by BJ Harvey
She steps closer, and I can smell her soft, subtle, absolutely Faith perfume. “I’m sure, Bryant. I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life,” she says softly.
“Prove it.”
She leans in, her eyes shining with hope, a look that morphs into something else entirely when I say the two words I’m expecting will be the deal-breaker and prove once and for all that—yet again—Faith Baker truly has no idea what she wants and who she wants it with.
“Marry me.”
2
Faith
Of all the things that could’ve come out of Bryant’s mouth, “marry me” was not even in the top thousand—the top million—I’d have imagined.
“I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Get out of my sight.”
“You broke my heart, and I can never forgive you.”
Any of those, yes. Asking me to become his wife? No way.
My mouth drops open, my body stuck in place as I stare at him, half expecting a second head to sprout out of his neck. All rational and logical thought escapes me.
I snap my jaw closed and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping when I open them again, I’ll wake up from this mind-bending dream and have one of those Groundhog Day moments where I can walk into the room again and start over. Not that I’d do anything differently.
The Bryant I know—knew—was always wise. He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, even as an eight-year-old boy with scruffy brown hair and a dimpled grin that made me feel funny inside. He was the quieter, more studious, less-extroverted-but-more-focused half of the Cook twins.
My brother, Ezra, became best friends with his brother Jamie, who my sister, Delilah, had an instant crush on. That left me, the nerdy bookworm, in all my lanky, late-to-grow into-her-legs glory, and my instant—somewhat consuming—fascination with the less-assuming twin. But from the first day we met, my romantic mind was stuck on him and only him. Years of what I assumed was unrequited crushing later, Bryant Cook made his move in the hidden depths of my backyard, in the hammock we’d made as part of a sustainability assignment in the ninth grade. We knocked our heads together as I tried to wrestle my way out of the swing. I stumbled, and in a swoon-worthy move for the ages, he caught me. It was one of those slow-motion movie moments, Goo Goo Dolls playing in the background, our eyes locked, and before I could even blink, he leaned forward, opened his mouth, and tried to suck the life out of me—through my face.
I shake off the memory, thankful for Bryant being a quick study in kissing, and all other departments.
He stands there watching me, his analytical gaze waiting for my answer. My attention drops to his lips, and I remember just how good he used to be with his mouth. Especially since I was never sure I’d get another chance to find out.
A plan formulates in my head. If he’s trying to call my bluff, two can play at that game. He doubts my sincerity, that unbreakable trust we had as best friends and lovers, broken. That’s on me. I did that. But I came back knowing I’d need to work my ass off to win him back, and I’m not about to blink at the first standoff.
I stare back at him, determined to stand my ground. He expects me to run again. Well, that’s not going to happen, even if there is a big part of me that needs a time-out to rehash this bizarre conversation. I need to hide away and let my brain ruminate over his… proposal? Order? What was it exactly? That’s right—it sounded an awful lot like an ultimatum.
If he’s pulling out the big guns, two can play at this game.
I pull my shoulders back and answer him with a challenge of my own. “Kiss me.”
His head jerks back. He looks like he’s been slapped with a wet fish then punched in the balls. Of course, I could back out and walk away, give myself a chance to formulate a new plan of attack. That would put me at a disadvantage though. I’d rather know now if this has no chance in hell—then I can move on, whichever way the cards fall. Bryant is my what-if guy. All women have at least one, and I’ll never know what might have been if I stand down now.
“Kiss me,” I say again. When I repeat my own demand, a flash of confusion crosses his features that morphs into a look of resolute determination.
I forgot one of Bryant’s most dominant personality traits—he never shies away from a challenge. Ever.
“You want me to kiss you?” He moves toward me, one slow, predatory step at a time. His gaze darkens, his eyes darting down to my mouth and back up again. I lick my lips instinctively, part nerves, part fear, part ‘I’m in deep over my head, and I can’t see a way out.’
“Okay,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I’ll kiss you, and if you can tell me that you feel absolutely nothing, I’ll rescind my proposal and walk out of this room. Then we’ll know, once and for all. Won’t we?”
He stops in front of me, my breasts almost touching his chest. I tilt my head to keep eye contact, not willing to back down now. Stubbornness, my most honored flaw.
“But if you feel anything,” he whispers, leaning down so his mouth hovers over mine, His warm breath fans over me, causing goosebumps all over my skin. “Then you’ll meet me at City Hall on Monday.”
God, he smells good. I inhale to get another hit like a crack addict with an itch that won’t go away, Bryant’s cologne—the same he’s always worn—was the one vice I let myself have over the years. I’d go to a local department store in Sydney and spray it on a card so I could smell it whenever I felt lonely, sad, or just plain homesick.
He arches his brow. His eyes search mine. My tiny nod is all the permission he needs because barely a second later, he’s cupping my jaw and his lips are crushed to mine. I open for him, an offer he does not miss as his tongue sweeps inside, touching mine in demanding licks and strokes. My hands ache to grab hold of him. I want to slide my fingers into that soft brown hair and grip it tight, but I clench my fists by my side. I have to protect a little part of myself just in case this is another test.
