“We don’t fight. Ever. Even when we disagree, we work it out calmly. That must count for something.”
She holds up two fingers. “One, you live on different continents. When you two were actually in the same hemisphere, you were bored senseless. It wasn’t as peachy as you’re making it sound. If you recall, you texted me constantly about how miserable you were. And two, you and Henrik have no passion. No chemistry. No heat. Take it from your married friend who has sex every night—you need heat!”
As I nod, I peel the label from my bottle of water.
“See,” she says, pointing at me. “That’s a sign you’re sexually frustrated.”
I put the bottle down. “You shouldn’t buy bottled water, anyway. It’s bad for the environment.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “Enough about my beverage selection. What are you going to do about your feelings for my brother?”
I wince. “That is a pointless conversation. I may still be in love with him, but we’re toxic for each other. I don’t think I can forgive him for all that he has done. We’d never get past all the damage. Plus there’s the little issue that both of us are marrying other people. Getting back together isn’t even a possibility, so get it out of your head.”
She pats my back. “It’s not my head I’m worried about, my lovely.” She lets her comment sink in for a few moments. “I’ll say this. I won’t let you marry someone you don’t love just because you’re a good match on paper. I know you have your reasons for continuing this sham of a relationship, but if you think I’m going to let my best friend make the biggest mistake of her life just because it’s an appropriate next step, you’ve got another thing coming. I will take that wedding down in a heartbeat.” She points at me. “You know I will.”
I have no response, so I lay my head back and close my eyes, trying to block out the cyclone of thoughts running through my head.
“Besides,” she continues, “you can’t marry him. Two blond people should never end up together. It’s just too… too… much blond.” She drains her glass, then stands. “Spence will be home soon, so I’d better start dinner.”
I look at her. “By start dinner, you mean reheat what your chef left you?”
She flips me off as she walks to the kitchen. “I can reheat like nobody’s business. You’re staying. Notice that was a statement, not a question.” She gives me the classic Brennan “don’t mess with me” look.
It was so much easier to ignore how much she reminds me of Chase when I was thousands of miles away. Now no matter how hard I fight it, I see a little bit of him every time I look at her, and I hate him for it. She has the same devastatingly beautiful chestnut hair and gray eyes that scream comfort. Wasn’t it enough that he took my heart? Fuck him for invading my relationship with my best friend as well.
Chapter Two
“Welcome back, Arianna,” Dr. Clawson says.
She looks so damn eager, as if she’s about to hear a juicy dish. Shrinks are just big gossips with fancy degrees. I wasn’t going to return today, but Henrik Skyped me last night and made me promise to come back. I felt so guilty about my recent revelations that I agreed. I could have just told him I went, and he’d never have been the wiser. He’s halfway around the world, for crying out loud.
But I’m honest to a fault, so I sit down. Who knows, maybe this cockamamie psychobabble will help me learn to let Chase go so I can finally move on with my life. “Dr. Clawson, I’m having second thoughts about all of this.”
She has her pad out and looks ready for action. “It seemed to me you made a breakthrough yesterday. Would you like to start by talking about your relationship with Chase?”
“We were together on and off for four years, and it ended horribly two years ago. There’s not much to talk about.”
She tilts her head and smiles, looking for more. That damn clock keeps ticking, reminding me how much each second is costing me. It’s time to suck it up and get honest.
I take a cleansing breath. “I’ve spent my whole life hating Chase.”
The scribbling commences. Someone should tell her how distracting that is. I’m more worried about what she’s writing than about her questions.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Our lives and our families are interconnected. We grew up together, and we just never got along,” I say curtly.
Her hazel eyes stare at me over her hideous reading glasses. “Arianna, you’re in control of how productive these sessions are. If you hope to get anything out of it, you need to give me more.”
Five hundred dollars an hour for this? I should have my head examined. Oh wait, that’s what I’m doing.
I release my clenched fists. I don’t do things halfway, so if I’m going to do this, I might as well commit. “My father’s best friend growing up was Patrick Brennan. You may recall he used to pitch for the Giants way back when.” I look for any sign of recognition, but she doesn’t offer one. “He and Daddy grew up in the middle of nowhere, Texas, and since kindergarten they were joined at the hip. My father played football; Pat played baseball. They both became professional athletes but stayed thick as thieves. They got married around the same time, had kids at the same time, and built houses right next door to each other. It’s kind of nauseating, when I think about it. To this day, they’re still tight as a drum.”
Dr. Clawson writes all this down, looking up occasionally.
“Charlie and Chase were born one week before I was. Our families did everything together, so the three of us were together all the time. Charlie and I have been best friends since day one. I can think of maybe five times in our whole lives we ever fought. Chase on the other hand… Chase and I can barely be in the same room.”
“Why do you think that is?” Dr. Clawson asks.
That’s the million-dollar question. Why can’t we get along?
