by Emily Snow
“Then be happier.” She blows me a kiss. “I’ll chat with you soon, okay?”
“Always.”
I’m still slightly annoyed by her advice when I touch down in Paris, but I quickly throw myself into my work, preparing to walk the runway first for Alfonsi’s newest bridal line. It’s my favorite collection Giulia’s designed to date—pastel, floaty fabrics that seem to dance around me as I walk. Attempting to push aside my worries, I stream music through my mind as I move down the runway. It’s usually whatever’s on my playlist at the time, but frustratingly enough, the sound of the runway music wiggles into my brain. I can’t help but notice how similar the beat is to a song I’ve not listened to in years.
The song that played on Bennett Delaney’s rooftop while he looked into my eyes and cockily suggested I stayed at a party for him. I keep my expression passive while I walk. Pose at the end of the runway. Pretend my chest doesn’t ache. Pivot to go backstage. Plead with my heart and brain and soul to just forget him.
And that’s when my eyes connect with the grin in the crowd.
He’s good-looking in that tall, dark, and handsome sort of way, and when he roams his gaze over me, I feel static in my veins. My lips curve—just the slightest tug—but he sees it and tips his head right before I disappear from his view.
Alder’s flowers and note are delivered backstage at my next show, modeling for Ann Savin, but I take two weeks before I call him. The next time I chat with Charlotte, I’m the one with news. “I met someone,” I say, and she sighs deeply and rests her chin in her palm.
“It’s about damn time, Charlize.”
EPILOGUE
BENNETT
I don’t think of Veronica for more than five years.
That’s what you thought I’d tell you, isn’t it?
It’s what I hope for when she leaves, but it doesn’t happen like that. At first, it’s like she never left that room, so I pulled my shit together and went back to the city. Then I realize she’s stuck in my head, so I do everything I can not to picture her—go to Australia to work with Erik on a project, drown myself in liquor and cars and other women. And that’s when, suddenly, she’s everywhere else. An overnight-fucking-celebrity in fashion, just like I figured she would be.
She was always too damn beautiful not to rule the world.
By time I accept a permanent position working for Erik at Delaney International a few years later, she’s on everything from Sports Illustrated to a major perfume ad that spends weeks on a billboard in Times Square.
I try like hell to ignore it, but I still memorize everything about it—the blonde hair spilling around her bare shoulders and a snake twining around her left wrist, the way she tugs her bottom lip between red-painted fingernails, the twist at the corners of her mouth that’s too seductive for her trusting gray eyes. That image is permanently fixed into my thoughts, even after the ad is replaced by another.
Not that Cain would ever let me forget it.
He gets a copy of the photo for himself and takes pleasure in showing it to everyone who comes into his new business—he says it’s fitting, given that the perfume is called Shameless and shame is a word that has no place in his nightclub, Genesis. He loves to brag that he grew up alongside one of the most beautiful women in the world. And he loves it even more when I’m around to hear it because he gets off on rubbing it in that I no longer have her.
The only thing I love about the whole situation is how fast he has to take the picture down when the cosmetic house sends him a cease and desist for using their copyrighted image in his “smut club.”
He still mentions it, though, because the rift between my brothers and me is strong. There’s a chance it won’t ever be repaired because they’d choose her over me any day.
I don’t blame them.
In the last five years, I’ve seen her father once, when I passed by him on the sidewalk in Midtown. He’d paused to look at me like I was the scum of the earth because he’s beautifully, blissfully unaware, and then he kept walking.
I never see Veronica.
She leaves Barnard after a year and doesn’t return for Thanksgiving or Christmas or her twentieth through twenty-second birthday. She doesn’t come back for her twenty-third either or when Graham and Charlotte invite her to their engagement party though Charlotte begrudgingly informs me she’ll be at the wedding. Vero is one of the most sought-after models in the world and, somehow, she only steps foot in New York a few times a year. I know that’s a good thing.
What’s best.
But then Charlotte dies. Graham makes the call. And Veronica promises she’ll be on the next flight home. When I don’t see her at the funeral, I almost let myself believe that everything will be all right and I can go back to pretending. I should’ve figured out years ago that when it comes to her, I’m cursed.
She shows up at my parents’ penthouse during the intimate gathering Monica’s organized. I stop in my tracks the moment I lay eyes on her standing alone by the terrace entrance. She’s lost weight. Too much weight. The black wool dress she’s wearing accentuates just how tiny her frame is, and she fidgets with the hem of it as she darts her eyes around the room, taking in the sight of so many familiar faces. When Warren Hunter, Zeke’s dad, stops to speak with her, she forces a pleasant expression.
Like a fool, I think of the last time I was able to watch her smile in person.
The day I ripped a strip of paper from her copy of Dorian Gray, folded it into a ring, and slipped it on her finger. She’d smiled then. She had laughed over our makeshift wedding cake—those vanilla pudding cups she grabbed from Stop & Shop in Long Island. Then she did both again, grinned and threw her head back and laughed, when I promised to replace her book and give her a real ring and wedding immediately.
