Hate to Lose You

by Penny Wylder

  And I mean that. I’m not one of those kids who resent their parents. Mom cared for me since I was small. Now it’s my turn to care for her, and I’m happy to do it. I want to do it. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of her the way I can.

  I just need enough money saved up to do it.

  I just want to make sure you live your own life, my mother is writing now. You shouldn’t just do what’s expected or what’s necessary all the time, Daisy. You need to do what you want to do, sometimes, too.

  My gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the flowers, now perking up in their vase beside my monitor. The card is still nestled among the petals, but even without reopening it, I can read the words again. I’ve memorized them, against my will. We have so much to catch up on. And I have an apology to make.

  Mom’s right. I need to live my life on my terms. And if those terms include an ill-advised date with my ex-fling, who has now turned out to be my supervisor at work? Well… at the very least, I’ll get a good meal and an apology out of it.

  I switch over to my work email account. Open a new message and address it to bronson_burke@burkebanks.com. The subject line, I leave blank. In the body of the email, I write two words. Friday works.

  Then I close both email windows, and force myself to focus on my work instead.

  7

  Bronson

  In a completely uncharacteristic move, I arrive at the restaurant half an hour early. I wind up sitting at the bar sipping nothing but a simple tonic water, squinting at myself in the mirror behind the counter. I went all out for this, reserved us a table at LA’s hottest new spot, which normally has a waiting list 6 months long. For me, of course, that list is irrelevant. Still, I can’t help checking my tie in the mirror, readjusting my Armani suit at the cuffs.

  I’m about to order a real drink when I hear a commotion behind me at the door. I roll my eyes. C-list celebrities trying to bribe their way in, probably.

  But then I glance in the mirror and stiffen.

  Daisy stands next to the hostess, straining her neck to see past the woman, who’s barring the entrance.

  “Miss, I believe you have the wrong bar,” the hostess is saying firmly.

  I stride toward them, anger fueling my movements.

  “Can you just let me take a look around?” Daisy asks, her Southern drawl a little less pronounced.

  “We have a dress code, Miss.” The hostess’s upper lip curls.

  “What’s wrong with my outfit?” Daisy glances down at herself. She must have come straight from the office. She’s still dressed in the usual pencil skirt she wears—today’s is a navy blue, paired with a ruched off-white top that sets off her tan to perfection. The tan is new too, must be another product of LA and its constant sun. Her curves, luckily, look just as perfectly proportioned as ever. I’m glad she didn’t go full LA, lose any of those in the pursuit of model-thinness. I prefer her just the way she is.

  But the hostess is glaring at her shoes. “Where did you find those heels, a bargain bin at Target?”

  Daisy opens her mouth to respond angrily, but I sweep up to her side. “I thought this establishment had standards,” I say, with a glare at the hostess.

  She blinks, startled, then does a double-take as she recognizes who I am. I can practically see the gears churning in her head. “We do, sir,” she sputters. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Burke, I’ll have this woman escorted out—”

  “I’m not talking about her,” I snap, resting a hand lightly on the small of Daisy’s back. “I’m talking about whoever hired you. The last thing I expect from an establishment of this caliber is a hostess harassing my date. Now move before I have you fired from this restaurant and any other fine dining building in a forty-mile radius.”

  Mouth ajar, the hostess practically trips over her own feet to leap out of our way. I press a little harder on Daisy’s back, to guide her toward the two-top I reserved at the rear corner of the restaurant. A cozy little spot lit by candles and tucked away from the bustle of the main seating area.

  Daisy flashes me a reluctant smile as we reach it. “Thanks for that. Though you could have given me some warning that we’d be coming to a fancy as hell restaurant where I ought to dress up,” she adds as I draw out a chair for her. She lowers herself into it, and I take my seat against the wall, across from her.

  “You shouldn’t be treated like that regardless,” I say. “And you look beautiful as you are.” She does. In the flickering light, she’s everything I remembered about her and more.