“When we were younger, we fought over Charlie’s attention,” I say. “They have the whole twin-bond thing, and I was the odd man out. Seriously, they can speak to each other without words. It’s creepy and frustrating. When Charlie and I played, he was the odd man out, and it pissed him off to no end. Chase and I are both competitive over-achievers who thrive in the spotlight. We constantly tried to one up each other at everything: who could tie their shoes the fastest, who could burp the loudest and longest, who could eat the most, who could get to the bus stop first. We would compete over everything and anything, and one of us would always be a sore loser. Retaliation was a fixture in our relationship.”
“What do you mean by retaliation?”
“Stupid stuff, really. One time, he had done something to piss me off. So I bribed the equipment manager at school to keep changing the lock on his gym locker. He ended up late for every practice and had to do twenty minutes of burpees as punishment. So, to get back at me, he removed all the strings from every racket I owned. The next day, I showed up to an important match only to find I didn’t have a useable racket. I almost had to forfeit. So, to get back at him, I went to his house and stole every left shoe and cleat he had and put chili powder in his cup.”
“Did anyone ever concede, to end the cycle?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think either one of us knows how to back down. In fact, as we got older, the stakes went higher and acts of retaliation became more vicious.” I pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the coffee table. “When my mother was killed, I spent a lot of time at their house, and he got mad I was taking his parents’ attention. As he got older and proved to be an exceptional quarterback, he spent more time with Daddy, and I was furious that I had to share my father.”
I recoil at the bitterness in my voice. I’d like to think I’ve matured enough to be happy that Daddy has Chase to fill certain voids in his life. But no matter how old I am, it still stings that I can never be all that my father wanted.
“Our families spent every holiday together,” I continue. “We vacationed together, and Chase and I would be at each other’s throats
almost the whole time. My father said it used to ruin everyone’s vacation because someone always had to play referee. But that was the only way we knew how to relate to each other. Competition and vengeance.”
“Seems like sibling rivalry,” she says.
“Everyone always says that. I suppose that explanation made sense until we slept together. Then it’s just gross.”
She looks up from her notes. “When did that happen?”
“I was seventeen,” I answer.
She stops writing, and her eyes meet mine. “What changed? What allowed you to transition from one type of relationship to another?”
I take a sip of water as I form my response. “I had an emotionally challenging night, and he was there for me. One thing led to another, and the next thing I knew…” I’ve never been able to understand my actions that night. I’ve replayed it a million times in my head, and I still can’t figure out what possessed me. At times, that felt like the best decision I ever made but at other times I cursed myself for opening Pandora’s Box.
I’ve tried to picture what our lives would be like if it had never happened and we’d just kept on hating each other. I suppose things would look similar to what they do now, except there wouldn’t be this black spot in my heart. Charlie recently asked me if I could go back in time and change it all, would I take it back. As much as it would save me the heartache, I’m not sure I’d be willing to sacrifice the good times. When things were good between Chase and me, they were… blissful.
Dr. Clawson crosses her legs and gives me a look I’ve seen a million times from coaches. The “I’m going to push you to your limit, and then I’m going to push you some more” look. I get it on the court, but in here? It’s almost sadistic. What kind of person enjoys stirring up all this emotional baggage?
“Lots of people sleep together and don’t enter into four-year-long relationships. There has to have been something that kept you coming back. What drew you to him?” she asks.
“I wish I knew.” Do I really need to think about all this? What’s the point of dredging all this up? I need to move on, not relive it.
She takes off her glasses and tosses the pad on her end table. “I think you know more than you give yourself credit for.”
I shrug. “I don’t. We fought bitterly. We couldn’t agree on anything—not a damn thing. Not music, movies, food, whether to eat spaghetti with a spoon or not—nothing. In case you’re wondering, the answer is yes. We have nothing in common. We’re polar opposites. I’m a conservative; he’s liberal. He’s superstitious; I’m logical and rational. I don’t know what the hell we were doing together.”
“Let’s look at this from another angle. Have you missed him?” she asks. “Over the years you’ve been apart, have you missed him?”
I scowl at the thought. “More than I care to admit. That’s why I’m here.”
She picks the pad back up. She should know how distracting that damn pad is. “What did you miss?”
Scanning my memories of the last few years, I think about the times I’ve longed for him, all the times I reached for the phone before my pride stopped me from making the call. “He understands me in ways that no one else ever has. He sees me, all of me, and he didn’t just love me for my positive attributes. He’s seen every side of ugly I have, and he still loved me. I could be completely myself with him. He looked at me like he knew I could do anything. That confidence is intoxicating, but it was confusing. There was always a push and pull between us, because as good as we were together, when we let the hurt take over, we’d go at each other with no concern for the devastation we created. To each other or to ourselves. Hell, that sums up our entire relationship. Mutually assured destruction.”
She smiles. “It sounds like you two became set in these adversarial roles and didn’t know how to break free from them. Is it possible that you spent so much of your life convincing yourself he’s your enemy that it prevented you from appreciating the positive things he brought to your life?”
“Oh, I appreciated him all right. Every time I did, he found a way to destroy me. I should have spent more time reminding myself he’s the enemy. Maybe then I wouldn’t be sitting here.” I look at the clock and see that our time is up. Thank God. I’ve had enough for today.
