Two is a Lie

by Pam Godwin

  The sob in my throat hiccups into a coughing, helpless grin. “I wasn’t half-naked.”

  “Your perfect round ass hung out of a pitiful scrap of cotton.”

  “They were cheeky boyshorts.”

  “They were torture. I had to go to work hard as a rock.” He twines his fingers around mine. “I would’ve married you that day. I should’ve married you. I’m a fucking idiot.”

  My pulse kicks up, filling my chest with fuzzy warmth.

  “Go back to that morning with me.” He puts his face in mine, his gaze fierce. “We’ll start over. Let me prove how much I love you. I can convince you—”

  “You didn’t have to convince me of anything the day we met, and you shouldn’t have to do it now. That’s not how love works, and that’s never been how you and I work.”

  He gives me the look. The one I know so well. It says he’ll do anything to win me back. Lying, stealing, maiming, killing—there’s no limit to the depths he’ll go. Knowing what I know now about his occupation, the thought makes my stomach cramp.

  “If you hurt Trace, it’s the same as hurting me.” I untangle my hand from his and rub antibiotic ointment on the gash across his nose. “You understand that, right?”

  “Yes.” He regards me so intently it takes all my energy to keep from squirming. “It’s the damnedest thing…” His head cocks. “When I look at you, I see what other men see. A stunning knockout with lips that summon filthy thoughts and eyes that turn the biggest badass into a bumbling fool. But there’s so much more. Your compassion and vulnerability, your ability to love so deeply, with your entire existence. You’re the whole package, and anyone who meets you knows this.”

  A flush rises through my cheeks. “Cole—”

  “It’s a miracle I’m not fighting off dozens of men. At the moment, I only have one contender.” He rubs his sternum, his timbre losing strength. “The problem is, you love him, and that’s pretty damn hard to compete with. But lucky for me, I still have part of your heart.” His eyebrows gather. “Right?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  “Good.” He blows out a breath. “That’s good, because I’m yours. All of me. Forever. I’m not going away, Danni. Not when things are hard. Not when this”—he gestures between us—“seems impossible. Through the good and the bad and all the madness in between, I’ll be wherever you are, fighting and laughing and appreciating every goddamn second you give me.”

  A twinge of yearning quivers in the heart of my chest. His voice…that gravelly, passionate sound of his timbre is one of the things I missed the most. More than that, I missed his words, the rawness in every sentence he strings together.

  He makes me a believer.

  They say a girl’s first love isn’t the first person she kisses or the one she gives her virginity to. Her first love is the guy she’ll compare all others against. He’s the one she never forgets, even when she convinces herself she’s over him and moved on.

  As Cole rests a hand on mine and leans so close I smell the recognizable scent of his skin, I know with certainty I never got over him.

  The heat radiating from him, the dark depths of his gaze drilling into mine, his very presence speaks to my soul, enchanting and ravishing and slaying. It’s the sweetest torment, drugging me into a Cole-induced stupor.

  If he kisses me, I won’t be able to stop him. I haven’t tasted his intoxicating lips in four and a half years, and I’m helpless against the magnetic pull he has over me.

  I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that he’s here. Sitting on the floor in my kitchen. Alive and real and a kiss away from spiraling me into total bliss.

  “Danni.” He stares at my mouth, and his tongue slips out to wet his own. “I need you so fucking much I can’t see straight.”

  I whimper, angling closer, until all that separates us is a finger-width of air and a head full of uncertainty. My uncertainty. Given the way he’s looking at me, the only thing he’s worried about is his ability to strip off my clothes before I change my mind.

  His fingers glide around my neck and twist through the hair at the base of my skull, his breaths growing shallow, heated. He edges closer, oh-so slowly, deleting the minuscule distance between our lips.

  I close my eyes. Part my mouth. Tense against a riot of nerves. And jump at the burst of noise on the kitchen counter.

  Try by Pink blares from my phone, sounding an incoming call.

  “Ignore it.” Cole clenches his hand in my hair.

  But I’m already pulling back, shaking out of my trance and scrambling for the distraction.

  I was going to kiss him. With Trace within hearing range. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Grabbing the phone, I groan at the caller ID.

  “My sister.” I hit ignore and peek at Cole.

  He drops his head and clutches the back of his neck as frustration ripples through his bent posture.

  “I haven’t talked to her since you returned.” I crouch beside him. “I need to tell her what’s going on.”

  He slides his hands to his face, scrubbing his forehead as if struggling to dial back his temper.

  That’s where he and Trace differ the most. Trace is the master of self-restraint. Hell, he spent nearly every day with me for four months burying his feelings for me.

  Cole would never do that. I don’t think he can. He has zero control over his emotions. When he wants me, he takes me, and the claiming is a powder keg of hunger and ferocity. At least, that’s how it used to be.

  Nothing is different between us, the chemistry and passion just as wild and uncontainable as the day we met. Yet everything has changed. When he died, part of me died with him, leaving behind a ghost of the woman he fell in love with. I can’t connect with him when it comes to his career, and he’ll never be part of my relationship with Trace. We didn’t have those separations before, and in some ways, it makes us strangers.

