Sexton Brothers Box Set

by Lauren Runow

  “Get your fucking act together, Austin. We need more ad dollars and more creative content, and we can in no way let Father or Missy start making decisions about this company. Tanner can’t graduate fast enough.”

  Austin cracks his neck like he’s ready for a fight. He hates when I remind him how much more responsible our little brother is than him.

  “Piss off,” he says and walks away, sulking.

  I’d go after him and continue this conversation, but Christine is walking toward me. I’m surprised she wants to be around me, let alone at this very public party. I didn’t invite her, nor did I give her any inclination she should be here.

  There’s another woman next to her, who seems to be looking around the room for something, maybe someone. She tugs on Christine’s arm, pulling her attention elsewhere. While they’re looking the other way, I head up the stairs.

  I’m not one to run away from my problems, but right now, I don’t have the head to deal with her, and I need a fucking smoke. I try not to smoke, but when pressure is high and stress is deep, it seems to be the only thing to calm me down.

  I walk through the exhibits and outside into the sculpture garden. It’s a space I know well, having been to many events at this museum.

  There’s a large marble statue in the center with various pieces of art delicately constructed in the courtyard. At the far end is the Living Wall, which is one of the more interesting installations. It was my mother’s favorite, though it is not one I understand.

  I take the pack of cigarettes out of my breast pocket and tap the box onto my palm before slipping one out with my teeth. I’m about to light the end of the cigarette when a voice calls out, “I hate spoiled, rich people!”

  Not expecting anyone else to be up here, I look around the marble statue, only to see a woman in a red dress standing in front of the lush greenery flowing off the Living Wall.

  Correction: she’s kicking a garbage can while standing in front of the lush greenery flowing of the Living Wall.

  I take a step closer, pulling the cigarette out of my mouth, intrigued by who is up here, cursing out the likes of San Francisco high society.

  She lets out a grunt, which sounds more like a puppy than a ferocious beast, as she takes her aggression out on the can once more. Lucky for the can, it’s bolted to the ground.

  Her hands are on her hips as she pouts a little, and then she looks down at her dress, tugging on it to seemingly cover herself more, though the dress appears to fit her like a glove, and the fabric barely moves.

  With a deep sigh, her face tilts up in frustration, and her arms fall to her sides, defeated.

  Her gaze travels the wall, and I catch a glimpse of her features in the light—a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a pouty mouth. Her long, dark hair cascades over one shoulder, making her creamy neckline stand out against the starkness of night.

  I’m caught in the moment as my eyes fall to her chest, watching her breath go from short and hurried to long, calming ones.

  My eyes narrow with interest as her eyes widen, taking in every flower and twist of the vines perched on the wall, like it’s a moving ocean and she’s watching it flow on the horizon. A slight hum escapes her lips in a tune that sounds familiar.

  I absentmindedly flick the lighter, which causes her to jump back with a shriek.

  Her body sways as she loses her balance in her heels and falls to the ground. When she glares up at me, I see nothing but disdain. “You scared me half to death.”

  I step forward into the light and offer my hand. “My apologies. I just came out here for a smoke.”

  She disregards my gesture and places her hands up to her chest. A loose hair falls in front of her face as she swats my hand away.

  She might not want my assistance, but I’ll be damned if I ever become the type of man who doesn’t help a woman after she’s fallen. I take a step closer and offer her my hand again. When she looks up, the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen stun me. They’re wild and bright and, if I’m correct, violet in color.

  Her breath hitches, too, and the world seems to have stopped around us.

  The people in the party downstairs have paused mid-conversations.

  Champagne has frozen midstream.

  Time and reason have ceased to exist as an incredibly beautiful woman brushes my hand away and helps herself to her feet.

  When she’s settled, I clear my throat and regain my composure. I hold the unlit cigarette in the air. “Do you mind?”

  “I do actually,” she says, brushing off her dress with one hand while the other holds on to her clutch.

  I put the cigarette and lighter back in the box and slide it into my pocket. The situation feels odd to me. “I haven’t asked permission to do anything in years, and here I am, asking a complete stranger if I can light a cigarette.”

  “Maybe your mother didn’t teach you manners,” she says.

  I’m taken aback. No one has brought up my mother to me in that way in years.

  “Like how not to be rude to a man who has offered help after you fell?”

  “More like how not to stalk people in the dark,” she says with a raised chin.

  “I’d better watch myself then. You have a mean kick there, and I like my shins too much.” I point toward the garbage can at my reference to her earlier assault.

  “It’s not your shins you need to be worried about,” she threatens, yet I don’t feel like I’m in any real danger. “Is everyone in high society such an ass?”

  To my surprise, there’s a grin on my face. “Yes. Every single one of them.”

  A sliver of a smile creeps across her lips and then falls as if she’s realized she doesn’t want to smile. “Are there any exits up here?”

  I shake my head and watch her body language fall with despair.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the party.” Her toned leg slips out of her slit as she scurries past me, but then she halts.