Chapter Three
December, 2009
New York, NY
Arianna
There’s nothing I despise more than jumping through hoops for people I know are just using me. It’s bad enough that I’ve allowed my agent to talk me into attending the Heisman Trophy presentation with Brock Sanders, but now I find out he’s leaked that we’re dating. Completely unacceptable. As if I would date a Neanderthal like him! I agreed to be his date tonight as a favor. Clearly no one told him that.
“Brent, I hate you for making me do this,” I yell into the phone at my agent. The scumbag doesn’t even have the balls to tell me to my face.
“The press coverage will be good, Arianna.” His oily voice makes me sick to my stomach. “All of America is in love with Brock right now, and with you on his arm, they’ll love you too. You’ve only been a pro for less than two years. You can use the buzz.”
Rage burns through my veins. I stand from the makeup table and pace around the hotel room. “In case it’s slipped your mind, my father’s Aiden Aldrich, one of the most beloved quarterbacks in all of NFL history. Even Dallas fans like him and Dallas fans hate everyone. My mother was America’s sweetheart on the tennis court. I’ve been watched my entire life as if I’m America’s baby. I graciously smile for the camera, say ‘please and thank you’, spend a ton of time and money on philanthropic causes that actually make a difference and I’ve never mis-stepped. Ever. I don’t have an image problem. Let’s be honest here. Brock’s your client too, and you want me to sweeten up his image. I’m sure this fake relationship has been good for the Heisman votes. It gives the appearance that my father’s behind him.”
Brent groans. “Okay, you caught me. You’re too smart for your own good, but you already know that.”
I may be seventeen, but I’m wise beyond my years. I can’t believe Daddy actually thought this joker was the right agent for me. “You forget I’ve been in this world longer than you have. You should think twice before trying to pull one over on me. My father will not hesitate to crush you.” I’m sure he’s fully aware how poorly this could go for him.
His voice goes shaky. “Just trust me Arianna. This will work out for you as well. I promise. Sponsors will be eating out of your hand.”
“They already are, jackass. You need to get some new material. That’s what you said to convince me to do that damned Abercrombie ad. You do realize I’m not eighteen yet? Those pictures are practically child pornography!” I had been promised the pictures would be hazy, artistic, primarily above the waist, and that the photographer wouldn’t take pictures of my ass when I wasn’t looking. Lies. I’d complained during the shoot, but they assured me that it looked different on film. They were right. It was far worse.
“I’m working on that,” he says. “I’m trying to get them pulled. Just let me do my job, and you do yours by being some arm candy tonight.”
“Get something straight, jackass. I’m nobody’s arm candy. Go to hell,” I say before I hang up. I throw my phone across the room, not caring that it shatters.
Never again will I allow myself to be used like this. If Daddy were paying closer attention, I wouldn’t get reeled into this kind of crap. He’s been so preoccupied orchestrating his return to coaching that he’s forgotten he’s supposed to be my manager. The man decided to come out of retirement when I need him most.
As much as I despise what I have to do tonight, I’ve made a commitment, and I will oblige with class and grace. At least my PR rep sent over a fantastic outfit: a classic little black Versace dress and gray faux-snake-skin Giuseppe Zanotii heels. The ensemble is the perfect balance of elegance and sexy. Plenty of teenage girls tonight will be trying to look twenty-five by letting it all hang o
ut. I’ve never needed to play that game. I learned early how to master the art of looking beautiful without compromising my image. I’ll draw enough attention in this dress by looking elegant—no additional cleavage required.
Thanks to all my hours of playing tennis, I’m tan even in December. Only a minimal amount of makeup is required, a little something to highlight my green eyes. I slide on my heels and look at myself in the full-length mirror. The media and my agent will be thrilled. There’s a knock on my door, so I grab my clutch and jacket. It’s show time. I plaster on a fake smile and muster the energy I’ll need to suffer through an entire night with this jackass.
“Hi Brock,” I say as I open the door. Just when I thought this night couldn’t get any worse. My million-dollar smile fades into a nasty scowl. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Don’t look so happy to see me, Blondie,” Chase says as he pushes past me.
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s ridiculously handsome. Tonight he looks obnoxiously sexy in his black Hugo Boss suit. His light brown hair is short, just long enough for me to yank when he’s being a real ass. He has great bone structure, a strong, squared-off jaw and a straight nose. His blue-gray eyes are constantly changing color. Charlie says they’re like mood rings—she can tell where his head is based on the color of his eyes. They’re piercing blue right now, which means he isn’t happy. Yeah, well, that makes two of us.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I groan as I shut the door. Isn’t there one part of my life that he doesn’t have to invade? I’m already humiliated enough acting out this charade with Brock. Chase being here to witness this abasement makes the indignity of it that much worse. Not that I’ll let on that it bothers me. Never let ’em see you sweat.
“Brock asked me to come get you,” he says while rifling through my minibar. “He’s busy doing interviews. Don’t worry, we’ll go in separately. I wouldn’t want anyone to think we’re together.”
Hate to Love You Page 2