by K. Bromberg
“Emerson.” Her name is a sigh. A plea. A question.
“Whatever.” She scoots her chair back, walks across the kitchen to the counter, and grabs the calendar. She’s back at our table in a second, flipping through the months until she gets to August. She tosses it on the table and jabs her finger at it. “You’re telling me you’re actually going to walk away from this? Look at that man, Dylan. What do you see in those eyes of his? I know what I see. I see a man who’s in love and can’t admit it. I see a man who needs a bit more patience and then maybe he’ll realize it.”
“I can’t live my life in maybes, Em.”
“Oh, sweetie, I know, but you also can’t live your life in what could have beens either.”
Her words strike me to the core and cause the foundation I’ve been standing so defiantly on to tremble and crack.
“Why are you being so adamant about this?”
“Because I almost threw love away. I tried to run, hide, lie to get out of it . . . and damn it if Grant wasn’t persistent. And thank God he was. If he hadn’t been, I would have made a huge mistake. And I can’t stand by and watch someone I love miss out on living that same dream with you.”
“Whoa.” I hold my hands up. “No one said we were that serious.”
“No one had to.”
“It doesn’t matter if he loves me or doesn’t love me. He’s told me he’ll never change his mind. He’s never going to settle down and bring the burden Brody and Shelby live with upon someone else.”
“Then fight for him, Dylan. If he’s worth it, fight for him.”
“How?” There is so much frustration in that one word, and I’m not sure what else to say.
“Just fucking fight.”
I stare at the ceiling. I’m surrounded by everything that smells of Grady—his sheets, his pillow, his T-shirt I’m wearing—as Emerson’s words ring in my head.
Over and over.
Grady is worth fighting for. But do I give up my life in Los Angeles on a wing and a prayer? Do I step away—step back—from my life once again for a man and put mine on hold?
It would be so easy to. Simple really.
But what does that say about me?
What does that mean when I put my career second again because of a man?
I close my eyes and try to sleep. But all I see is Grady.
All I want is Grady.
And I know this is going to be one of the hardest things I’ll ever do—walk away—and not because I don’t love him, but rather because he doesn’t love me enough to ask me to stay.
“Why the fuck are you here when she’s leaving tomorrow?”
“Because I’m here,” I grumble. Because if I go home then this is real, and she is leaving, and right now I don’t want that to be fucking true.
“You come straight from shift here? Don’t you think you should be somewhere else? Man the fuck up, Grady. You’ll figure it all out, but just ask her to stay. Or tell her to go, but add that you want to keep this thing going. Something. Anything. Just don’t let her walk out that door without saying a word. Quit being such a goddamn pussy, will you?”
“I’m not being a pussy. I’m being realistic.”
“Realistic? Do you know the odds of being in a plane wreck twice?”
“Can’t be too good considering most never survive the first crash.” I sit on his couch and take the beer he offers me.
“Exactly. And you did survive the first one. So why the hell do you keep thinking you’re going to crash again?”
I sigh and sink into the cushions and rest my neck on the back of the couch. “Spit it out, Grant. I’m not in the mood for one of your lectures so the least you can do is save me the wasted words.”
“I’m a cop.”
“No shit.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“What do you want me to be?” I push his buttons so he stops trying to manipulate mine.
“I want you not to be so stupid and open your ears and listen to me.”
Without looking at him, I raise my hand and gesture a give-it-to-me motion. “I’m a cop. I’m married. I have a kid on the way. Do you see me shying away from Emerson? You bet your ass there are times I’m scared and worry about leaving them behind . . . but this is us, Grady. We’re Malones. This is who we are. We are public servants, and risk comes with the territory. We don’t have a choice in the matter. We were born to do this, but that doesn’t mean we should miss out on our lives because of it.”
“You weren’t there.” My voice is a whisper.
“You’re right. I wasn’t. But that didn’t stop you from falling in love with her.” I chuckle out a nervous laugh. It’s all fun and games until someone brings up the L-word. “You do love her, don’t you?”
“Does it matter?”
Grant leans over and slaps the back of my head like he used to do when we were kids. “Did I not teach you anything?”
I grit my teeth and fight letting my clenched fist fly. “What were you supposed to teach me oh-holier-than-thou one? We aren’t you and Em, so stop making it be that.”
“Then let’s look at Grayson.”
“He’s a single dad,” I refute. “I don’t think we should compare shit to him since I don’t see anyone in his life besides Luke.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, throwing his hand into the air as if he’s fed up with me. “I’m still not sure why you’re here, Grady.”
I look at my oldest brother for the first time and speak the God’s honest truth. “Because it’s easier this way.”
“Easier?” He snorts. “For who? You have seen the calendar, haven’t you?”
“Jesus Christ, can we stop with the goddamn calendar already?”
“Then tell me what or who you were looking at when that photo was taken.”
And here we go again. The same question he’s asked me over and over again during the past few weeks. “I was looking at Dixon. You happy?”
