The Playboy Bachelor (The Bachelors of Arizona #2)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  His tone was light.

  But Bentley knew his brother. He was allowing his past to eat him alive, and it had only gotten progressively worse since the auction.

  “Why did you really stay, Brant? The truth. You could have easily driven back this morning—hell, you could have driven back tonight had you not decided to get bat shit crazy drunk and try to destroy my life.”

  “Exaggerate much?”

  Bentley stared while Brant lowered a shaky hand to his side and exhaled. “Grandfather. Nadine,” Brant said quickly. “I’m next. I need another day. Days. To get my shit together. You walked in blind.” Bentley winced at his brother’s poor choice of words and hated that Brant paled only to force a fake smile and half-assed shrug. “I have a plan. No chance in hell I’m letting Grandfather play the fairy fucking godmother in my life. I’m happy. Single. And rich. I don’t need to deal with drama from the past.”

  Bullshit. Brant wasn’t happy. He hadn’t been happy for four fucking years, but it wasn’t Bentley’s place to remind him of his unhappiness. Clearly Brant was aware of it. And things had only been getting progressively worse. Apparently, you can only run for so long before the past catches up, or you simply collapse from the exhaustion of constantly looking behind you to make sure you’ve escaped.

  Brant and his ex-wife had been college sweethearts. Married after Brant’s last year of college. They’d been in love. It was hard to be in the same room as them.

  And then suddenly…

  They were enemies.

  Their fights were legendary.

  There were few things that had the potential to come between two people as in love as they were.

  Money and loss.

  And the loss they’d experienced had been the stuff of nightmares; even Bentley didn’t know all the details. One day Brant was married, the next he was divorced and a shell of the man he used to be. He went from wanting everything that used to give Bentley hives to drinking and seducing half of Phoenix. It changed his brother for the worse, and Bentley had taken it upon himself to try harder, to party with Brant, to make him laugh, to help him through the pain, live life like it owed them something—because maybe Bentley thought that life did owe at least Brant something for taking so much from him and leaving him so altered.

  The divorce had nearly killed Brant.

  Sighing, he said good night to his brother and glanced up at the ceiling, like he could magically see through the plaster and wood and see Margot pacing back and forth.

  He needed to apologize.

  But most of all, he wanted that moment back. The moment where she looked at him like the impossible was possible. Like he really was more than just a stranger living in her house for a few days because her grandmother was just as insane as his grandfather.

  She‘d looked at him and seen him—and now, his greatest fear, was that when he opened the door, that look would be gone, replaced with distrust.

  “Shit.” He slammed his hand on the table again before slowly making his way up the stairway.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Margot was too angry to cry.

  And too heartbroken to do anything but sit in her darkened room and listen for more sounds from below.

  Was he going to apologize?

  Leave?

  Or just continue yelling at his brother until he went hoarse? As it was, they were making so much noise it was impossible not to wince every time it sounded like a face was getting slammed into a nice granite countertop.

  Their voices rose. Bentley yelled, Brant yelled louder, and her breath hitched when the accusations and cursing reached her burning ears.

  Every punch.

  Every curse.

  Every scream of pain.

  Was like a vise to her heart.

  It seemed everyone had their secrets, and while Margot sat there and felt sorry for herself, and allowed insecurity to take over every piece of logic she possessed, she wondered if she hadn’t run away in angry tears because she’d expected it all along.

  She’d set him up for failure.

  Because she couldn’t handle the fact that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to forgive, it was okay to forget, it was okay to move on from your past.

  Move on from your demons.

  And, it seemed, she wasn’t the only one who had them—she just wished that Bentley would come clean. She needed to hear what she already suspected even if it hurt.

  Because not knowing? Assuming the worst? Was almost as painful as she imagined hearing the words I just didn’t care or I left because I never felt anything for you would be.

  She’d decided in that moment to try to rid herself of all the anger she had toward him once and for all. To be his friend. And to let him walk away. No more secrets. No more lies. They would be friends. And hopefully, he’d still stay in touch.

  But no more kissing.

  None.

  That made it too difficult to be his friend when she wanted so much more—when he dangled the carrot in front of her like he was capable of actually giving it.

  Other than calling her grandmother and yelling, she really didn’t have any other solution. What the hell had her grandmother been thinking? Sending Bentley hadn’t done anything but cause more confusion and pain—and if she were being completely honest with herself—longing. She wanted to be worthy of him; she wanted them to fix each other like her characters did in her novels. Wasn’t that how it always worked?

  But she knew the answer to that. The stories she was writing were pure fantasy. Reality just didn’t work that way. Not for her, at least.

  Besides, they’d already proved that they fought more than they got along. What kind of relationship hell would they be embarking on if he did in fact mean all the things he’d said?

  She’d kill him before the week was over.

  Sighing, she leaned her head against the window and looked out at the garden. If someone had told her a few weeks ago that Bentley Wellington would be at her house taking her on picnics and massaging her injured leg, she would have burst out laughing and then probably cried herself to sleep with bitter longing.

