“You’re going to fail miserably writing love stories if you don’t get these two back together, Becka. Do you hear me?!” I demand.
I head to my first date and it goes rather well. When my date walks me home, it’s past midnight and my phone rings. I don’t answer, even though my stomach dips in response to the sound. I spot the tall, familiar image of Christos leaning against my building entrance when I arrive.
He sees me and pushes off the wall, then plunges his hands into his pockets, and waits.
I swallow, then realize I have nothing to hide. He is not dating me anymore. I don’t need to feel unfaithful because we’re not together. I relax and head to the building.
“I had a great time tonight, Bryn, I hope we can do it again sometime.”
“Me too.”
“I really, truly enjoyed it.”
I say goodbye quickly, feeling awkward knowing the man I love and need to forget is watching me.
My date leaves, and I approach the door to my building.
Christos watches me through lowered eyebrows.
God, he looks delicious.
“It was one a.m. You didn’t answer.”
“So?”
“So I needed to see you were all right.”
“I’m all right.”
He stares at my clothes.
“We really need to consider that dress for the line.”
“Are you criticizing my design?”
“No, I fucking like it, it’s just…”
“What?”
He clenches his jaw, then leans forward. “Don’t wear it out again.”
“You have no right to ask that of me.”
“I can’t stand the thought of you going out.”
“I can’t stand the thought of you sleeping with Miranda.”
“I’m not,” he bites back.
I inhale sharply, then motion to the door. “Are you going to let me pass? I’m tired and I need to go to sleep.”
“Get some sleep. You’ll need it. I need you at 7 a.m. at the office tomorrow with a detailed list of every expense made so far.”
Christos
4 weeks ago…
“I cried when you left,” she admits as we walk along Chelsea the morning after our Peasant dinner.
I brought her coffee to help with her possible hangover, and now I’m trying not to laugh at her embarrassment as we remember our goodbye from years ago. “You got my only good shirt wet,” I say.
“Ohmigod. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I didn’t want it to dry.” My chest feels heavier as I brush her cheek, remembering.
She reacts with a blush, accusing me, “You’re a player.”
I give her a look of surprise. Hell, as if I’ve never been called that, or worse. “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
“You totally play the game well.”
God, she’s adorable. I can’t stop chuckling, but I sober up when I tell her, “It’s never been a game with you.”
“What are you doing now?” She seems genuinely confused.
I evade.
“What am I doing now?” I glance straight ahead. “Walking down memory lane, in the middle of…” I search for the street sign, “20th Street.”
She smiles.
I stare at her mouth for the millionth time in what feels like the same second. I’m distracted lately, can’t stop thinking of her after last night. I wanted to see her. I want to kiss her senseless. Slip my hands under her top, feel her warmth, feel her against me, force her to feel me and what she does to me.
For days, I’ve listened to her passionately tell me about her project, trying to keep my distance, trying to keep my head straight.
Telling myself I should say no, and instead I see her again. Asking her to do better. Wanting her to keep impressing me.
I’m impressed with her business. With her.
I want to see her, and I want to bring this vision to life.
I walk next to her now, aware of the way she drinks in the city like a new thing, like a novelty, with excitement and hope.
I don’t want that hope for a future here dashed. But she’s a complication in my life.
I’m giving up the plans I set for myself in the past few years, to go for the ones I had when I was young.
It takes some adjusting.
But it’s like we never even said goodbye, that’s how I feel when I look at her.
The night before I left Austin, she teased me, but I remember the sadness in her eyes. She cried in my arms, and it didn’t feel good to hear her cry, but it felt good to hold her in my arms. I felt greedy; I wanted more. She got my only good shirt wet, and it didn’t fucking matter; I never wanted it to dry. I nuzzled the top of her head and breathed three words into her hair, not because I wanted her to hear them—I actually didn’t want her to—but because I needed to say them. Somewhere in her subconscious I wanted her to know she meant something.
Being with her now, vetting her more ruthlessly than I’ve ever vetted anyone (because I’m selfish—I want to know it all) is reminding me exactly what they meant.
This is the girl I loved and could never love.
This is my chance to do it.
Bryn
The next morning, I march into the office, sleepless, angry, sad, and with the list of expenses that King Christos demanded of me.
“He’s waiting for you,” Robertha says when she spots me.
I swallow back my anger and frustration and walk inside, staring at anything but him as I walk forward.
I can’t seem to bear it when he’s near—it hurts like a bitch and nothing I do can get rid of the ache in my chest.
“Here’s the list you requested. Call me if you have any questions. I need to be across the street organizing the arrival of the clothes and don’t have a lot of time.”
“Bryn.”
I inhale and turn, meeting his penetrating gold gaze.
It’s darker than usual today as he drags his hand down his face. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“I’m sorry too. I’m not sleeping well and I suppose the launch is so close that the stress is making me moody.”
“Is that it?” he asks, softly.
I force myself to nod, and the disappointment and cutting grief in his eyes makes me want to blurt out that that’s not it at all. That I miss him, that I’m mad at the whole world because I don’t understand why he’s not with me even though I understand, I understand perfectly.
