Won't Miss You: A Brother's Best Friend Romance (We Shouldn't Book 4)

by Lilian Monroe

  It’s big and imposing and heavy, and it still technically belongs to me.

  Benji doesn’t look at the house, though. His eyes stay glued to me. They sweep from my face, down my body, and back up again. He takes a step toward me, as if some outside force is urging him forward.

  “How did you find me?” I ask. My voice is small.

  “Sawyer gave me the address.”

  His eyes are bright blue. His chest looks like home. His hands call out to me, and I want nothing more than to run into his arms and never leave.

  My heart is in my throat, and I’m afraid to move. What if he leaves? What if he turns around and walks away again? What if he rips my heart out of my chest and crushes it between those broad, strong palms of his?

  But Benji takes another step toward me, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

  “Rae,” he whispers, the sound slicing through the humid air toward me. I breathe in the sound of his voice, feeling my whole body groan in relief.

  He takes another step toward me, and I catch the first whiff of his scent. Worn leather. Sandalwood. A hint of oil grease and a whole lot of man.

  My voice is gone. What I really want to say is, Do you forgive me? Do you want to be with me? Do you love me as completely as I love you?

  “Rae,” he repeats again, sighing as if my name tastes sweet on his tongue. “Forgive me.”

  His brows draw together, and he stares at me with those irresistible blue eyes.

  “For what?” It’s a breath. A whisper.

  “For pushing you away.”

  One more step, and he’s in front of me. His hand sweeps over my cheek and it’s all I can do to stay upright. I lean into the touch, letting out a sigh of contentment that only his touch can bring. A smile tugs at my lips, and I let out a soft chuckle.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” I say. “Forgive me, Benji. For leaving. For chasing a pipe dream instead of seeing what was in front of me. For wanting something I could never have, when you’re even better, and you were standing right in front of me.”

  Benji’s hand sweeps back to the nape of my neck, and I let my hands slide up his chest. His body is warm. His heart thumping. His lips calling my name.

  “My heart forgave you the moment you left those awful store-bought cookies on my front porch,” he growls, grinning. “It was my head that needed time to catch up.”

  I look into his eyes, and I see a future. A family. Everything I’ve been chasing in all the wrong places.

  That house behind me? The people who gave it to me to save on tax?

  They’re not my family. Not really. Family is who you choose. It’s the people who will be in your corner. The people who will jump on a plane with nothing more than their wallet and their phone, hoping you’ll be waiting on the other side.

  Family is Sawyer, and Lucy…

  …and Benji.

  “You never needed to ask for my forgiveness, Benji. You could push me away for the rest of my life, and I’d still be madly in love with you.”

  Benji lets out a low groan, closing his eyes for just a moment. When he opens them again, I see the depth of his pain—and his love.

  This hardened, battle-weary man, who’s been left behind by everyone who should have stayed. This man who opened his heart to me, even though he wasn’t supposed to. This man who flew across the country to beg for my forgiveness.

  He’s the one. He’s always been the one. The only. The everything.

  As his fingers curl into the nape of my neck, and his other arm sweeps across my lower back, I let myself melt into his embrace. I wrap my arms around him and tilt my head to his, waiting for the kiss that will make my world complete.

  When his lips touch mine, my soul lets out a happy sigh. I part my lips and taste his mouth, clinging onto him like he’s the life raft I’ve been waiting for.

  In the shadow of the house that broke us apart, we come back together.

  Benji’s mouth claims mine. His hands brand me. He imprints himself on my heart, my mind, my soul. He writes our story and our future in permanent marker, signing both our names in an immutable contract.

  He’s mine, and I’m his.

  Money won’t come between us. Houses and pasts won’t come between us. We’ll no longer look for reasons to turn away from each other, because the only way forward is together.

  I kiss the man I love as my heart opens up and accepts all his love. I taste his mouth and lash my tongue against his. I inhale his scent and cling onto his shoulders, never wanting to let go.

  “I love you, Rae,” he says between kisses. “I’ve loved you for months. I loved you the first day I saw you, and I’ve been fighting it ever since. I’m sick of fighting. Sick of running. Sick of doing everything I can to deny it. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  My breath trembles, and I kiss him again, and again, and again.

  I say it, too. I love you. I whisper it between his lips and let him swallow it down. I tell him over and over again, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

  Benji is more than my love. He’s my future. My family. My soul mate.

  As we stay in each other’s arms, whispering all the tender words we’ve both been dying to hear, I know he understands.

  This is more than love. It’s a promise and a commitment. It’s a change in the direction of our lives that will leave behind the fears and worries we both clung onto. It’s an oath, sealed with a kiss, written in stone.

  Together, always.

  Epilogue

  Rae

  Showing Benji where I grew up is the perfect goodbye to this place. When we get to my bedroom, Benji wraps his arms around me and shows me just how much he missed me.

  We order some food for dinner and eat it on the expensive sofa I was never allowed to sit on when I was growing up. I cross my legs, staring around the lavish room.