If only I knew.
I grit my teeth as Warren bends to kiss her cheek. He pats her arm and then leaves her by the terrace, casting a final, worried glance over his shoulder. She squeezes out another pained smile and waves him off.
“She looks like she eats air for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” I mutter past the acidic taste in the back of my throat.
I smell Graham before he steps beside me because he hasn’t tried to mask the stench of liquor today. “She looks like fucking shit,” he spits out. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He hasn’t tried to hide his bloodshot eyes either. He’s been like this since Charlotte was found in her D.C. apartment a little over a week ago, but at least he’s put forth an effort every other day.
“Look what we’ve done to them.” Flexing his jaw, he slowly shakes his head. “Jesus … look what we’ve done.”
I could argue that he’s wrong, that it’s his grief over losing his fiancée talking, but I can’t.
“V looks like shit,” he says again, “And it’s all your fault, just like Charlotte’s mine.”
I clench my teeth, my fist, every muscle in my body. “Say it a bit louder, little brother. I don’t think they heard you in Brooklyn.”
Cold, dark eyes pierce me. “Do you think I care who hears me? I bet you haven’t said a word to her, you son-of-a-bitch.”
Again, he’s right. I haven’t said a word to Veronica in over five years because there are none to make things right. Not when we were so wrong. “I doubt she wants to talk to me,” I say stiffly, and Graham snorts so loud it catches her attention.
She stares at him for a long time, gray eyes too big for her face, shoulders tight and her chest so still I’m not sure she’s breathing. Then she moves. Her walk is different than I remember, an elegant swish of her bony hips as she tentatively approaches us. No, that’s wrong. She approaches him. She walks right past me like I’m a ghost.
“Graham,” she breathes, reaching out to him. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in the crook of his neck. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
They stay like that, in each other’s arms, and I’m shocked Monica doesn’t appear to hose them down. Drag them apart. But I guess she knows m
y brother never wanted Veronica like that—not like I did.
When she draws away from him, she smooths her hands over her hips as he straightens the lapels of his jacket and adjusts his tie. “How long are you here for?” he asks.
She drops her gaze to the floor. Scuffs the toes of her glossy black pumps together. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her in heels. “Day after tomorrow.” It sounds more like a question, like she’s apologizing. “I have to be in Shanghai.”
“You’re in high demand.” My brother bares his teeth into a smile. I can’t tell if it’s genuine or cynical, so I almost expect him to follow up with some bastard comment that will make me want to wrap my hands around his throat. Then he swallows hard and pumps two fingers over the bridge of his nose. “She would’ve been happy you came. You were her first friend here … it would’ve meant a lot to her.”
“God, Graham…” The tears that spill down Veronica’s cheeks get to me. Reminds me of that final morning together and how, after I had laid next to her one last time, she’d cried and looked at me like I was a monster. Nostrils flaring, I turn away and focus on a random vase until it goes blurry.
Get the fuck out of here. Away from her.
“I have to piss,” Graham suddenly growls, snatching my attention back to them. Vero nods in understanding because she's got no clue what he’s really going to do. He’s got to piss every five minutes—right in our father’s study where the bourbon is. “Don’t fucking disappear, Vero. I … missed having you here.”
She bobs her head, causing her sleek blonde hair to bounce against her back. I can picture it the way she used to wear it, over one shoulder. “I promise I won’t go anywhere,” she says, but her breath is shaky while she watches him walk away. She murmurs something. Moves her lips again. Exhales sharply and repeats. That’s when I realize she’s speaking to me.
I glare down. A fist slams into my throat because she won’t even meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I say.
“I asked if he’s going to be all right.”
“He will be, I think.” She shifts slightly, and I stiffen as her scent rises up to taunt me. That hasn’t changed. It’s still cherry almond. I take a step away from her and flinch when she frowns. I clear my throat. “You look—”
“Like I eat air for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?” she interrupts, crossing her arms so tightly over her chest, I’m scared she’ll break herself. She flicks her wrist out toward one of the waiters Monica’s hired to serve hors d'oeuvres. “I let that one over there know my dietary restrictions on the way in—he promised to get me a fresh bowl of Vermont’s finest, STAT. I’ll save you some if you’d like, along with a glass of go fuck yourself.”
“Christ, Vero, I’m sorry.” Of all the things for her to hear, it had to be that. Not what Graham said, but my own screwed-up musings. I drag a hand through my hair as a groan puffs from my mouth. “It was a stupid—”
“Bennett, I don’t really care what you think.” She flashes her gray eyes up to mine, and whatever she was prepared to say freezes on her tongue. Me? I’m lost, hemorrhaging feelings all over the place. She finally pinches her lips together and blows out a soft breath that wreaks havoc on my senses.
“I do appreciate your honesty, though,” she whispers. “Even if you’re a dick.”