A moan escapes me before I can stop it. He growls and tilts his head, deepening the kiss but still only touching my jaw and nothing else. This kiss is like being adrift without an anchor. It’s like being in rough seas with one arm tied behind your back and a blindfold on. The entire situation is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, but it’s our clusterfuck. I came back for him, and I’ll walk over hot coals if that’s what it takes to prove myself to him.
He slowly ends the kiss, his eyes hooded and hazy, his gaze heated and torn as he pulls away from me.
We’re both in this now. I can’t lie for shit, and even without looking at myself in the mirror, I know I look far from unaffected. We stand there staring at one another, our breathing fast and deep. I can see the struggle written all over his face—the desire, the hurt, and perhaps a sliver of surprise that I haven’t gone running for the hills—or the airport—again.
The question now is whether we can navigate all of this without driving one another—or ourselves—crazy. Will we still be standing by the end of this, whatever it is?
“Gonna lie now and say you felt nothing?” he challenges.
I square my shoulders, meeting him head-on. “I’ve never lied to you, Bry, so I’m not about to start now.”
He quirks a brow. He hasn’t stepped back and having him this close is muddling my head. Needing space to breathe, I move, and his shutters come down. The moment has obviously broken, despite the effects of our kiss still lingering throughout my body.
The silence is deafening, but I know I can’t be the one to break.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Bry, Mom wants a photo of all us kids,” Jax says from outside the room. I’d know his voice anywhere because it’s almost identical to the man in front of me.
“Yeah, Jax. I’ll be right there,” Bry calls out, not looking away. “Unless you tell me otherwise by the end of the night, I’ll assume you’re agreeing to my suggestion and accepting my proposal. But babycakes…” His tone softens with his pet name for me. “Unless you tell me otherwise—and
to my face—I’ll pick you up Monday morning, and we’ll go to City Hall to get things underway. We need to get the marriage license twenty-four hours before the ceremony.” His voice belies the enormity of what he’s literally proposing.
Finally, I find my voice. “Don’t you think we should talk about this a little more? What you’re suggesting is crazy. We can’t get married. We haven’t spoken in years. We’re—”
“Twelve years, to be exact,” he deadpans.
“We’re different, Bry. We’ve grown up. We might not be—”
His hardened stare burns through me. “Anything worth talking about can be discussed after you prove you really want this,” he says, sounding like this is a business transaction rather than a life-altering decision.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Of all the times for words to escape me.
When I don’t say anything further, he shrugs in a ‘suit yourself’ gesture. “Right. I’ve gotta go.” He doesn’t give me a kiss on the cheek, or a gentle squeeze on my arm. There’s absolutely no sign of affection or even a friendly gesture. He just nods, turns around and walks to the door, disappearing from view. He leaves me standing here dumbfounded, confused, turned on, torn and finally—and stupidly—hopeful.
I’m not sure who’s the bigger fool—him for suggesting it, or me for considering it.
I guess we’ll both find out Monday morning.
3
Bryant
I meet Faith at City Hall on Monday morning, and we apply—and obtain—a marriage license. With every minute that passes and every time Faith opens her mouth, I still expect her to turn around and say she can’t go through with it, then leave… again.
Amazingly, that doesn’t happen.
Even when we go to the lawyer’s office to sign the prenup Jamie insisted we get to cover my interest in our house flipping venture—she still doesn’t flinch.
It’s like we’re playing the ultimate game of matrimonial chicken, with neither one of us willing to swerve away from what may very well be certain disaster.
I know this is moving quickly, but time is of the essence. That expectation that she’s going to leave causes tightness in my chest and an uneasy feeling at the bottom of my gut. I’m compelled by this irrational need to get her to marriage court as soon as possible. Unfortunately for me, Cook County requires twenty-four hours between obtaining a marriage license and getting married.
I had contemplated the merits of flying off to Vegas to get married by Elvis, but my brother Jax and his new wife Ronnie already cornered that market just five weeks ago.
When I drop Faith off at Ezra’s building after the lawyer’s office, there’s an awkward silence filling the inside of my truck.
“So I guess I’ll meet you there tomorrow?” she asks, her tone unreadable as she looks out of her window.
“Yeah. Unless you want me to pick you up?”
“You know what they say about the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding,” she says, turning my way, her lips twitching.
“I think you’ll find that’s an antiquated tradition dating back to when a woman came with dowries, and her parents were scared the groom might bolt.”
“Only you would say the word antiquated.” Faith quirks a brow. “Are you planning on bolting?”
“I already know what you look like. It’s been burned on my brain since I was an eight-year-old boy who didn’t know girls were made as cute as you,” I reply, my mouth curving into a grin.
There’s no missing her blush despite the fact she’s rolling her eyes at me. “No need to charm me, Bry. I said yes, and we’ve already got the marriage license.”
“Ah, yes, but there’s still time for you to change your mind, Ms. Baker.” I school my expression. There was a time when I wouldn’t hide a single thought, fear or feeling from this woman, but understandably, I’m a little battle-worn when it comes to opening up to her now.
She tilts her head and glares at me. “You honestly think I’m going to jilt you at the altar, don’t you?”