“Anyway, call me if you have any questions.”
I head to the warehouse and get to work. I’ve been so busy with the launch, the crying spells are coming less frequently. I feel more in control, less as if someone else owns my destiny, more like I’m steering my own boat.
I suppose it helps to get approached by so many men on Match.com. Though I haven’t agreed to any more dates as of yesterday, it helps to be reminded that I am sexy and attractive to the opposite sex.
But I still cry early in the morning and late at night, unable to grapple with the reality of having Aaric so close, having been so close to being with my soul mate and losing him in the end.
To know his kisses won’t ever be mine again, his touch won’t ever know me or drive me wild like it did.
“You’ll get over him,” Jensen says, when he meets me at the warehouse, where I keep opening boxes of the first collection.
We’re busy unpacking, and sweat is coating my skin when the man haunting my dreams—my backer, my fantasy man, the love of my life and the only man I’ve ever loved—walks into the warehouse.
Like a king, confident, gorgeous, and unnattainable.
And he steals my heart from me all over again.
I spot him instantly—tall and powerful, in black slacks and a white shirt, tieless—and I’m transported twelve years ago to him arriving in his mechanic’s suit to help me lug boxes at Kelly’s.
My damned eyes, it seems, haven’t had enough weeping, because the sense of loss I felt when my parents d
ied, when Kelly’s was taken away, and when the man I love left me comes back with a vengeance when I watch him lift one of the boxes and prop it over his shoulder only to look at me.
Dejà vú all over again.
I blink back the moisture and look away, and keep opening boxes so hard I almost cut myself.
“Hey, watch it,” Jensen calls from far away, laughing.
Aaric is still standing before me, waiting, starting to scowl at me.
“You okay?” Aaric asks, his gaze deep.
“Yes.”
“Good. Be careful. Where do you want these?”
I see him with the box on his shoulders and stare stupidly at him.
“You came?” I gasp.
“You needed me here, didn’t you?” He raises his brow in challenge, looking cocky and a little bit more handsome than I’d like.
“Yes, but I thought you were teasing me,” I counter.
“You’ll know when I’m teasing you, bit.” He sets the box down, moving closer, taking a lock of my hair and looking down at me. “You’d be laughing very, very hard,” he warns.
“Ha.” I pretend not to believe him. “You’re not a funny guy.”
He tsks at that, looking disappointed at my revelation. “Damn bad.” He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, causing my heart to keep pounding harder and harder. “But hey, I’m a hell of a box lugger.”
He props the box over his shoulder and chuckles as he moves it to where I’ve been pushing boxes across the room. I wonder what it would feel like to kiss that smile on his lips.
I swallow and avoid making eye contact. “Over by the windows. But you don’t have to move them, I can just open them here and put the clothing on the racks.”
Christos makes the box seem small and weightless as he lugs it across the room, then he comes back and reaches for my cutting knife and starts slicing boxes open.
I try not to look at his hands, at any part of him, even the tattoo I can see working under the white shirt he wears.
He moves effortlessly and fast, like only a guy who’s actually worked with his hands for years knows how to move.
Minutes later, a dozen men appear. Christos instructs them to open the boxes and set the clothes on the racks, and though I thought Jensen, Sara, and I would take ages to finish, we’re done in a few hours.
“I suppose we’ll have time for the salon tomorrow night after all,” Sara bemusedly tells me. She doesn’t try to hide the reverent amazement on her face.
I glance at Aaric. “Thank you for helping.”
He looks at me for a long moment with a twinkle in his eye, then he winks. “Still a hell of a box lugger.”
I can’t get away fast enough, because even his smiles hurt to see now.
Christos
Present day
I sit alone in my brownstone, the city noises outside as loud as usual, my eyes on the clock on the nightstand. I sit on the edge of the bed with a drink in my hand. I picture making love to her at 1 a.m.
I remember that first night, here in my bed, when I brought her here the first time.
Setting my drink aside, I head to the bathroom to wash my face. I’ve got scruff I haven’t bothered to shave. Reluctantly, I scoop up some shaving cream, run the razor along my jaw, then splash lotion on my face before I head for bed and sit there watching the time. Picturing her in her bed.
My little bit—
Frustration simmers in my veins.
God. What the fuck is the matter with me?
I can’t let this girl go.
I am going to be a father. I lost a child once, and it nearly killed me. The grief and guilt I felt has been a regret that’s weighed heavy on me for years. I still pay Leilani life support, even though we never got married, simply because that child should have been born. Should have had a father, a loving home.
I have another on the way; and still, letting go feels wrong.
As if I’m betraying her, and me. Us.
I sit in bed and remember the first time I brought her over.
How I sat in my bed at 12:58 a.m. and stroked Bryn’s hair. She’d curled up on her side, her cheek on my chest, her hand close to my cock. Hell, if that didn’t make things harder for me. I was ripping through my slacks and battling the urge to scoop her up, lower her down on me, and make fucking love. I’d been running her hard. Not only to teach her. But to prolong the times I saw her.