  But now that she’d had this time with him, she had to wonder if any of it was real.

  Could she even trust him after finding out that he’d been staying with her for a freaking promotion?

  Anger surged all over again before she quickly squashed it back down. Margot felt used, but at the same time it was her expectation, right? She always knew that he was here because he was forced to be, but with each kiss, her doubts faded into blissful ignorance and hope that the playboy wanted her.

  That he was here for reasons neither of them could control, that he wanted more than her friendship—more than sex—that he wanted the us, the team of Bentley and Margot back, with the bonus of something much more special.

  Something she’d been pining for since she was sixteen.

  Her heart clenched in her chest. God, this was bad. Because she liked him.

  She more than liked him.

  And that was the problem.

  People like Bentley had an uncanny ability to use your feelings against you, to make you forget all of the bad every time they did something good.

  Like pick flowers.

  Kiss her tears away.

  And massage half a leg.

  She groaned, sucking in her tears.

  Whatever happened…would happen. Beyond that, she really had no control. And maybe she never had.

  * * *

  The first shock—her door was open.

  The second?

  So were the blinds.

  “This is new,” he said, stepping over the threshold.

  Margot was sitting by the window. Her prosthetic wasn’t on, and that was a jarring sight, not because he was disgusted but because it made him so damn angry.

  Angry that she blamed herself.

  Angry that she wasn’t living her life when she had every reason to.

  And angry that people would look at her and see what s
he was missing rather than what she had.

  And maybe, just maybe, angry at himself that he hadn’t been there all along to tell her how worthy—how beautiful she really was.

  “I liked our picnic,” Margot said without looking at him. “But Brant I’m not so sure about anymore.”

  “He tends to grow on people.”

  “He’s changed.” When she finally turned to him, he could see her cheeks were stained with tears. “So…if you can stand me for thirty days you get a fancy new job?”

  “The marketing position,” he repeated, buying himself some time. “Honestly, the position has more to do with this insane desire I have to do something that gives me more of a purpose. I like marketing. I do. But there are other things I’d rather—” He stopped himself. The last thing she needed was for him to dump all of his stupid dreams on her lap and ask her to hold his hand while he gave her a sob story about how nobody ever took him seriously or believed in him.

  Hell. He was in deep.

  Because her look said it all.

  Trust me.

  And he wanted to.

  But something held him back—and that something always held him back when life got confusing. Trust had to be earned, and the only person he really trusted had the uncanny ability to piss him off without even trying.

  Her clear green eyes drank him in. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  The story of his past welled up inside him like a giant fire-breathing dragon: Tell her you didn’t abandon her, not on purpose. Tell her you’re afraid you’ll lose her again.

  Tell her!

  “No,” he lied, hating himself for it. But the past was the past, right? It didn’t matter now; all that mattered was that she knew how much he cared for her. His thoughts lingered around the list in his pocket, the one that sparked his interest all over again, the one that forced him to see her on a daily basis rather than hide out in the house. Well done, Nadine Titus, well done, because without his need to cross off things on that list, he probably wouldn’t have tried as hard, and he would have missed out on Margot.

  “Nothing else. Well, I mean, besides the whole staying here for thirty days in order to secure the marketing position. My insane grandfather offered it to me for the weekend, then basically pulled a Oh just kidding, stay thirty days and the job is yours; stay the weekend and you have to fight for it.”

  “So.” She sighed. Her shoulders slumped forward. “Rather than fight for a job you want, against people more qualified, you agreed to stay thirty days with me?” Her eyes lost focus a bit as she looked anywhere but at his face. “So it took an actual threat to keep you here and a charity donation of ten grand to get you here in the first place?”

  “Shit.” He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. “When you put it like that, it sounds really bad.”

  “So bad,” she agreed with a small smile. God, she was pretty even when she was miserable.

  “I missed being outside,” she confessed, changing the subject. “You were right about that…so at least one good thing came out of this, right? I saw sunlight. Lay down in the grass. Got felt up by a millionaire playboy who’s probably going to forget my name the minute he leaves.”

  “That’s not true,” he rasped, and he meant it.

  “The feeling-up part? It’s completely true.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “I can still feel your hands on me.”

  He felt his chest tighten. She was trying to joke it off. Joke him off. He needed her to believe he was serious. “Margot, I need you to believe me. I would never forget you or just leave and never look back.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” She gave him a sad smile. “Can you get me my prosthetic? I may have tossed it across the room.”

  “And here I thought temper tantrums were my specialty.” Bentley stood and walked over to the prosthetic, then picked it up and brought it to her. “This can’t be comfortable.”

  She rubbed her leg again. “Believe me, it’s not.”

  Margot’s family was loaded. Why not go into the city and get fitted for something that worked better for her? An idea formed. “How long have you had this?”