  But even in the low candlelight, I can see her cheeks flush bright red. Unfortunately it just makes her more attractive. “You always were good at that,” she grumbles, eyes on her lap as she reaches for a menu.

  I arch one eyebrow. “Good at what?”

  “Flattery.”

  “It’s hardly flattery if it’s true,” I point out. “And I always mean what I say, Daisy.”

  There’s a heavy silence, during which she keeps her gaze fixed firmly on her menu. Finally, she lifts those deep blue eyes to mine. “You should have said more, then.”

  “You’re right,” I agree. “I didn’t tell you how gorgeous you were often enough.”

  She frowns, annoyed now. “Not that. Why didn’t you tell me anything real? Anything about you?” She drops the menu back to the table, forgetting it already. “Why didn’t you tell me who you really were? Didn’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I trusted you, Daisy—”

  “Then why lie to me?”

  I frown. “I never lied to you.”

  “Hiding something important is the same thing as lying, Bronson. Avoiding mentioning something, hiding your past, all of that is just as dishonest as lying.”

  “Daisy…”

  “No,” she cuts across me, the color rising in her cheeks along with her fury. God I love it when she blushes. Even more so when she’s pissed. Probably why I never minded arguing with her. “You left, Bronson,” she says, and a pang starts up in the center of my chest. “Without a word, without an explanation, just a single fucking bullshit text message and poof, you were gone. And since you’d never told me anything about yourself, not even your damn last name, I couldn’t even make sure you were okay, or…” She presses a hand over her eyes.

  I fight the urge to reach for that hand. Peel it away so I can stare into those eyes of hers once more.

  “I thought we had something special,” she whispers, gaze still hidden from me, and now I can’t help myself any longer. I reach across the table and gently grasp her wrist. Tug until her hand comes away from her eyes, and I can gaze into those deep blue eyes, eyes that have haunted my dreams ever since the day I last saw them.

  “We did, Daisy,” I say, my voice pitched low enough that she leans toward me a little.

  Her throat tightens in a hard swallow. But she keeps her eyes on mine, at least, and she doesn’t pull her hand from my grasp. “How can I believe that?” she asks, a crease appearing between her brows. “How can I trust you anymore?”

  I keep my eyes on hers, feeling an unfamiliar ache in my chest. Then I force a small, sideways smile. “Well,” I reply. “We can start small. Do you still trust my food recommendations? Because the rosemary lamb here is phenomenal.”

  She laughs, a sharp, surprised burst. Then she gently disentangles her hand from mine and turns back to her menu, though not before I catch a glimmer at the corner of her eye. She presses a hand over it, and it’s gone, quick as a blink, but I know what I saw. A tear.

  Fuck. This is not how I pictured tonight beginning.

  Still, she forces a smile. “I find it hard to believe anyone can make a lamb to beat my grandma’s recipe,” she says. “But I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  “Only if you pair it with this old-vine zinfandel—hold on.” I flag down a waiter to order for us, and somehow, between the salad course and the arrival of our mains, we sink back into our old banter.

  “—reminds me of that salad bar we went to, remember that?” Daisy is
saying.

  I groan. “That hole-in-the-wall with a live slug in the lettuce? How can I forget? And also, what on earth about that dump reminds you of this restaurant?”

  “You got so mad at the server.” She giggles. “When they refused us a refund. I thought you must be like, actively broke to get so mad about three dollars, and here you turn out to be a freaking billionaire.”

  “It was the principal of the thing,” I mutter.

  She snorts. “Well, it turned out all right in the end.”

  I lift an eyebrow, glancing back up at her. “To be honest, all I really remember about that day is what we did afterwards.”

  “When we walked down to the lake?” she answers, but her cheeks flare hot enough to let me know that she’s thinking the same thing I am.

  I slide my leg forward until my knee bumps against hers. Her foot curves around the back of my calf, tentative. I close my legs to trap hers between them. “When we rented those paddle boats on the lake,” I reply, “and rowed out under those low-hanging trees, what did you call them?”