  That doesn’t mean he isn’t the one for me, but it’s a scary revelation. I might have gotten him back, but that doesn’t mean our relationship is recoverable.

  “You better call Bree,” he says, “before she shows up and pisses herself when she sees me.”

  “You need to walk me through the cover story.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m alone in my bedroom, listening to Bree’s heavy gasps through the phone.

  “Holy shit cakes, Danni.” She makes a strangled noise. “All that time in an Iraqi prison? Is he okay? Mentally, I mean. Surely, they’re providing therapy for him.”

  “He’s doing okay.” I hate lying to her. It goes against every instinct I have. But I don’t know the truth, and that’s probably a good thing, because I’d be tempted to confide in her.

  In the next room, the shower turns on, the pipes groaning through the walls. That means Cole’s in there. Removing his pants. Revealing inch after inch of his mouth-watering physique.

  Does he still go commando? I haven’t seen him without jeans on since he returned. Is there a black snake still tattooed around his thigh or did he have that one removed, too? What does he look like now without clothes on? Thinner? Harder? Any new scars?

  I have so many photos of him, pictures I stared at for days on end after he left. But none are of him naked. He doesn’t have a body one could easily forget—broad chest, narrow cut of hips, and a well-endowed package between powerful legs. Nevertheless, I ache to see him in the buff again.

  The door to my bedroom opens, interrupting my thoughts as Trace steps in, wearing only a towel.

  Bree continues to blabber in my ear about what-ifs and what-nows, but my attention fixates on Trace, on the definition of muscle along either side of his spine as he stands in my closet, selecting something to wear.

  I feel like a hussy, imagining one naked man and two seconds later, ogling another. My ability to switch so easily from Cole to Trace and back again is upsetting. It shouldn’t be that way, but I don’t know how to shut off my feelings.

  “Are you shitting
the bed right now?” Concern spikes through Bree’s voice. “Oh my God, does that mean you’re engaged to both of them?”

  “I don’t know what it means.”

  “Oh, Danni. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. You love them both so much.” Her whisper rasps through the phone. “There’s no way you can choose between them.”

  Cole suggested I keep his connection to Trace a secret. It opens too many questions that would raise suspicion. Since Bree thinks he and Trace just met, she has no idea how deep the heartache goes. Whoever I don’t choose doesn’t just lose his fiancé. He loses his best friend, too.

  Trace releases the towel at his waist and drops it to the floor. My nostrils widen with a sharp breath, my gaze sliding over the hard flanks of his backside. He’s ridiculously, beautifully sculpted, with layers of lean muscle, a high tight ass, and long legs, all enwrapped in taut flawless skin.

  He glances over his shoulder at me, and whatever he sees on my face makes him smirk. Without looking away, he slowly, methodically, pulls on a pair of black boxer briefs, followed by charcoal slacks, letting both hang low on his butt without zipping up.

  “Tease,” I mouth.

  His smirk transforms into a full-fledged grin that cartwheels across the space between us and hits me square in the chest. His smiles are so rare that when he gifts me one, I hold it tight to my heart.

  “Do you want me to come over?” Bree asks. “Angel has a soccer game in a couple hours, but I’m free until then.”

  “No, they’re both here, and I need to hash things out with them.”

  Trace loses his grin and turns back to the rack of clothes.

  “This is crazy.” Bree exhales. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Do I ever?”

  “No, but surely you have some idea of what you’re going to do.”

  Trace emerges from the closet, tucking a white button-up into the open fly of his slacks. I have a fascination with watching him put himself together. His meticulous movements, attention to detail, the way his hands move confidently over his body—it’s as if every action is intended to seduce. He’s too damn sexy for his own good.

  He finishes dressing and approaches the bed, with a curious glint in his eyes. His blond hair brushes his brow, not yet tamed for the day. Stubble dusts his jaw, waiting to be shaved. Yet he looks like he’s ready to take on the world, prowling toward me in that effortless way he moves, his suit molding to every delicious inch of his frame.

  “Hang on a minute,” I say to Bree and mute the phone.

  He places a knee on the mattress and leans over me to graze his lips against my cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” My veins flood with warmth as I recall something he said the day Cole returned.

  You’re all that I am, and the moment I accepted that, protecting you was no longer a favor or a job. It became a prerogative.

  “When did you know you loved me?” I run a hand through the corn-silk strands of his hair.

  He slants into my touch and sighs. “The first time I saw you at Bissara—”

  “When you went there to check up on me.”

  “To watch over you and keep you safe.” He turns his head and kisses my wrist. “I walked in and saw you dancing. I haven’t caught my breath since.”

  My heart skips, knocking the wind from my lungs.

  “When did you know you loved me?” His blue eyes bore into mine.

  “When you gave me the concert ticket for Beyoncé.” I grin.

  His expression falls, and he nods stiffly. “That’s the night you saw me with that woman on my lap.” A tic bounces in his jaw. “It was all for show. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry. Despite what I said that morning in your basement, I never wanted to hurt you. I made so many foolish attempts—”

  “I understand why you did it.” I trail my fingers along the honed lines of his face and shift back, glancing at my phone. “I need to finish this call with Bree. I’ll be out in a minute, okay?”