I couldn’t resist teasing her, but I’d behaved. I was sick of behaving that night. My exhaustion wasn’t work related, it was related to the non-stop, relentless throbbing in my gut to grab her to me, kiss her to pieces. I wanted to finish what we started on the way to my place that night. Yeah. Maybe I just didn’t give a shit. Maybe all I gave a shit about was the girl with the soft brown eyes, the teasing smile, and the burning desire. I wanted to grab her, kiss her, hold her—get lost in her. I wanted her to promise me she’d never doubt my intentions again.
I sat there, fighting my battle, when I heard her breathing change. She shifted when I stroked my thumb over her lips. They parted, and the alarm started buzzing.
Her eyes opened. My chest knotted up when I saw the fear in them. Wide-eyed, scared, she looked at me, and her eyes lost the scared look as I reached out to my phone and shut off the alarm.
“1 a.m.,” I said, gently.
She looked at me, starting to breathe a little better.
“You’re okay,” I said.
“Am I…?” she breathed.
I didn’t know how to answer.
We both knew we were fucked. I knew she probably had an inkling that I wasn’t going to let her go now, that I was after her—into her. Silent, I pushed my thumb into her mouth, making her lick it. She shuddered. Undone, I leaned my head down and groaned and sucked her tongue into my mouth, savoring her again.
She tensed—whispered that she shouldn’t be doing this, thinking that I was with another woman maybe, but a part of me wanted her to think that. To feel the pressure of losing me, so that she could get over her resistance and open up to me.
That night, as she begged me to help her with her startup, I could see it in her eyes: she was ready for me, and fuck me if I wasn’t finally the man for her.
Bryn
I dress to kill for the launch in one of the pieces from the collection that I hope will be a bestseller: a sleek, form-fitting dress with cut shoulders and a sexy slice up the right thigh.
I cover the dark circles under my eyes, due to a lack of sleep. I waited for Christos to call last night.
He did.
And because I had been thinking of my parents, my voice wavered the moment I picked up.
“Don’t cry,” he husked out.
“It’s okay. I just wish my parents were here,” I said, and then we sat in silence for a while, and because I didn’t want to spend those moments alone, instead of saying goodnight, I said, “Talk to you later?”
He called at 3 a.m. sharp, luring me from a dream of fire and screaming for them to find Christos. Christos and our child.
“Are you doing better?” he asked.
“Yes. Just nervous,” I lied, speaking low into the receiver, shifting in bed with the phone to my ear, the other ear on my pillow as I stared out the window at the blinking city lights. Trying not to think of my dream, even with the lingering sense of loss in my chest. “I want to puke when I think about facing all these people tomorrow.”
“This will only happen for the first time once. Make it count.”
“Make me more nervous, why don’t you?” I laughed, and he chuckled softly too, his voice groggy with sleep.
“Breathe, bit.” He then added, sober, “It’s what you wanted. Isn’t it? It’s what you fucking wanted, bit. It’s here.”
“Okay,” I said, comforted by his voice.
Silence.
I love you.
“Do you have someone to kiss you goodnight now?” he asked. “Your roommate. A brother I don’t know about.”
“I don’t hav
e a brother.” I laughed.
“Then close your eyes.”
“What?”
“I’ll virtually kiss you goodnight.”
“What?” I asked, louder.
“There’s no one else, right?” he dared. “So I’ll have to do.”
“You can’t—”
“On your forehead, bit,” he said.
I closed my eyes, and before he could speak, I imagined him kissing my forehead.
“Don’t kiss me like a brother,” I whispered, pleading, and he said, “What’s left for us?”
I couldn’t answer, but when I hung up I realized that tomorrow House of Sass launches, and all the joy I should be feeling has been outweighed by the awful fact of losing the only man I’ve ever wanted and loved.
Now, as I arrive at the warehouse with Becka and Sara in tow, both of whom are completely charmed by Jensen, I see Christos taking up the room, and my heart jolts and my pulse starts a racket.
He’s in a suit, crisp and sharp as always—the one thing everyone in the room is ogling.
From the opposite side of the main floor of the warehouse that is now House of Sass, I remain motionless as my friends head inside to look at our merchandise. For three seconds, I just absorb the image of him and make love to him with my eyes.
I know his walk by memory, confident and graceful. The back of his head, his ears, his hand in one pocket, the other hanging by his sides as he greets the guests.
Miranda tries to stay by his side, putting her arm on the small of his back.
He doesn’t reciprocate.
Still, I cannot move my eyes away from her hand on his back. It seems forever before my mind and my body are finally in sync, and I realize Cole is talking to me.
“Oh, hi, Cole,” I greet, and for a moment I see a spark of pain and something else in his eyes, something like guilt.
“Hey, Bryn.”
We exchange smiles, and then he begins to admire the clothes on display. At first I think he’s going to say something, but when he doesn’t, I start to wander off on my own, studying each of the pieces on display in marvel.