  “Weeping willows.” Her gaze fixes on mine. Her foot glides up the back of my calf, down it again.

  “Right, weeping willows. And we stopped rowing underneath them, hidden from the shoreline.” I hold her gaze steady. Tighten my leg muscles to grip her calf tightly, pinning her in place. “You were in that light sundress, with the skimpy little straps and that tie-on back…”

  She leans toward me across the table. “Which you wasted no time undoing.”

  “One could hardly blame me.” I tilt forward, too, so close we can both feel the heat from the candle flame between us. “You were always impossible to resist, Daisy.” My gaze drops to skim her neckline, taking in every inch of her. At the same time, I drop one hand beneath the table and reach out to rest it against her knee. She inhales once, sharply, and her body stiffens. But her face flushes a deeper red, and from the way her lips part and her eyes linger on my mouth, I know she’s feeling the same thing I am. “You still are,” I add, my voice a low, heated hum.

  White-hot desire, a burning pressure that builds as I remember how good fucking Daisy always felt. That afternoon under the willow tree, out on the lake where we’d rented a paddleboat, I flipped her underneath me and peeled her dress off. Kissed every inch of her body, from her flushed neck and full nipples, nipples that obediently hardened like rocks beneath my fingertips and mouth as I licked and sucked and toyed with her. I licked her abs, traced her navel with my tongue. Ran it lower and lower, until I was able to plunge my tongue between the folds of her pussy, already wet with want, and licked her until she had to stuff her fingers in her mouth to keep from screaming loud enough to alert other boaters out on the lake.

  Then, never one to be outdone, Daisy slid down underneath me and undid my belt buckle next. And that mouth of hers, fucking hell…

  “Yeah, well… You always were a consummate flirt,” she replies, but it’s breathy, weak as far as protests go.

  I slide my hand a little farther up her leg, and I can see the almost physical effort she has to put into it when she leans back in her chair, away from me, and tugs her calf free from between my legs to cross it instead. Just then, the waiter arrives to serve our mains. Just in time, too, because my blood has been flowing south for a long time, and I’ve reached a point where I wouldn’t be able to stand up in this restaurant without notice, because fuck, I’m already getting hard just looking at her, never mind touching her.

  “You never seemed to mind my flirting,” I point out.

  She arches a brow at me. “That was before I started working for you.”

  “I thought office romance novels were one of your kinks.”

  Her lips part in surprise, and I take a sip of wine to hide my smirk. “You told me you never picked up any of the books I suggested you read,” she finally replies, eyes narrowing.

  “I didn’t. While we were together. But afterward, I was missing you, and, well…” I shrug one shoulder, smirking. “I’ve got to say, His Naughty Secretary had nothing on some of the things we did together, but it wasn’t the worst balm for my imagination after coming home.”

  She bites her lip. But underneath it, I can tell she’s smiling. Her gaze jumps to mine one more time, and her mouth purses. “I missed you too,” she finally says. Then she spears a chunk of lamb and pops it into her mouth, eyes shut to avoid any response I might make.

  I wait for her to open them again before I reply. But I don’t even open my mouth before she cuts across me.

  “This is incredible, by the way.” She gestures with her knife at the lamb on her plate.

  “I agree,” I say, without so much as sparing a glance for my food. It’s not the lamb I’m talking about. And she knows it.

  8

  Daisy

  The door of the Uber has barely shut behind me before Bronson grabs my waist and pulls me closer to him. The wine we shared at dinner is ringing in my ears, and my body is hot with lust after all the flirting, not to mention all the reminiscing about our sexploits of old. I don’t want to feel this way; I don’t want to feel just as desperate for his kiss, his touch, as ever. But here we are.