“Yeah. Right.” He shakes his head in frustration. “Okay, if that’s the truth, then let’s call up Mallory. Get her to stop by and have a little no-strings-attached fun.”
I glare at him. Mallory. Known her for years, fucked her many times, but right now, calling her is the absolute last thing I want to do. Not when every time I think of who I want to see, talk to—fuck—I think of Dylan.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I lean forward and put my elbows on my knees and shake my head. “I’m scared, man.”
“Aren’t we all, brother?” He pats me on the back and squeezes my neck. “Aren’t we all?”
The lights are on in the house. Dylan is in there. Her bags are probably packed, and she’s ready to head back to her life, free of fucked-up firefighters.
I sit in the cab of my truck and debate whether or not I can do this. Ask her to stay. Go to work every day and wonder if I’ll be coming back home to her. Put her through the constant state of worry and stress.
Brody’s sad eyes flash through my mind. Shelby and her never-ending mourning.
But does lightning really strike twice?
Does Dylan want more?
Fuck.
I slide out of the truck, grab my workbag, and head into the house. The television’s on. I can hear it from the back door. It’s a low hum, but I realize why it sounds so different. There’s no Dylan singing. No random strums of her guitar. No laughing as she talks to Petunia as if she’s a person. The foreshadowing of what my life is going to hold in the coming months without her.
When I clear the family room, I drop my bag with a thump and that’s when I hear her startled gasp.
Dylan whips her head over to face me, and I can see the tears coursing down her cheeks and the grief in her eyes.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
My thoughts fly as I walk toward her. Did something happen to her family? Her brother? To I don’t know who?
My hands are on her arms, and I bring her into me. She clings to my back as she hiccups out a sob. I don’t know what to
say, but I have to say something.
Then I see the television. The images. The running headlines across the bottom. And I get it.
“The city of Boston is in mourning tonight after four firefighters died when the roof of a Boston factory collapsed. Two more are in critical condition.”
Just when I think I can do this, reality slaps me in the face and reminds me why I can’t.
Goodbye, Dylan.
“Turn it off,” I murmur against his chest as he pulls me in tighter against him.
“This is my reality, Dylan. My choice. This is my life.” Make me your choice. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. He doesn’t see the devastation in mine. Instead, his lips find mine.
I taste the salt from my tears and beer on his lips as they slant over mine, and I welcome the taste. The comfort. The reassurance they provide that he is home now from his shift. Safe. Whole. Well.
I’m not sure how he knows this is what I need, but he does. Maybe he needs it too. I don’t know. All I know though is I’m devastated. For those firefighters’ families. For their brothers who had to rescue them. For me, because I know he’ll think my reaction proves what he’s said all along.
So I start the process of saying goodbye to him.
In soft sighs and sips of lips. In the slow intimate entanglement of my tongue with his. In the gentle thud of my heartbeat against his chest. In the quiet urgency of our hands as we slip our clothes off where we stand so we can feel each other’s skin one last time.
We come together, and there is no frenzy, only the need to connect, to memorize the feel of each other.
There are no fancy words. No dirty talk. No empty promises as we drink each other in. The feel of his dick sliding into me. Satisfying me. Marking me with his indelible touch. Worshipping me one last time.
It’s such a contrast from the times we’ve had sex before.
Maybe because this is so much more than simply sex.
It’s soft sighs and measured moans when it’s normally carnal groans and desperate demands.
It’s whispers of touch instead of the nails down his back free-for-all.
It’s silent words but screaming hearts.
It’s a goodbye not an invitation to stay.
And later, when I lie in his arms and hear his even breathing, I cry some more. Tears slide down my cheek and onto my pillow. For the man I do love but know I’ll never be able to tell. I can’t hurt him any more than he’s already been hurt. And telling him would hurt him . . . not because he doesn’t want it but because he can’t give it to me in return.
When dawn comes and the sky is as gray as I feel, I slide out of the bed and stare at Grady. There are no more words to be said. Everything was said when we made love last night.
Because yes, that was what we did. Grady may not be able to verbalize it, but what we shared was so much more than simply sex.
It was everything he can’t give me but wants to.
It was my goodbye.
With a sob, I lean over and press the most tender of kisses to Grady’s lips. “Goodbye, Grady Malone. I love you.”
I jerk awake.
Just like I do at the station when a call comes in and the alarm goes off.
But there is no call.
No alarm for an emergency.
Just the empty bed beside me.
No request to save someone.
Just the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
There’s no note on the nightstand. There’s no text on my phone. There’s nothing left of her anywhere.
Except for my fucking heart.
I run a hand through my hair and sigh as I stare at the ceiling.
Dylan’s gone.
The woman who was slowly saving me disappeared.
Christ.
She’s really gone.
My need to work is paramount. To keep busy so I don’t think of Grady.
But who am I fooling? It’s been a week since I left Sunnyville—since I left him with the note on the counter and a kiss on his sleeping lips—and I feel like a piece of me has been left behind.