  There’s something in the way she stands there with her hands clenched in fists that lets me know she’s not quite ready to face whatever it is that sent her running up here in the first place.

  “If you wait another twenty minutes, the speeches will begin, and you can escape while they’re all being dazzled with witty nonsense of self-congratulations,” I say.

  “You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” she says over her shoulder.

  I laugh lightly to myself. “I’m a recluse, like you. Came up here to avoid the masses.”

  As if my words have provided the relief she needed, she looks at me, her piercing stare making my chest tighten.

  I turn back toward the Living Wall and try to become enamored with the twists and turns of the vines, yet it’s no use. “I’ve never understood why people are fascinated by this piece. I personally find it to be no more than a vertical lawn.”

  She spins around. “It’s so much more than that. It’s living art.”

  “Art is something man creates.”

  “Man created Eve from his rib. Doesn’t that make women works of art?”

  Yes, I want to say, but I don’t. “That’s only if you believe your Bible stories.”

  She raises a brow in intrigue and takes a step to the side. “Does the Garden of Eden frighten you?”

  “No more than the idea of a woman leading a man to the greatest sin in history.”

  “Ah, but if he created her out of his flesh, then isn’t he responsible for her actions?”

  When she moves further down the way, I find my feet slowly following her—no, being pulled toward her.

  “He was tempted.” My statement causes her to pause and think with her lips puckered out as she does so.

  “Adam ate from the apple of his own free will.”

  “And there lies the problem.”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “A man will do anything, even create the greatest sin for all mankind, to impress a beautiful woman.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and twitc
h my lips to the side.

  Despite the faint light, I can see the blush rise up her cheeks.

  “Men are fools.”

  I grin. “More than we’re willing to admit.”

  My eyes travel down her neck and to the low cut of her dress. Her hands rise to cover the swell of her breasts.

  “That’s quite the dress to be wearing, only to hide out up here.”

  “It’s not my dress,” she says.

  “I can tell.”

  Her eyes widen, and her mouth parts.

  I raise my hands and explain, “What I meant to say is, while you look stunning, there is something about the way you carry yourself in it. That is the dress of someone who needs to flaunt her body to get attention.”

  “Not all women use their appearance to lure a man. Some dress sexy for themselves.”

  “Then, why are you covering yourself up as if you’re ashamed?”

  Her eyes drop to her hands.

  I take a hesitant step closer, and she slightly steps back. I pause a moment and then take one more step. This time, she doesn’t move.

  “This might seem out of line, so excuse me if I’m too forward, but while you don’t seem like you want the attention, it’s impossible not to notice you. You’re positively breathtaking. And it’s not because of the dress.”

  When she looks up at me, I can see a blue hue in her eyes. It’s like the sky has taken ownership in her gaze as she looks back at me. It’s more than I’m used to seeing from a woman.

  The air up here is warm with a slight breeze that carries its way across the rooftop. I look out at the horizon and the fog that has lifted.

  “You’re good,” she says with a waggling finger. “I bet you romance a lot of women on rooftop gardens.”

  With a grin, I reply, “I’m happy to report you’re the first. And I’m not romancing you. If I were to do that, I’d tell you that your eyes are the color of the moonlight reflected off the bay on a clear night.”

  She’s biting the inside of her cheek and looking down at her feet. I glance away to give her a chance to blush in private.

  “You can light that cigarette if you want,” she says. I turn to her as she adds, “But only if you share. I don’t need a whole one. Just a drag.”

  “I thought you didn’t smoke.”

  Her eyes dart to the side and back. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She hesitates for a beat. “Tessa.”

  “Tessa.” Her name rolls off my tongue as I walk toward the statue.

  I take the cigarette box out of my pocket and place one in my mouth. After lighting it, I hand it to her. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  She takes the cigarette and raises a brow in a not-so-subtle way of asking me to reciprocate the courtesy by providing my own name.

  “Bryce.”

  Tessa lifts the cigarette to her lips and inhales lightly. As she exhales, she lets out a small cough. “It’s been a while,” she says.

  She passes it back. My drag is deeper and longer than hers, the smoke filling my lungs and the nicotine running straight to my brain.

  “What caused you to come up here?”

  “I spilled my drink on someone and got hit on by a married man. All within about five minutes of walking through the front door.” Her words are matter-of-fact, like this is the type of thing that would happen to her. “You?”

  “Me? Well, my father and I are in a disagreement, my brother doesn’t seem to understand how serious life is, and, oh, I’m running away from a woman.”

  I hand the cigarette back to her. Our fingers brush with the action.

  She takes a drag, and this time, she doesn’t cough. “Family drama is tough. I can’t imagine a parent going against their child in anything.”

  If she only knew how my father’s intentions hurt me down to the very core.

  “My family dynamic is … interesting, to say the least.” I hesitate for a moment and step away from the statue to turn and face her head-on. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

  She skeptically eyes me. “Um, no. Should I be recording you or something?”

  I smile. “No. I just haven’t spoken to anyone on a personal level in a long time without them wanting something from me.”

