Crashed

by Elise Faber

  With a nod of thanks, Brandon left Kaydon in the hall, holding the contract he’d printed out and hand-delivered for no reason other than Kay had mentioned his session with Fanny at dinner last night.

  Then he exited the rink, knowing that a battle was forthcoming.

  And looking forward to every damned minute of it.

  She was just getting into her car.

  He sped up, saw the redhead who’d been talking to her slant a curious gaze in his direction, and then a smug smile, but he didn’t stop to analyze either.

  Instead, he snagged the car door before Fanny could close it.

  “Hey,” he said, casually, standing in the open frame.

  Her hand was still on the door, her arm outstretched, her fingers wrapped around the smooth metal handle. His greeting had her sighing and then glancing up at him, her brow lifted. “Really?”

  “Hi, baby,” he murmured, crouching down and running his fingers lightly up her arm. “Is that better?”

  She shivered, snatched her arm back. “No.”

  Amusement coiled through him, but he was starting to understand that her snapping at him was a good thing. It meant that she felt something, and even if that something at the moment was being annoyed with him, then he’d take it. Annoyance was better than distance. And it sure as shit was better than not feeling anything for him.

  “You here to talk to me about your masturbation habits again?” she gritted out.

  Shock had him freezing.

  But then the moment of surprise rapidly transformed into pleasure. He grinned slowly. “You want me to tell you about them?” he murmured, leaning close, not missing how she inhaled sharply, how her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles standing out sharply against her skin. “I don’t mind.”

  She exhaled, slow and steady, but her seemingly calm breathing was belied by the fact that her cheeks had gone rosy, her irises dilated. “Well, I do,” she muttered.

  “No”—a tug of her ponytail—“you don’t.” He smothered a grin. “Want me to tell you how I was so turned on that it barely took me three strokes to come?” he said, loving that her cheeks flushed further. “Or that it didn’t even take the edge off, not when I could still taste you on my tongue, could imagine what your slick heat would feel like around me. So”—he leaned closer, not bothering to hide his smile when she shivered—“as soon as I came, I had to jerk off again.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  Her voice was so breathless that he knew she thought that was anything but disgusting.

  “Liar,” he murmured, so close now that his lips brushed her earlobe, that he couldn’t resist nipping the delicate dangling bit of flesh.

  She moaned.

  “Did you make yourself come?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “After what I did to you in the restaurant, did you go home and make yourself come?”

  “I—” She shook her head. He hadn’t moved back, so her hair caught the stubble on his jaw, her scent filled his nose. “No, of course not.”

  “Liar,” he murmured again and had the pleasure of seeing her cheeks go fire engine red.

  “Brandon,” she whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  Her eyes sparked as her hand found his chest, shoved him back so he landed on the warm pavement.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  She slammed the door, nearly clocking him in the head. The click of the lock engaging had him jumping to his feet.

  “You can run,” he said, knowing it probably wasn’t loud enough for her to hear.

  But she could read his lips, apparently.

  Just like he could read hers.

  Because he watched her mouth move, watched it form the words, “I’m not running.”

  So, for a third time, he said, “Liar.”

  Then she revved her engine and took off.

  For some reason, he was grinning when she nearly mowed him over.

  Maybe he loved to live dangerously.

  Maybe he just loved her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fanny

  Fury was her companion the whole way home.

  Through the traffic.

  Through the stop for gas.

  Through pulling into her driveway and going inside, accompanying her as she ate dinner, as she finished off her bottle of wine.

  How dare he?

  Seriously, how fucking dare he?

  She should have run his ass over in the parking lot. Things would have been so much simpler and—

  Her phone rang.

  Sighing, she moved to the counter and picked it up, and no—fucking no!—that wasn’t disappointment sliding through her when the caller ID showed that it was Charlie calling her and not Brandon with more surprising sexy talk that he’d learned somewhere along the way.

  Because he sure as shit hadn’t had it when they’d been together.

  Which meant that he’d learned it somewhere that wasn’t with her. Which meant that he might have learned it from Angela.

  That painful thought had her picking up the phone.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Charlie said, his warm voice making the fury that had gripped her for the last hour dissipate.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling as she leaned back against the counter.

  “You feeling better?”

  Ah. There was the pang of guilt.

  She deserved it after her shenanigans in the hall. Or maybe, Brandon did. He was the instigator—and yes, she knew she’d been an active participant. Damn. She really should have run over the fucker.

  “Fanny?” Charlie asked. “You there?”

  “Yes.” She straightened as though he could see her, as though she were on her best behavior and not thinking about Brandon and running him over . . . nor about how delicious his sexy talk had been. Shivering, she forced herself to focus. “I’m sorry. I’m here, and I’m feeling better. Thanks for asking.”

  “If this is a bad time, I can let you go.”

  More guilt.

  Fuck.

  “It’s not.”

  “So, it’s not a bad time, and you’re feeling better.” Charlie’s words were light. “Then it must be that you’re immune to my patented charm.”

  She laughed. “Yes, it’s that exactly.”