  “I don’t know what to do. My parents wouldn’t take the house back, but it’s so much work to maintain. I don’t want to have to come down here multiple times a year.”

  “Sell it,” Benji answers simply.

  I frown. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s my parents’ house.”

  “Whose name is on the deed?”

  I drop my fork in the Styrofoam container I’m holding, shaking my head. “It would be wrong. That’s not why they gave it to me. Plus, it would feel like stealing.”

  “So, give them the money after you sell it.”

  I tilt my head, staring at the beautiful man sitting beside me. My heart starts to thump. I bite my lip, sucking a breath in.

  Benji smiles. “You’re considering it.”

  “It would make my life a lot easier.”

  Benji smiles, arching an eyebrow. “I think you should. Let go of this place and come home with me.”

  I take a deep breath, putting the remnants of my dinner down on the coffee table, then I throw my arms around him and kiss him. With Benji, everything feels simple. Hopeful. Happy.

  Benji stays with me for the few weeks it takes to hire a real estate agent and get everything organized for the sale of the house. I warn my parents multiple times, but I think they don’t believe that I’m going through with it.

  I do, though.

  Once the house is on the market, I jump on a flight with Benji and head home. To Woodvale. To my family. To the lush, green countryside full of family and friendly neighbors.

  When we get there, I move in with Benji. It happens completely naturally. I think Lucy enjoys the space, too, because my old bedroom is turned into an office for her to study in when she starts college in the fall.

  Sawyer and Benji take over the running of the garage, and I work on Willow’s garden design for the Black Estate. That leads to more landscaping opportunities, and pretty soon, I’m pulling in a decent wage from freelance landscape design.

  It takes three months for the Houston house to sell. I don’t even head down to Texas to close the deal. Everything is done over
the phone and email. Even when the movers pack up the furniture and put it into a shipping container with my parents’ Italian address on it, I don’t let it stress me out. Benji helps. Whenever I start thinking about what my parents will say, and if they’ll ever forgive me, he wraps his arms around me and reminds me I’m doing the right thing.

  I’m done worrying about things that aren’t mine, for people who don’t worry about me. My parents splutter and protest, but quiet down when I transfer the money from the house sale back to them.

  Benji’s solution is the simplest, cleanest, and best one there is. Once the money is transferred, the furniture is on a boat, and the house no longer belongs to me, I feel freer than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  The chain around my neck is broken. The weight on my shoulders is lifted. My life can continue.

  Benji and I celebrate with a bottle of champagne, staring at the backyard of his house, where I’ve already started planting more greenery. We sit on the porch loveseat, clinking our glasses together, drinking to the beginning of our new life.

  “There’s one more thing,” Benji says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a little velvet box, and my heart jumps into my throat.

  He smiles at me, but before opening the box, he pauses. “Rae.” His voice is soft. He puts one arm around my shoulders, balancing the velvet box on his thigh. I lean into him, trying to stop my heart from racing. We put our glasses of champagne down, and I lace my fingers together to stop my hands from shaking.

  I look at the love of my life. “Yeah?”

  “When you first arrived in Woodvale, it surprised me how much I cared about you. That feeling has only grown since the very first day we met. Now, I look forward to seeing how my love for you swells. I wake up every day a little bit more in love with you, and I know it’ll never stop. I dream about sharing a life with you, and nothing else seems good enough. I’m not afraid to say I need you.”

  Tears cling to my eyelashes and a lump forms in my throat.

  Benji continues. “I love you, Rae. I love you from head to toe. Front to back. Inside out. I love your strength. Your determination. Your selflessness and your stubbornness. You’re the woman for me. Make me the happiest man in the world and tell me you’ll marry me.” His voice is gravelly, deep, and drenched in emotion.

  My heart sings.

  I try to say yes, but my throat is too tight. A gargled sort of squeal escapes me as I throw my arms around him, trembling as I kiss his neck, his jaw, his lips. We hold each other under the night sky, feeling our love swirl around us like a warm blanket.

  “Of course I’ll marry you,” I finally manage.

  He flips the jewelry box open, and a sparkling diamond stares back at me. When he slides it onto my finger, I let out a deep sigh.

  It feels right to have it on my finger. It feels good to commit to him.

  “There’s something else,” he says.

  I arch my brows, waiting for him to continue.

  “I want things to be equal for us.” He pauses, gulping. “You know I always dreamed of owning the garage. I’d like to buy half of the business from you.”

  I tilt my head, grinning. “Are you using your marriage proposal to tack on a hostile business takeover, too?”

  “It’s not hostile.” He smiles, touching his nose to mine. “Never hostile. I just want to share everything with you. I want you to have a future you enjoy. If I buy out half of the garage, it’ll give you enough money to start the landscape architecture business. Not just random freelance jobs, Rae. Really start the business. The way you always wanted to.”

  My heart thumps, and now, tears really are falling down my face. Benji brushes them away with his thumbs, staring into my eyes with a hopeful smile.

  “Well?”

  “You’d do that for me? So I can start my own business?”

