“Of course he was.”
“Shit.”
I giggle at her, the way she takes my side and keeps it real is so entertaining. “So that was my vacation. What did you do?”
“Went on a couple of dates. Ate some sushi. Did some hot yoga which, for the record, you should not try. It’s like asking for someone to contort you and asphyxiate you in the process. Horrible.”
“Noted.”
“And then I got to see Grant. So that was a good time.”
I groan and get up and refill my coffee. “What did he say?” I sigh, leaning against the counter.
“He said he wanted to see you. He was just sitting on the steps, Brynne. So weird. But when he saw me coming, he jumped up and wanted to know where you were. I just . . .” She blows out a breath and stops herself from finishing the sentence.
“But he’s okay. Like, nothing bad happened to him? He didn’t look strung out or desperate?”
“Not really. Not anymore odd than he has been the last couple of times I saw him. I wouldn’t give him your number since you changed it and I wouldn’t tell him when you were coming home. His number is under the Cosmo magazine on the coffee table if you want it and don’t have it.”
I’m too exhausted to exert any energy on Grant and tie myself up in whatever he has to say. It’ll just be some bullshit and what he won’t say—the truth about what happened in Zimbabwe—is the real kicker. It’s the reason when it’s all boiled down as to why I won’t see him.
“I’m going to grab a shower,” I say, pushing away from the table.
“Go wash that hot man off of you,” she winks. “And I’ll make us some brunch.”
“You’re making us brunch?”
“Well, I’ll order us brunch. You haven’t been gone that long,” she laughs.
I give her a thumbs up and leave. I walk through the kitchen, assiduously ignoring the Cosmo magazine, and into my room.
Reset button has been pushed. Let the chips fall.
“Where is my name tag? Have you seen it?” I rummage around on the top of my dresser and search for it. My hand knocks over a bottle of perfume but I don’t have the energy to pick it up. “Ugh. I always put it right here.”
Presley shuffles the array of items from my suitcase that are now dumped on my bed. “I haven’t. But the mess we made getting you ready for Cashmere probably knocked it around.”
“Probably.”
I crouch down and look on the floor and spy it lying behind a lamp. Retrieving it, I pin it to the front of my blue button-down Cooper and Sheldon shirt. My fingers fumble with the clasp, my coordination suffering the effects of not getting any sleep last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, a movie-like reel of images would start. Sometimes it felt like they started before I even fell asleep and that made me fearful to even try to let my lids close.
I feel like I’m walking around in a bubble. The world is speeding by, doing its thing, and I can’t keep up. I’m slogging behind, trying to keep pace, while being dragged down by the stresses of my life. Things were barely manageable before; I’d learned to put everything into a box and open each parcel as I was able. But now? There’s no hope. Fenton won’t fit into any box.
I keep telling myself he did exactly what a rebound should do: he was fun. He built me up, gave me some of my confidence back. And that has my chin lifted a little bit. Or a lot. So my plan worked. I rebounded. I think. The only problem is—now I don’t want to boomerang to the next guy. I want him and I don’t think that’s going to happen.
“I so don’t feel like going in tonight,” I groan, feeling a headache start to pulse in my temple.
“Why didn’t you just say no?”
“Because,” I sigh. “They let me switch with another girl so I could take the last couple of days off. So how can I say no now and not look like a complete jerk?”
“What’s the worst they can do?”
“Fire me!”
“Over that?”
“Yes, over that!” I laugh. “Sometimes I forget that you don’t understand basic life.”
She shrugs, examining a freshly manicured fingernail. “I understand basic life. I just happen to be born into a family with a trust fund. It’s not bad to be me.”
If anyone else would’ve said that, I would’ve rolled my eyes and called them a twat. But Presley doesn’t mean it badly. She’d do anything for me or for anyone she loves, which in honesty, is few and far between, but that’s not the point. She has a huge heart and is right—she’s lucky.
I twist my name tag until it sits only partially lopsided.
“I’d miss him, too,” Presley says.
Turning to face her, I glare.
“Don’t try to play pretend with me. I’m your best friend and I’m a female that saw him in those workout pants and you confirmed my cock theory. There’s no way in Hades you aren’t missing him.”
I slouch over to the bed and sit on the edge. I do miss him. But that’s not the problem because I’ve missed people before. I missed Grant. I still kind of miss Grant in a weird way. But this feels different. I miss Fenton, yes. I miss the sound of his voice, the way he makes my skin come alive under his touch. I miss the little idiosyncrasies that make him him. But I also miss the way he makes me feel–giggly, interesting, safe, desired. It makes how I missed Grant feel incredibly superficial. What I feel for Fenton is wrapped around some deep part of my consciousness and it doesn’t just hurt–it aches.
“He was that good, huh?”
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “He was that good.”
“I figured. Rich, sexy asshole. Of course he’d be great in bed.”
“Right? But you know, Pres, it was more than that . . .” I sigh, searching for the words to sum up all that Fenton was in such a short period of time. “He’s smart. He’s kind and funny and silly. He listened when I talked. He didn’t get mad when I challenged him.”