  “Damn.”

  “Thanks for dinner last night,” she told him. “I had a really nice time.”

  “I’m glad. I did, too. Now, stop with the niceties and give me all the gossip about my sister. What kind of trouble is Scar causing?”

  “Your sister is an angel.”

  “And now I know what your voice sounds like when you’re lying.”

  Her amusement boiled over, and she found herself giggling—actually giggling. Like a little girl. Again. Charlie was just so . . . Charlie. A bright ray of sunshine in her life. “You’re just as bad as she is.”

  “Oh really?” he teased. “Tell me more.”

  “How dare you, good sir?” she countered. “I’d never betray my friends.”

  “Hmm. So, you’re one of those.”

  She picked up her glass of wine. “Those?”

  “One of those rule-followers.”

  “You got me,” she said dryly.

  “Don’t worry, Scar and I will fix that for you.” A beat. “Did Scarlett ever tell you about the time she tried to push me out a second-story window?”

  Fanny found herself laughing again. “What? No.”

  “I was two. She was three, and she hated that all my cuteness usurped hers. So, she . . .”

  And then he spun a wild tale about a three-year-old Scar somehow plotting murder because he’d gotten more hugs from their grandmother than she had that day. She called him on his bullshit, and he readily admitted that it was just that—bullshit—before telling her that it was a bizarre and terrible accident, but that luckily he hadn’t been seriously hurt.

  As she listened to him, she had the notion that this is what it could be like with Charlie. He would make her laugh, and th
eir conversations wouldn’t be filled with tension and the painful past, with guilt and wishing things would have turned out differently.

  They would just be light and fresh and . . . easy.

  They talked for a long time, and all the while it was tempting, so tempting to continue to lean into the feeling he created within her, to pretend that Brandon didn’t exist, and that she could be this woman, be the person she was with Charlie—whole, light, carefree—all the time.

  But she couldn’t ignore Brandon, couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist.

  And she knew that she wouldn’t ever be able to be fully present with Charlie, not in the way he deserved.

  Which was why when he asked her out to dinner the following night, her answer was, “I can’t.”

  Silence.

  It wasn’t fair to him, for her to be hung up on another man. He deserved more, so much more than she could give him.

  “Ah,” he said quietly, sober for the first time since they’d first begun talking. “Is it because of Scarlett? I promise I would never get in between your friendship.”

  “It’s—” She broke off before she blabbed her entire sob story. “It’s not about Scar,” she said.

  “I see.”

  “It’s not you, it’s . . . damn”—she sighed and shook her head—“I don’t mean it like that. I’m just not in the right mental headspace for a relationship. There’s someone from my past, and it’s complicated, and I can’t be with anyone while it’s still so unsettled.”

  “I understand,” he said gently. “No hard feelings.”

  “Would you—” Cutting herself off before she could ask. It wasn’t fair.

  “Would I what?”

  Another shake of her head, even though he couldn’t see her.

  “Fanny,” he ordered. “Just ask.”

  She winced then blurted, “Would you want to be friends?” God, that sounded stupid and juvenile, and she wanted to grab the words out of the air and shove them back into her mouth.

  Silence for a heartbeat too long, then, “Of course, I would.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “You’re a cool chick, Fanny. Gorgeous, funny, and talented,” he said, and she felt her cheeks heat. “So, even if you’re not interested in me, I’d love to be friends.” A chuckle. “Plus, if I can keep you nearby, I might get a second crack at dating you.”

  Laughter had her shaking her head. “You’re—”

  “Unbelievable in the best way possible?”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking.”

  Unfazed, he said, “Let’s go to dinner. As friends,” he added when she began to protest.

  “As friends,” she agreed.

  “Perfect. That means I still have a shot to squeeze out more dirt from you about Scarlett.”

  By the time she got off the phone with Charlie, she was pleasantly buzzed.

  They’d chatted and joked, and he’d given her several good blackmail stories about Scarlett that had Fan nearly in tears and looking forward to her newfound friendship.

  Charlie was good people.

  Eventually, though, she’d yawned, and Charlie had told her he’d see her in a few days at the charity raffle then had ordered her to get to sleep.

  She was tired but not sleepy, so she went to the kitchen for more wine, topping off her glass and parking her ass on the couch. There was a new horror show she wanted to jump into, and tonight seemed as good a time as any to start.

  The knock came when she was fully immersed in the show and at a particularly tense moment.

  She jumped, nearly upending her wine, her heart pounding like a motherfucker.

  “Shit,” she gasped, clamping her free hand over her chest then glaring toward the front door.

  The knock came again.

  Probably, someone trying to sell her something.

  Well, good for that person. She wasn’t getting her ass off the couch. Lifting the remote, she turned up the volume and kept watching.

  Whoever was on the other side of the door didn’t get the hint. They knocked again. Louder and longer. She sighed, glanced at the clock, and realized it was late. Really late. Of course, it wouldn’t be someone selling something. This was a different kind of visit.

  And considering the persistence, as the knocking continued, she had a suspicion who it was.