And even if I told her the truth—that she’s still the most beautiful woman in this room, terrifying thinness and all—she wouldn’t believe me. The only thing telling her that would do is make me a sicker man. I’m sick of being sick when it comes to Veronica.
Get the fuck out of here. Away from her. Far away from her.
“I’m sorry, Vero. For everything,” I say. She shrugs and gives me a ghost of a smile. Sucks away any chance of sunshine when she turns her stare straight ahead and goes back to addressing me without direct eye contact.
“You’ve already apologized, remember? Besides I’ve gotten over it and moved on.” When I don’t respond, she keeps going. “I’m engaged, Bennett.”
My chest freezes. Only the fury—the red hot, goddamn self-loathing—is strong enough to unthaw it. Engaged. She’s engaged to another man.
Get the fuck out of here. Away from her. Far away from her. Put an ocean between you if you have to.
“I see,” I say.
“His name is Alder. H-he's a stockbroker at Clarendon Capital in London.”
The last part is a dying whisper because she's probably figured out she's telling me too much.
Plus, I don’t give a damn—at least not about his name. I take another step away from her and catch a glimpse of Graham shrugging Monica off so he can make his way back over to Veronica and me. For the first time in days, I’m grateful to see my brother staggering in my direction.
“Congratulations.” It comes out in a snarl, so I have to clear my throat before I can finish. “I can’t think of anyone more deserving of happiness. I mean that, you deserve the world.”
She whips her face up to mine and parts her lips, scanning my face for something I can’t give. Her hand goes to her throat, fingers rubbing furiously at the hollow of her neck.
There’s no ring on her finger, only a thin tan line.
“Thank you,” she says hoarsely. “Charlotte already knew. I’m not sure if she told him before she … I’d just appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Graham. Not yet. Not with the way he’s hurting right now.”
“Why would I talk about your engagement with my brother, Veronica? It’s not my news to tell.” Every tooth in my mouth feels like it’s cracking when I offer her a cordial smile. “If you’ll excuse me…”
I leave her with my drunk ass brother, feeling like I’ve downed a bottle myself as I move blindly toward the elevator, desperate for fresh air and something I can’t have and shouldn’t want. I wait until I reach the rooftop to make a sound, and the one that leaves my throat is like a wounded animal. Loud and raw, slicing through the chilly air.
But in this moment, I’m like Graham. I don’t give a shit who hears me or a damn who sees me sink down on one of the outdoor seats, my head in my hands.
It’s not right of me to care. Fuck that, it’s downright wrong. But I hate the man she’s marrying almost as much as I hate the way I feel about her.
I squeeze my eyes shut until they burn. Drag in a cold breath for control but all I can see are those papers—Veronica’s certificate of enrollment from Birchwood mixed in with non-disclosure agreements and financial records that dated as far back to when she was a toddler to a recent five-thousand-dollar payment to Barnard—that had solidified my front row seat on the bus to hell. I can almost feel Monica shoving the folder into my hands as she tearfully told me that I couldn’t love Veronica. I can almost taste the vomit, like it’s coming up fresh.
That night, I had ripped up everything inside that folder right in front of my mother, but it hadn’t mattered. I still had to protect Veronica by making her go because she'd die if she knew. Making her hate me even though tearing a stack of papers to shreds hadn’t done shit for me. It didn't make sleeping any easier. It didn’t make me forget what I saw right above the signatures certifying that everything was a-fucking-okay. Or what the motherfucker that ruined everything had to say for himself when I confronted him before spending those last six hours by her side:
That he wouldn’t explain himself
That all the documents were legitimate.
He hadn’t given a shit why I was asking, just that I left him alone, so he could get back to wining and dining his mistress at the time.
I cared though. And five years, ten—a lifetime—no amount of time will ever be able to keep those typed, damning words from burying me.
Veronica Jane Palmero.
Date of birth: December 18, 1983.
Mother: Vanessa Palmero-Silvestri.
Father: Erik Delaney.
END OF BOOK ONE
Thank you for reading THIS LOVE! Book two, LOVE HURTS, is coming 9/6/18. Make sure you're signed up for Emily's
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And make sure you meet Graham Delaney, Bennett's brother in HIS PAWN today!
BOOKS BY EMILY SNOW
Devoured Series:
All Over You
Devoured
Absorbed
Consumed
Devoured Standalones:
Savor You
Friction Standalones:
Friction
Distraction
Delaney Brothers Standalones:
His Pawn
This Love
Love Hurts (coming 9/6/18)
The Second Verse Duet:
First Verse
Second Verse
Standalones:
Tidal
Wrecked
Uncovered
Thrust Under (with Michelle Valentine)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily Snow is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of erotic, new adult, and contemporary romance. She loves books, sexy bad boys, and really loud rock music, so naturally, she writes stories about all three. She lives in Virginia with her husband, children, and one very energetic Yorkie-Poo.
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Table of Contents
Dedication
The Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6