A picture of Grant and I sits on a shelf across the room. His arm is around me and we look exactly like what our relationship was—young and immature.
I spin around to Presley again.
“When I would go somewhere with Grant, I had to fight for his attention with every pretty girl in the room. But no matter where I went with Fenton, we may as well have been alone. He never looked at anyone but me. I never felt like I bored him or that he wished he was home watching football. It was just . . .”
“Magical?”
“Kind of,” I whisper. My eyes close and I swear I can feel his breath on my neck, his voice murmuring in my ear. “He could’ve made me want to try a relationship again. I guess he was just too good to be true.”
She narrows her eyes. “You don’t think you . . .”
“What?”
“You don’t think you fell in love with him, do you?”
“No,” I shoot back too quickly.
She slaps her palm against her forehead. “Didn’t we go over the rules of the rebound? No falling in love, Brynnie. Oh my God.”
“I’m not in love with him,” I huff. Even I am not convinced by my tone. It’s a thought that’s crossed my mind a time or two over the last few days, but I’ve scooted it right back out.
Presley doesn’t respond. Just watches me.
“I’m not, Pres,” I assure her . . . and me. “I don’t know him enough to be in love with him. Lust? Yes. Absolutely. Love? No. No way. How can I be in love with someone I met a few days ago? That’s impossible! That’s stupid. No one does that. No one falls in love right away.”
“Tell me the story again of how your parents met and, you know, fell in love.”
I glare at her, shooting the sharpest daggers I can manage right into her skull.
“I’m not saying you are in love with him, Brynne. I’m just saying that maybe this was a guy you feel like you could’ve fallen in love with. And now you’re a little heartbroken, which is totally understandable under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“T
hat he’s a fucking ten in every category.”
I roll my eyes. “You aren’t helping here.”
“I knew he’d have a magic stick. I have to say I’m impressed he was a wizard all around.”
“Oh, Pres,” I giggle, Fenton’s invisible touch gone with her silly words. “You’re nuts.”
“True,” she grins in victory of distracting me. “Okay, you go to work and do your bookstore thing, and I’ll grab some expensive wine and we can just drink the night away.”
“I’m sure you’d hate that,” I laugh at my wine-loving friend.
She clutches her chest. “It will be torture, but I’ll do it for you.”
I lift off the bed and start the search for the purse I take to work when the doorbell rings. Presley stands and heads towards the hallway.
“I’ll get it,” she says.
“Expecting someone?”
“Maybe,” she sings. “I was with this guy a couple of days ago and he’s been threatening to show up and fuck some sense into me if I don’t return his call. So, naturally, I’m not returning any of his calls. Or texts.”
I locate my purse under a pile of sundresses I discarded when packing only because it starts ringing. I see my father’s number and my heart leaps into my throat. “Daddy?”
“Hey, Brynne Girl. Did you make it home?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I should’ve called.”
“It’s fine. I’ll let your mother know. You know how she gets.” He takes a long pause and I wait. He has something else to say, I can feel it through the line. “Grant came by here yesterday.”
“He did?” I sit on my bed and wait for him to reply.
“Yeah. He was really shaken up.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much. I let him hang around for an hour or so then told him to hit the road unless he had something to tell me and he said he didn’t. But I think he did. I think he was going to tell me something.”
“About Brady?”
“I guess. He was just so odd, even for Grant. I know things between us are strained, and he isn’t the little boy I carted to baseball practice years ago. But there’s no comfort level anymore. It’s like he feels guilty and won’t tell me why, and I finally just told him to go so I didn’t wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until he got it off his chest.”
I sigh. “Mom can’t handle you in prison.”
“I can’t handle me in prison. I’d be no good to any of you there.”
We sit on the line quietly. I watch the tree sway in the breeze outside my window.
“Has he contacted you?” Dad asks.
“Presley said he came by. I wasn’t here.”
“I want you to be careful with him, Brynne. Don’t see him unless you’re in public, okay? He’s driving a new BMW SUV. Where’d he get the money for that?”
“I have no idea,” I breathe, feeling a sickness sweep over me.
“Me either. But there’s something going on with that boy, and I don’t want you alone with him. You hear me?”
“I do.”
“If you do, like I said, do it in public. Be safe about it.”
“I will. But I have to go to work now. I’m going to be late.”
“Go. We’ll talk soon. Love you.”
I stand and head to the door. “Love you, Dad.”
Thud!
The stack of books comes crashing down, smacking me in the head and shoulders as they barrel towards the floor.
“Ouch!” I yelp, shielding my face from the onslaught of paperbacks. The thundering stops and I open my eyes to see a chaotic scene in front of me. Romance stories are scattered everywhere, stories all ending in a happily-ever-after. The irony is not lost on me.
I begin the tedious task of picking them all up and stacking them in shorter piles on the table.
I’ve been tucked away in a back corner of the bookstore all afternoon. We haven’t been very busy anyway, so that coupled with my seclusion has given me way too much time to think, and I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
All I can do is think about Fenton.