  Benji chuckles. “I mean, I’m getting something out of it, too. But yes. I don’t want you to work at the garage when your heart is in garden design.” He takes a deep breath. “My father gave me money ages ago, and I never thought I’d use it. But he’s the one who told me to go find you in Houston. He’s the one who made me realize that having money—and giving money away—isn’t the root of all evil. I’d like to use his money for something that will benefit us both.”

  I sweep my hand over his cheek, shaking my head. “You drive a hard bargain, Benji, but I accept.”

  Benji’s face splits into a smile, and he kisses me with all the strength of his emotion. I cling onto his shoulders, feeling his warmth, his kindness, his passion beneath my palms.

  Selling half of the garage to Benji is the right thing to do. Even though we’ll be married, and he’ll own half of it anyway, it feels significant to have it officially his, too. To have documents that detail ownership, so no one can doubt that we’re in this together.

  We’re starting a new life. We’re sharing our money, our businesses, our futures. We’re uniting every aspect of our lives and figuring out a way that works for both of us.

  I pick up my glass of champagne again, staring at the ring on my finger, and my heart feels full. I lean my head against Benji’s shoulder, sinking into his body and taking my rightful place beside him.

  This is what Sawyer meant when he said you had to choose your own family.

  I choose Woodvale. I choose my siblings.

  I choose my love, my light, my everything—Benji.

  Thank you for reading!

  Get a bonus epilogue by unlocking the Lilian Monroe Freebie Central:

  LET ME IN

  (http://www.lilianmonroe.com/subscribe)

  Psst.. keep reading for a preview of Bad Prince.

  Bad Prince

  Royally Unexpected: Book 1

  1

  Elle

  The rhythmic squeaking of my housemate’s bedsprings gets louder as the sound of her first moan floats through the wall. I stuff my earplugs in deeper, hoping they’ll help block out the noise—even though I already know they won’t. Dahlia’s headboard taps against our shared wall. It starts gently, barely grazing the thin separation between our bedrooms.

  And then it gets louder, and louder, and louder…

  … until the wall actually shakes.

  Another moan sounds out and a man says something barely audible. I assume it’s something filthy. Dahlia, my best and weirdest friend, likes it dirty.

  Why do I know this?

  Because I hear everything in this rundown, mouse-infested house of ours.

  Everything.

  Groaning, I turn to my side, stuffing my pillow over my head to try to muffle the noise. I check the time on my phone. It’s already past midnight, and I have to be up in four hours for crew practice. I’m going to be out on the water, rowing my little heart out as I train for the biggest regatta of my life, with less than four hours’ sleep.

  Sunday is—or rather, was— my day off, as usual, and Monday practices are notoriously tough after a rest day. Coach Bernard doesn’t tolerate lateness, sleepiness, or excuses like my roommate is a sex maniac.

  The banging on the wall continues, and my blood pressure rises. Every knock on the wall cranks my nerves tighter.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Moan.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Moan.

  Dahlia goes to Farcliff University, too, but she’s far from athletic—well, not in the traditional sense of the word. She runs her own athletics department from the comfort of her own bed.

  No, Dahlia doesn’t need to wake up at four o’clock in the morning, or practice twice a day, six days a week. She doesn’t need to manage her protein intake down to the gram, or make sure her performance is stellar every single day just to keep her scholarship.

  Unlike me, Dahlia can have manic, crazy sex every night of the week until the sun comes up…

  … and she does.

  When her voice goes up a couple octaves and a scream finally pierces the partition, I’ve had enough. My frustration boils over and I clamber onto
my knees on the bed, banging my fist against the paper-thin wall so hard my knuckles bruise.

  “Come on, you idiot! Make her come already!”

  The squeaking stops. The moans pause.

  Silence.

  Then, the bead creaks once more as their weight shifts, and peals of laughter sound through the wall. I slump back down on my own bed, exhaling as I rub my hands over my face.

  If Dahlia wasn’t the friendliest person I’d ever met—and if I could afford to live somewhere other than this rodent-plagued sex den—I’d definitely move out.

  Unfortunately, though, I’m stuck here.

  They move to the floor, thankfully. The floorboards aren’t nearly as noisy as the bed.

  Bleary-eyed and grumpy, I somehow make it to practice on time. In the locker room, I pull on my thermal, skin-hugging workout tights. My sports bra has so many straps and support mechanisms that it looks like it was designed by NASA for a trip to outer space.

  I strap the bra on and adjust it, locking the girls down nice and securely. When I pull on my workout top and lean over to shove my bag in my locker, I feel the chill of the air over my lower back. Clothes never fit properly over my tall, athletic body, but I’m used to it by now.

  I used to hate my height when I was a kid. As a teenager, I’d see all the boys going gaga over petite, delicate little waifs—and I felt like an ogre in comparison. Then I grew these massive knockers and I hated them, too, because all the boys went gaga over my boobs and forgot that there was a person attached to them.

  I’ve always been taller, broader, and stronger than most men. My size isn’t great for my love life, if I’m honest—I get friend zoned more often than I’d like to admit.