  “Too long.” She grimaced as she adjusted the prosthetic.

  Confused, he watched her stand and walk right past him.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Margot looked down at her clothes and scrunched up her nose. “I was thinking it would be a good idea to shower.”

  “Oh.”

  Hell, things were awkward.

  Bentley was almost tempted to cough out, Want help?

  But she was already in the adjoining bathroom shutting the door before the words could tumble out of his mouth. The unmistakable snick of the lock being set was like a punch to the gut.

  He stared at the closed door, listening to the muffled hiss of the water and watching as shadows moved across the floor. He wanted to pick the lock and watch as she peeled the clothes from her body. Just thinking about it had him hard.

  What the hell was he doing standing outside her bathroom like a complete loser who’d never seen a naked woman before?

  He wiped his face again with his hands and did a little semicircle.

  Fucking Brant.

  This was all his fault. If he hadn’t gotten drunk and then pissed, Bentley and Margot would have already been in bed, or at least at a point where they were finally friends. She’d even agreed to it, damn it!

  He waited a few more minutes and then slowly started making his way out of the room. Maybe he should just cut his losses, walk away.

  His heart jolted at the thought. The idea of going back into Phoenix left a bad taste in his mouth. It also made him angry enough to search out Brant and punch him in his perfect face again.

  He stopped and braced himself against the door frame as his eyes fell to the picture of her parents, the one with him in the background. He picked it up and stared at his teenage self.

  Part of him felt like he was still that boy, just waiting for someone to discover that he was terrified on the inside—of failure, of never living up to expectations, of the anxiety that constantly banged around in his mind.

  Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  With Margot, he’d gone from a guy just trying to make it through to someone who looked forward to waking up in the morning just so he could make her smile.

  And now he’d turned into his old lovesick teenage self, obsessed with her hair, and the way her green eyes locked on him—like he was the only one in the room—even though that was kind of a given, since it was just the two of them.

  He’d gotten a significant part of his past back.

  The best part.

  He’d gotten Margot.

  The choice loomed over him.

  Stay and fight for a woman he was coming to care for.

  Or walk out the door, ignore his feelings, and walk away, like she expected him to do.

  He set the picture down and turned back around.

  He found himself waiting by the door.

  For something.

  Hell.

  He moved toward the bathroom, rested his head against the door, and listened as water continued to spray, probably all over her now-naked body. Suppressing a groan, he pulled out his phone and looked up doctors who specialized in prosthetic fittings and sent a text to one of his grandfather’s assistants to get in touch.

  It was the least he could do.

  A parting gift if she rejected him.

  Margot was basically ignoring him, allowing him an out. And there he was, still staring at a damn door while his body strained to touch hers.

  The shower shut off.

  Bentley grabbed a chair and sat in front of the door.

  When it jerked open, she was covered in the smallest towel he’d ever seen. If she bent over it would basically be like Christmas morning.

  His lips curved into a smile. “Nice legs.”

  “Cute line, but you’ve used it before.”


  “Because it’s true.” He reached for her. “Margot, I’m not going anywhere.”

  She eyed him wearily as a sad expression crossed her features. “Maybe not now, but you will.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair!” she snapped.

  “I thought you were dead!” Bentley shouted.

  Margot blanched. “What?”

  “Dead. Not living. Not breathing. My best friend. Fucking dead!” Now that the words were out he couldn’t stop them. “Brant came to tell me what had happened. When he said your name and accident, I lost my shit.” His chest heaved as he ran his hands through his hair. “I just…reacted. I destroyed half of the club lobby, was taken away in handcuffs, and when I finally got home, I thought for sure the reason Brant and everyone else refused to look at me was because my best friend in the whole world was gone. Fucking gone.” His voice broke and he stopped to take a huge, heaving breath.

  “Bentley. You don’t need to do this.” Margot laid her hand on his arm. Her hand was small, fragile. Damn it. She deserved to know.

  “No. You deserve to hear this. You need to know who I am.” He ran his hand through his hair and continued. “I seriously thought you were dead. And it didn’t make any sense. How could God have taken you and left me? So I took pills, too many pills. I just wanted it to stop. The thinking. The anxiety. The guilt.”

  “My God, Bentley. I…I had no idea.” She looked ghostly pale, and he wondered if he should continue. But no, he had to. He had to finish this.

  “I’m surprised anyone even cared what I was doing that day, I’d been such a fucking asshole. Crazed out of my mind. But Brant cared. He came looking for me, and when he found my door locked he knew. He just…knew. He broke down the door, found me passed out on the bathroom floor, and called the ambulance.” Chest heaving, Bentley could only stare at the floor. He didn’t want to see the look she must have in her eyes.

  “Weak,” he whispered hoarsely. “You made me weak. And every time I see you, I wonder, will it happen again? Because you, you’re the game changer, the one who makes me question everything, the one who makes me want to be better, the one I almost lost—the one I am so damn terrified of losing again.”