I open my mouth to reply something along the lines of, ‘Well you do have a history of running away,’ but I stop myself. Not that my astute soon-to-be wife misses it. She always was able to read me like a book. Her eyes glaze over and with a rough, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she shoves open the door to my truck and slams it shut, walking through the building’s glass doors, not looking back even once.
I’m the first to admit it’s not my finest moment, but no one ever said a man with a bruised heart is smart—or rational. Seeing those unshed tears in her eyes made my heart clench. I almost park up and storm after her, to goad her into hashing it all out, to reignite that unmistakable spark in her green eyes that used to get me hard in the middle of any argument we’d have.
Tuesday morning, I wake up feeling out of sorts. I may have instigated this, but it was never supposed to be this way with Faith. I’ve only ever wanted to give her everything I have… and more.
I’m dressed for the ceremony, wearing a pair of black slacks and shiny matching shoes, a white pinstriped shirt and a navy blazer. I wasn’t sure what normal civil wedding ceremony attire might be, but I assume Faith won’t be wearing a traditional white dress. It’s not like this is the outcome we imagined. Hell, I never expected I’d be marrying this woman so soon after seeing her again. Call it stubborn, idealistic, or just me being a glutton for punishment, but a masochistic part of me wants to show her what we could’ve been—what we could’ve had—with the hope that she won’t ever want to leave me again.
A knock at the door and the rattle of a key in the lock break my train of thought.
“Bry, where are you?” Jax calls out from the front of the house.
I walk out of the master bedroom and move down the hallway toward the living area. There I find Jax and Ronnie already at second base.
“I’m here,” I say, laughing at them. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and see Jamie sitting on my seen-better-days three-seater couch. “Jamie, Jax is kissing Ronnie again,” I fake-whine, adding in a foot stomp for added effect. He lifts his gaze from the happy, fornicating-with-clothes-on couple, then moves it to me. Amusement crinkles his features. “You know him better than any of us. When Jax is happy, he kisses. He’s like a puppy who has to slobber over anything and anyone. Just be thankful he’s not all over us,” he says, his lips quirking when Ronnie breaks away from Jax and bursts out laughing.
She grins at my twin. “I never thought about it before, but that’s so true.”
“What’s this? Pick on Jax day?” Jax says. “I thought the whole point of Jamie being here was to talk Bry out of getting married.”
My brows jump up. “Since you all have already gotten married recently, is that really a good move?” I look to Ronnie. “Unless you’ve finally realized you married the wrong twin?” I say, smirking at my brother’s growl. I always tease Ronnie about coming over to the dark side, and she always laughs it off.
“And as for you…” I point at my biggest brother, “… you’ve only been married for a few days, and you leave tomorrow on your honeymoon. How are you already anti-marriage? Shouldn’t you be making sure April can’t walk straight?”
A highly satisfied grin appears on his face. “Maybe I’m the one who’s walking with a limp after two days in bed,” he says. Lucky bastard. “And I’m definitely not anti-marriage. I’m all for it when the two people getting hitched aren’t fooling themselves into thinking they can jump straight back into what they had. So I’m here to try one last time to make you see sense. Date, get to know each other.” He sends me a pointed stare. “Make sure she’s all in and isn’t going to leave without you again.”
“Is that why Ezra isn’t here?”
“Ezra is not exactly ‘team wedding’ either, but he said you’re both old enough to know whether this is a good idea, and he trusts his sister not to make another bad decision.” Well, that feels good. “I told him I wasn’t so sure about that, and he didn’t exactly th
ank me for my thoughts.”
My head jerks at that. I thought for sure Ezra would be firmly on his sister’s team and had been anticipating a rather uncomfortable conversation with him before now, but it hasn’t happened. Then again, it was Jax and Ez who helped me when Faith left the first time.
I try to hide my confusion behind false bravado. I hate having to put on a show, but it’s an unfortunate consequence of my head and heart having conflicting motivations. Until I can get them on the same page about how I feel, I’m not going to open myself up to anyone else’s amateur psychoanalysis, even those close to me.
I lock eyes with Jamie. So many thoughts, words and emotions are shared between us in that look, reminding me of the conversation we had Sunday afternoon at a Cook family post-wedding BBQ at Mom and Dad’s house.
“Don’t do this.”
“I have to know.”
“Then date her.”
“Dating isn’t certain enough. I need to know once and for all whether this is ever going to work.”
I’ve always been a man who needs to work things out for himself, and a big part of me knows it’s that personality trait leading me to the legally binding union being made in a few hours.
“So where’s Cohen in all of this?” I ask, turning to Jax. He rolls his eyes and lets go of Ronnie before crossing the room and walking into the barely-holding-on kitchen. “Is he still not coming?”
“He’s working, but let’s just agree that the words he would probably say right now may not be all that helpful,” Jamie says.
“Can I offer a female perspective?” Ronnie says, stepping in front of me and resting her hands on my shoulders.
“Barbie…” Jax warns from the kitchen.
“Shut up, Ken. I’m talking to GI Joe,” she says with a wink.
“Yeah, and we all know how that ends, right Jax?” I ask, waggling my brows at my twin who in turn, flips me the bird.