a glance over at Conner, venturing, “How do you know what Brady’s type is?”
Conner hesitated before shrugging. “Because I’m Brady’s type. We used to be a thing, a long, long time ago.”
Oh.
Awkwardly, I just kind of blinked at Conner. He laughed again, patting my shoulder. “God, don’t lo
ok so scared. I’m not going to go all crazy ex on you. Seriously, we dated for, like, three months a hundred years ago. We worked for the same catering company. He was fresh out of college. It was a thing. We were so bad together. Trust me, we’re way better friends.”
It was strange anytime to meet an ex-boyfriend. Even weirder to know it was the guy who’d been bringing me food all night. But I never would have guessed there had been anything between the two of them. It wasn’t like I was suddenly boiling over with raging jealousy. I just wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“So you’re high-maintenance.” I decided to go for teasing, keeping my tone light. Conner gave me a flat-out grin.
“I’m totally worth it too,” he assured me, hefting the tray back up on his shoulder and heading out into the room again.
Huffing out a laugh under my breath, I watched him go, contemplating. I felt Brady come up behind me before I heard him speak, and I leaned back as his hands came to rest lightly on my shoulders. I’d put my mask aside for the moment, as had he, and we smiled at each other in greeting. “You look serious,” he mused, sitting beside me. I drew his hand into mine, resting them on my knee.
“Conner.” I shrugged.
“He’s been taking care of you?” Brady’s gaze was sharp as he scanned the room. “I swear, I will kick his ass if he left you to starve. He’s probably flirting with someone and letting his food get cold.”
“Nah, he’s been good,” I assured Brady, raising his hand so I could kiss his palm. Brady’s expression all but melted, and I got a warm jolt all through me at the sight of it. “He just told me you two used to date.”
Brady blinked, startled, before he gave me a sheepish grimace. “Christ. I was going to tell you about that, but then I was busy and I didn’t think and….” He winced a bit further, studying my face anxiously. “I swear, it’s been years. And it wasn’t even a thing so much as, you know, working late and going out a lot and way too many shots of tequila. There were a couple of months there, but it was—”