  She quirks the side of her mouth. “What about the woman you’re running from?”

  “Definitely not her.” So far, there’s only one woman I want to actually talk to tonight.

  “Did you break her heart?”

  “Probably. I tend to do that without intention.”

  I take the cigarette from her hand. This time, when our fingers linger, a chill runs up my spine.

  “You were humming before,” I state.

  “Was I? It must have been on autopilot. I hum when I think.” She saunters away and begins to circle the statue.

  I step back and watch as she gracefully appears from the other side, her hand drifting along the smooth marble.

  “What were you thinking about?” I ask.

  “Life. How you can have a clear vision of what you want. Then, something happens, and everything you thought you were going to have evaporates. How, one moment, you think you have the reins on life until something comes in and grabs them from your hands, veering you off the road. How, sometimes, you find yourself going in the wrong direction and still land in the exact place you were supposed to be all along.” Her focus is set on the concrete floor as she stares at it in a daze. She lets out a small laugh and then shakes her head. “That probably sounds crazy to you.”

  “Not at all.” It’s exactly how I feel every day.

  Her eyes lift to mine and pause, holding my stare and owning it. Controlling it. It’s as if those three words caused her to open her eyes and see me, see through me—this stranger on a darkened roof.

  And, for some reason, I feel like I can see through her, too.

  Her eyes start to twinkle, and her mouth tilts in a slight smile. “Let’s play a game,” she declares.

  “I don’t play games.”

  “Truth or dare,” she challenges.

  Placing my hands deep in my pockets, I set back on my heels and toss my own closely guarded inhibitions to the wind. “Truth.”

  Her lips pout as she considers her options. “What are you the most self-conscious about?”

  The question catches me off guard. I’m not one to share with total strangers, yet I’m captivated by her eagerness to play a child’s game.

  “My reputation,” I answer honestly. “I never want to be seen as a man who can be taken advantage of.”

  She narrows her gaze at me with the slight tilt of her head.

  Before I let her analyze me, I ask, “Truth or dare?”

  Her teeth graze her bottom lip as she answers, “Truth.”

  “What is the most childish thing you still do?”

  She laughs. “Build Legos.”

  “That was a fast answer.”

  “It was an easy question.” She steps away from the statue and moseys over to a red sculpture, which is tall in height and appears to have legs. “You up for a dare?”

  “Truth,” I state as I watch her playfully skip under it and pops up on the other side.

  “What lie have you told that hurt someone?”

  “I never lie,” I say.

  Her steps halt as she looks at me like what I said was complete bullshit.

  “I don’t believe in wasting time with lies. Besides, you can hurt people more with the truth.”

  She nods her head as she waltzes aimlessly behind the sculpture, away from me. “Dare me to do something.”

  “Howl at the moon.” I follow her.

  She spins to face me. “Really?”

  “Did you expect me to have you do something naughty?”

  “No. Yes. Well, it was a test, and you passed,” she states and stands there tall with her hands to her sides.

  I curve my mouth and shrug a shoulder, waiting for her to begin.

&
nbsp; She looks confused. “Wait. You really expect me to howl? Here? At the museum?”

  “Are you scared?”

  Those violet eyes grow wide with the challenge as she squares her shoulders, throws her arms back, looks up, and lets out a great big howl into the open San Francisco night. She wildly shakes her head to accentuate the end of her vivacious howl.

  From the quick movements of her chest and the incredible smile on her face, Tessa looks like a woman unleashed, jovial and full of life. It’s making my own heart race in anticipation.

  “Truth,” I say before she even asks, putting out my cigarette so I’m prepared for anything she’s got.

  “What is the most embarrassing nickname you’ve ever had?”

  “Porky. I was a chubby kid,” I answer easily. “What is the grossest thing you’ve ever had in your mouth?”

  “Escargot,” she states. “Have you ever had your heart broken?”

  “Shattered,” I declare. “I’ll take your dare.”

  “Dance for one minute with no music.”

  I get the feeling she’s been dying to say that, and I try not to disappoint.

  With determined steps, I walk right up to her and snake a hand on the small of her waist and another in her smooth, delicate palm, causing her to drop her clutch to the ground.

  I sway to the side and feel her soft body mold against my hard one. Her other hand rises to my neck, placing it there with apprehension.

  I lift my right foot and begin to move us around, dancing the steps my mom taught me years ago. We move with ease as she lets me lead us around the sculptures, her face stone still as she stares into my shoulder.

  I keep my vision glued to her, waiting for her to breathe, let loose, and not be so stiff. It only takes a few seconds for her hand to truly grip my hand as her shoulders drop, releasing any tension she held for that brief moment. She lets out a whisper of a sigh as her body falls into mine, giving in to the dance.

  When her eyes meet mine, she whispers, “Truth,” before I can say anything.

  The way she’s looking at me lets me know she’s surrendering. Not just to me. To something greater than the two of us.

  “When was the last time you felt you were at the right place, at the right time, with the right person?”