Everything reminds me of him. The cover model on one super-sexy book. The girl in a bikini on another. The grey paint in this part of the store would match his eyes and I know he’d hate the music playing over the speakers, just like he hated the similar music in the café we stopped at for breakfast on the way to the yacht.
It’s a miserable decline into the pits of remorse.
I’ve always heard you shouldn’t regret your decisions. You should analyze them, learn from them, and be grateful. I wonder if those people have ever experienced Fenton Abbott and then had him turn away.
Doubtful.
“Ugh,” I groan, picking up a book with a boat on the cover. It looks romantic and fun and I hate it instantly. I hope the heroine knows how that ends. He’s going to drop her off at home and she’ll be heartbroken in the bookstore at the end of the novel.
I slam it down a little more forcefully than necessary.
I’m not heartbroken.
I bend over and scoop up a novel that’s hidden under the table. It’s a glossy pink cover with a beautiful couple kissing under a palm tree. He has dark hair and a strong jawline, just like Fenton.
I press it to my chest and take a deep breath. If I try hard enough, I can smell his cologne.
“Brynne? You can take your break now,” my boss says as she walks by, carrying a stack of magazines. “There’s coffee cake in the break room. I made it this morning.”
“Thanks,” I grin, feeling relieved. I need a shot of sugar and some time to get myself together.
Working my way to the break room, I spy the dessert, take a chunk and cuddle up on a loveseat as my phone lights up with a number I don’t know. I swipe it instantly. “Hello?”
“Hey, Brynne.” Grant’s voice shoots through the phone, rougher than any I’ve heard in awhile. The familiarity I once found in his timbre is long gone.
“Grant?”
“How have you been? I was by a couple of days ago.”
“So I heard.”
“You okay?”
Dropping the rest of the cake in the garbage next to the chair, I sit up and sigh. “I’m great. What do you want?”
“Will you have dinner with me?”
“No.”
He sighs and I know he’s scratching his head. He always does that when he’s frustrated. “Please?”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“We do, actually,” he says, his voice lower now. “I want to talk to you about some stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Just . . . stuff. I can come over, if you want.”
Remembering my father’s warning, I give in. I know Grant’s going to show up. That’s just how he is. If I at least hear him out and agree to do it somewhere publicly, maybe he won’t come by the house and cause a scene.
“No,” I groan. “Don’t do that. I’ll . . . I’ll meet you somewhere tomorrow night.”
“You will?”
I hear the surprise in his voice and instead of making me smile, I frown deeper. “I guess. You’re leaving me no choice.”
“Perfect. I’ll text you a place later. Does that work?”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“Awesome! I can’t wait to see you, Brynne.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I click off the phone and squeeze my temple. The son-of-a-bitch better have something to tell me. Before I can think about it too long, the phone rings again. I hold it in my hands, watching Fenton’s name at the top of the screen.
“Hello?” I try to sound as relaxed as I can, like I was just lying on my bed, watching television. The syllables come out forced, breathy, but it’s the best I can do.
“Hey, Brynne. It’s Fent.” His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket on a winter night. It tugs at the memories of being actually wrapped around him and that stings. Even so, I can’t help but feel the little hope buddin
g in my gut at his attempt at reaching out.
“Fent, huh?”
“It’s a newly acquired moniker given to me by a beautiful, sassy, bikini-clad girl. I kind of miss hearing it, actually.”
“Whoever gave it to you was clearly a genius.”
“That might be stretching it . . .”
The laugh that radiates from me betrays my attempt at sounding cool and unattached. Our banter is too comfortable. It’s almost as if we haven’t lost a step in the easy way we have together. Had together. Whatever.
The uncertainty of where we actually stand and the anticipation of why he might’ve called riddle me, and as much as I want to just start talking, I don’t. The ball is in his court.
“I thought I’d check on you,” he says.
“I’m good.”
He breathes heavily and I know he’s squeezing his temples. I wonder where he’s at and how things are going for him. And before I know it, I’m asking. “How are you?”
“Hanging in there. What did you do today?”
“I’m working, actually. On a break. What are you doing?”
“The same.”
His answer is super simple, leaving both nothing and everything to the imagination. He didn’t say enough for me to decide if it’s a good day or a bad day, and I’m not sure I’m supposed to press for more.
“Sounds fun,” I reply and then decide to take a gamble. “Did you ever work out that big problem you had?”
“Maybe,” he grunts. “But I don’t want to call you and talk about work.”
“Well, what do you want to call and talk to me about?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. I’m holding my breath, hoping, maybe even praying a little bit, that he’ll say something I want to hear.
Instead of something over-the-top, or even hopeful, he laughs. “I just wanted to hear your voice, to tell you the truth.”
“Well, here I am. Hanging in there, as you say.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” A long moment passes between us and I wait for him to continue. “Do you have plans tomorrow night? I’d love to see you now, but I have meetings that are probably going to run late,” he sighs.
I have half a notion to tell him I don’t. I want to see him so much that I would blow off Grant and maybe never hear what he has to say just to lay my eyes on Fenton again. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know I can’t do that. I’m just a distraction for Fenton and I need to hash this out with Grant.
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