  Dense lashes fringe pale blue eyes that roam over my features, as if absorbing every detail to memory.

  “Take all the time you need.” He rises from the bed, straightens his collar, and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

  With a heavy exhale, I un-mute the phone. “I’m back.”

  “You need to date both of them,” Bree bursts out, loud and rushed, as if the words were burning her lips for weeks rather than the thirty seconds I had her on hold. “Two men. Lots of sex. That’s an order.”

  “I’m not doing that.” I press the heel of my hand against my chest and whisper, “It’s selfish.”

  “You know what? Fuck that. For once in your life, you’re going to put yourself first. Jesus, Danni, you give and give until you have nothing left. You love with all your heart, and you never ask anything from anyone. You don’t even know the meaning of selfish.”

  The shower shuts off in the next room, reminding me how thin the walls are.

  “I’m going to turn on some background noise.” I slide off the bed and grab my tablet from the dresser.

  A moment later, Issues by Julia Michaels strums through the bedroom.

  “You know them, Bree.” I move to the full-length mirror on the wall beside the closet door and flatten a hand against the glass. “We’re not talking about your everyday, passive men here. They’re overbearing, jealous, growly cave-grunters who don’t share their toys.”

  “You’re not a toy,” she says harshly.

  Cole used to call me his dirty little fuck doll, and it turned me on like nothing else. But I’ll keep that tidbit to myself.

  “Figure of speech. You know what I mean.” The crisp plucky notes of the song snap through me, gripping my hips and hooking me into the rhythm. “I’m not going to string them along.”

  “You didn’t put yourself in this position.” She blows out a breath. “Cole did this.”

  Trace played a part as well, but she doesn’t know that. It’s something I’ll have to keep in consideration if she starts rallying for Trace, which is likely since she was never a Cole fan.

  Examining my form in the mirror, I ripple my core, sending vibrating waves of motion to my ribcage and pelvis. As the melody races up and down the scale, I hold my hand against the glass and twitch my hips to the contrasting beats, as if dancing with my reflection.

  “You need time,” she says. “Am I right?”

  “That’s exactly what I need. I feel so blindsided by this I’ve been walking in a fog for the past week.” I sway my head through the song’s haunting chorus. “This is a for-the-rest-of-my-life kind of decision, you know? But how long can I drag it out before it becomes a pathetic excuse for procrastination?”

  “For however long it takes. They love you. They wouldn’t be there if they didn’t. So they’ll wait for you. They’ll wait indefinitely, while you figure out which one deserves you the most. Meanwhile, you need to spend time with them. Get to know them on every level under the sun and…under the covers—”

  “Bree—”

  “Enjoy yourself. Enjoy them. Let it evolve naturally, organically. As you spend time with each of them, you’ll gravitate toward one more than the other.”

  “What if I don’t?” I splay my fingers over the reflection of my face as the song slows.

  “What if you do? Think of it like one of those online dating sites. Except you don’t have an algorithm narrowing down the choices. You already know your top two picks. You don’t have to weed through hundreds of overinflated profiles or go on dozens of painful dates. You’ve vetted two candidates, and you know you’re matched in every way.”

  “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” I prowl backward, away from the mirror, exaggerating the flex of my legs with the low bass drop and breathy vocals.

  “Whatever you do, make sure you’re doing it for you.” Bree hardens her tone. “I’ll be severely disappointed if you’re not one-hundred-percent selfish abo
ut this.”

  “Wow. Aren’t you full of well-meaning advice?”

  “It’s my job as the smarter, prettier sister. Your job is to listen to me.”

  I roll my eyes. Her grade-school-teacher-ness is shining through. It makes her forget she’s eighteen months younger than me.

  “I’m hanging up now.” A smile teases through my voice.

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I end the call and turn my attention to the intermittent rhythm of Issues, moving with the beat, starting and stopping. It’s a flow and a snap, a ripple and a crash. I stretch up, up, up, and let my limbs tumble down, as if I’m tied to puppet strings that are tightening and slackening.

  The lyrics are so angsty I feel every word, from the curl of my fingers to the flick of my head. My skinny jeans restrict the energy that vibrates to let loose, but as the music melts through me, I’m possessed by it, swaying and jerking to the tempo that circulates through my blood and dominates my muscles.

  My hands rove over my body, caressing each joint and encouraging every deep bend. By the time the song ends, I’m breathing lighter. My insides feel softer, and there’s a warmth in my core that wasn’t there before. A peace that connects me to life. And love.

  Five minutes later, I stand in the living room with my arms at my sides and a steady flow of confidence in my veins.

  Trace and Cole settle into opposite corners of the couch, both fully dressed. Trace, with his face now shaved and hair slicked back and textured. Cole, in a white t-shirt and jeans, with whiskers darkening his cheeks and raw intensity in his eyes.

  “Before I get into this, I need you to answer something.” I hold up my left hand and meet Cole’s gaze. “You put this ring on my finger. Twice. Is it safe to assume you still want to marry me?”

  “Yes.” He leans forward, expression aglow with eagerness. “You’re my heart, Danni. I can’t live without you.”