Emerson was right. I did leave my heart there, but hell if I’ll tell her that. And I can’t bring myself to answer her texts, either, because I miss her too.
Who knew going to Sunnyville to escape Jett would make me find a whole different life I’d want to keep?
I roll my shoulders as I stare out the conference room windows at the bustling city below. The city I had missed like crazy. The one full of broken dreams and rising stars. The one in which I thought I belonged but now feel like an imposter.
There is no pig wandering around to make me laugh.
There is no constant hammering of Grady and his brothers as they work on the playroom.
There is no scanner going off sporadically in the night.
“Dylan, love. So great to see you. I hope your trek in the country did you well.”
I rise from my seat when Callum Divish strides into the room, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and trademark tinted lenses hiding the truth in his eyes. “Good to see you again, Callum.” We air-kiss each other’s cheeks, as is his fashion, before sitting. “And it did.”
“Jett’s late. So we’ll start without him.” He shakes his head. “I’d say the country was good to you and, in turn, me. The songs you wrote . . . Dylan, they are spectacular. I’m going to have a bloody hell of a time picking which ones to put on the album. You really outdid yourself.”
“Thank you.” I nod, my pride brimming while my heart knows most of those songs are about Grady. They’re true and heartfelt.
“We’ll get the last few recorded and then meet again with Kai and the team and start deciding which ones we want to use.”
“Sounds great.”
“In the meantime . . .”
Exhausted is the only way I can describe how I feel.
Everything is draining. From Jett and his bullshit in the studio—the things I now see as complete immaturity—to my lack of sleep. The nights feel like endless bouts of tossing and turning. Grady wasn’t the only one who found solace in our sharing the same bed.
Grady.
My heart twists in my chest as I sit at the computer like I have almost every day since I left. I head to the Sunnyville Gazette and read about what’s happening in the town I’ve left. I open up a blank email, type Grady’s email address, then delete it. Then I begin to type him an email but don’t know what to say. He hasn’t reached out to me since I left. He hasn’t texted or called or sent up a smoke signal. So maybe I made this all up in my head. Maybe I was still so fresh and raw from my breakup with Jett that I saw things in Grady that weren’t there.
Maybe he came into my life just to teach me how to let go.
That’s such crap.
I know it was real. I know how I felt.
How I feel.
So then why haven’t we talked?
The cursor blinks as my email alerts my incoming messages. I tab over and scan through the new ones. My first thought? There are none from Grady.
I open the one from my brother to see the new pictures he had taken of the twins, and I contemplate flying out there when Callum gives this album the A-okay. I need some family time. A connection with someone I know won’t hurt my heart.
My computer pings again, and I hold my breath when I see the sender is Marcy Holden. I can pretend all I want that I forgot about the photo session Grady set up for me, but I didn’t. I just chose not to think about it.
But now I can’t. Now the photos are on the end of this little link.
I click it.
Hold my breath.
When the screen populates with pictures, a nervous laugh escapes from my lips. And then tears spring to my eyes.
These can’t be me. They can’t. I scroll through the pictures. One after another. I see the smile on my face. The sass in my expression. The guarded caution in my eyes.
But I don’t see the dimples in my thighs. I don�
��t see the fullness to my cheeks I try to contour out. I don’t see how big my arms look when they’re pressed against my sides.
I don’t see any of that. I see a woman trying to accept her sensuality. I see a woman in the chiffon robe with lace camisole underneath, a little uncomfortable in her skin but who is trying to own it. I don’t see how big her feet are in the high heels but rather the definition in her calves and the strength in her legs.
I see fit where I usually see flabby.
I see curves and sexy where I usually turn my head and cringe.
I see the beauty where I’ve always seen ugliness.
When I finish the first scan of the photos, of the four outfit changes, of the gamut of expressions she captured—flirty to feisty to shy to demure—I start all over again, trying to comprehend that these are really me. That I am her.
She must have airbrushed them.
That’s my conclusion when I go through them with a more scrutinized eye and try to pick them apart. Sure, there are little things I hate, but the big things I have hang-ups about are not there.
She must have airbrushed them.
I repeat the thought as I flip back to the text of Marcy’s email, the words and instructions I overlooked because I was too anxious to see what the pictures looked like.
Her words strike me to the core.
I hope you like them. I think they turned out beautifully. And before you refute how gorgeous you are with some smoke-and-mirrors nonsense, know that I didn’t airbrush a single one of them.
The tears that were threatening moments before escape in a single tear that slides down my cheek. I flip back to the pictures.
This is the woman Grady saw. The one he was determined to get to believe her worth. Her beauty.
This is the woman he let walk away without telling her to stay.
It’s a bittersweet feeling, and one I can’t seem to shake.
I pick up my phone, needing to say something—anything to him. My fingers shake as I dial. A soft sob escapes my lips as his voice comes over the connection.