  I slide across the back seat of the Uber and collide with Bronson, bracing myself with two palms against his chest as he reaches up to cup the back of my neck, holding me against him. “Bronson…” But all I can see is him. Those piercing gray eyes fixed on mine. The cheekbones as sharp as ever over the light dusting of stubble on his cheeks. The one funny tooth he’s got, just crooked enough to give his smile character. If he ever fixed it, he’d have one of those infuriatingly perfect grins. Instead, he looks just right. A little off. A little real.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says, not for the first time tonight, and I can’t resist it any more.

  I lean in, and he meets me halfway, and our lips collide.

  Fuck. It’s like sinking all over again, but catching fire at the same time. My stomach flips, my heart soars, and his lips part, his tongue parting mine as our hands climb all over each other. Next thing I know I’m straddling him, my knees on either side of his lap, and I arch my back to grind against him, feeling him already hard as a rock for me. His hands slide down to my hips, my ass, and they grip me hard as I press against him, hungry, wanting.

  “So I take it this restaurant really is as good as the reviews are saying?” our Uber driver calls over his shoulder as we pull out into traffic.

  Bronson and I break apart with a laugh, and, cheeks flaming, I settle back into my own seat, reaching for my belt.

  “Worth every penny and then some,” Bronson tells him with a smirk, though his eyes remain fixed on me. His hand slides up my leg, inching toward the hem of my skirt, and it sets every nerve ending in my body alight.

  We manage to keep ourselves under control for most of the drive home, though I can’t deny we both sneak a few feels, my hand cupped against Bronson’s fly, hard enough to feel the thick press of his cock, and his sneaking beneath my skirt to toy with my panties, which are already soaked through at this point, because damn him, he always knows how to turn me on and then some.

  By the time we finally pull up outside Bronson’s apartment building—one of those ridiculous luxury high rise apartment complexes—we’re both breathing hard, pulses racing, eager to get through his door and at one another.

  “I’d say have a good night,” our driver says as he pulls up to the curb. “But I have a feeling you’re already well on your way.”

  “Have a good one,” we both call over our shoulder, and the guy shakes his head, laughing, as he peels away from the curb.

  Bronson curls his fingers through mine, in a move that feels as natural as it ever has. I don’t stop to let myself think for too long about how strange that it. How natural it feels to hold his hand after so long apart. It shouldn’t, I know, but here we are.

  We stride across the lobby of the apartment complex, and Bronson waves cheerily to his doorman on the way past. Once in the elevator,
I stare in confusion. There are no buttons, no key to swipe, nothing.

  “Doorman,” Bronson explains, as the elevator soars upward without him needing to lift a single finger.

  “What happens if there’s an emergency?” I can’t help asking, squinting around at the narrow box. It looks like a death trap to me.

  “There’s a staircase,” he says. “But you wouldn’t want to use it unless it really was an emergency.” His hand drifts as he speaks, trailing up my arm to my shoulder and then tracing across the nape of my neck to cup it and tilt my face toward his.

  “Why?” I ask. “How high are we?”

  “You’ll see,” he replies, just as the elevator slows to a halt and the doors glide open.

  My lips part in a gasp. Not only does the elevator open right into the middle of his living room, but the apartment, northwest of downtown and near enough to Beverly Hills to get the full view, sits high enough that I feel like I can see all of LA from here. The windows wrap around 3 of the 4 walls, offering a glittering view of buildings in every direction, scattered like a carpet of stars. In the distance, I make out the dark expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Closer to hand are the millions of other souls scraping out a living in LA. People like me, four or five to apartments that realistically shouldn’t house more than two.

  My heart sinks at this reminder. Just another enormous difference between Bronson’s life and my own. This is the kind of apartment I’d only ever seen in movies before. The kind I could never in a million years dream of being able to afford.

  “You like it?” Bronson’s voice is low and soft as he steps up behind me, where I’ve drifted to the windows. He wraps his arms around my waist and presses his lips to the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. Then his lips drift up, kissing his way toward the soft spot just below my ear. I let out a little sigh of pleasure and relax back against him.

  No need to worry about our socioeconomic gap tonight. No need to worry about anything, really, when his hands are drifting down my hips, over my stomach and toward the hem of my skirt…