  “Fuck,” she muttered. So much for not getting off her couch. Sighing, she hit the button to pause her show and stood up, making it to the front door just as there was yet another knock, this one near-pounding, instead of the medium-level tapping from before.

  She whipped open the door.

  And sighed.

  In annoyance, not in pleasure. Not because the man looked fucking delicious standing on her porch in a pair of low-slung jeans that looked as soft as butter along with a tight blue sweater. He was holding a large basket, and she could see an inch of taut, golden skin exposed by his sweater having risen up.

  “Hi, beautiful,” he murmured, and she snapped her eyes up to his. Away from the temptation of the shadows of squares she could just barely make out, away from that peekaboo of his flat abdomen.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I have something for you.”

  She frowned, wondered exactly why the hell he’d show up on her porch bearing gifts after . . . “I nearly ran you over with my car,” she blurted.

  He grinned, the fool. “Maybe I like that.”

  “You’ve lost it,” she muttered, backing up, intending to slam the door closed.

  But the fucker stepped forward instead, striding over the threshold and into her house, saying, “Thanks, I will come in.”

  And for all that she talked and instructed for a living, Brandon barreling his way into her entryway had her sputtering. “I—I—“

  He walked right by her, disappearing into the kitchen.

  “I—”

  A car drove by, the headlights flashing past her front yard, and Fanny realized that she was just standing there, staring at the empty hall, the open door. Blinking, she closed and locked the door then turned and followed Brandon.

  He was unpacking the basket on her kitchen counter.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Here,” he said, thrusting the basket at her.

  She scrambled to take it, the contents within rattling, and she glanced down to see they were all wrapped. Then repeated her question. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing?”

  A smile, before he spun away and began searching through her cabinets until he located a vase, plunking a large arrangement of sunflowers into it after he’d filled it with water.

  “Cooking you dinner.”

  “It’s after nine.”

  He lifted a brow. “Have you eaten?”

  No, she hadn’t. She’d been on the phone through dinner with Charlie, and truthfully, she was never great at eating dinner. She never had been. Oftentimes, she got lost in some task or show, and then she forgot to eat.

  Plus, it was nearly bedtime. It was never good to eat at bedtime.

  She was more of a breakfast person, mostly because she sometimes got so busy on the ice that she forgot to eat lunch, too. But anyway, that was beside the point. Breakfast was the shit. Give her a donut or a muffin or a croissant, and she was a happy girl.

  “Right,” Brandon said, turning back to the bag and continuing to unload what looked to be way too much food for two people.

  “Do you think I have a hollow leg?” she muttered.

  “I’m hungry. You’ve always been the type of girl to eat,” he said, pulling out a package of chicken breasts. “I’m guessing that hasn’t changed. Plus, you’re too thin.”

  Her mouth dropped open, her gaze sliding down her body and making her realize that she was still holding the basket. “I am not!” she snapped, tossing the basket on the island.

  “You’re thinner than when you were skating.”

  Jaw clenching, she said, “I don’t have that extra muscle
.”

  “Bullshit,” he told her. “You’re plenty strong. You just don’t remember to eat, and you don’t have someone to take care of you.”

  “I—”

  He set down a head of lettuce and crossed to her. “This is me telling you I’m going to take care of you.”

  She inhaled. Sharply.

  He was close. Really close.

  Which meant her inhale had the disastrous effect of bringing her breasts flush against his chest. Worse. Her inhale had her nipples brushing against his chest, heat scorching down her spine, moisture flooding her pussy, and making her suck in another breath.

  Which just made the cycle worse.

  Breathe. Brush. Pleasure.

  And not once did Brandon back off.

  His hand came to her cheek, cupped it gently, lightly running his thumb over her lips. “You’ve spent too many years without someone to take care of you. I’m not letting any more time pass without doing that.”

  Her lips parted.

  A breath shuddered out.

  Brandon’s eyes went hot, his thumb pressed slightly more firmly against her bottom lip. His head came down . . .

  He straightened, nudged her back, and returned to making himself at home in her kitchen. “Open your presents,” he said as he bent and pulled out a pan.

  Fanny blinked.

  A long, slow blink.

  She turned back to the basket, which was indeed filled with presents.

  Another blink, her gaze rotating to Brandon again.

  Who was still there, now pulling a cutting board out and getting busy with the lettuce.

  “Fan?”

  He’d moved on to the chicken, using a different cutting board as he coated them in some seasoning he must have brought because she didn’t have anything in her house aside from olive oil, salt, and pepper.

  “Yeah?” she asked, watching him put some oil in the pan.

  “Open the presents.”

  She nibbled at the corner of her mouth, hesitating, but then, ultimately, she reached into the basket and picked up the first wrapped package. For one, she loved presents. For another . . . she loved presents. Smiling, she carefully began peeling back the tape, slowly removing it so that she could savor the experience. She didn’t receive presents. She hadn’t shared her birthday with her friends, and her parents . . . well, celebrating that day wasn’t on their agenda.