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A fine sheen of fresh tears shines in her eyes and burns a hole right through me. I stand and round the counter. The need to hold her, to comfort, her driving me forward until I’m right in front of her with my arms open. Sloane gasps as I pull her to me and envelop her in a hug.
“You were perfect,” I whisper against the messy bundle of curls brushing my nose, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said to her tonight. “The only thing anyone thought about you that day was how amazing you were. No one, not even your mom, could have gotten through burying the love of their life without shedding a tear, Sloane.”
“Thank you.”
She sniffles against my chest. Her arms are wrapped around my torso, and she’s surprisingly relaxed in my hold. I almost smile; all those instances of being unable to keep my hands off of her have paid off in the most unexpected way: Sloane Kent is used to my touch.
My mind is swirling with the realization when she loosens her grip and looks up at me. Her head tilted back, lips upturned like she’s asking for a kiss. A slow smile spreads across her face. And I return it without thinking about it.
“What?”
“You’re being nice to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Is that a problem for you?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I was just thinking if you keep this up, I might have to stop calling you Asshole Alexander.”
I smile down at the angel in my arms and let the desire to be more to her than the asshole who reminds her of her mother bleed out of the cracks in the mask I’ve been wearing for years. The one that’s hidden the shattered man who watched his best friend fall in love and build a life with the woman who already owned his fucking soul.
Because twelve years ago, on a warm summer night in August, not much different than tonight, I held an angel in my arms and let the shadows in her eyes—the ones that fit so well with mine—convince me trouble could be a good thing. A place where love could be forged in fire and not come out in a heap of ashes. A place where twin flames could exist together without burning everything around them down.
Her shadows were wrong, but I was too busy pressing a lifetime of hopes and dreams into the smooth creases of her skin with my desperate kisses and reverent touches to notice. I didn’t know then that she wasn’t mine to have.
Just mine to want.
To love.
To wish for.
To dream of while she belonged to my best friend, my brother. The one man I would never dream of hurting even though letting him have her felt like flaying myself open over and over again.
Careful, angel. I think silently. You might prefer the asshole to what you’ve just awakened.
.
14
Dominic
Then
My plan for the next four years was simple: go to college, room with Eric, and graduate with a degree that would allow me to make enough money to never have to go back to living in a house with Gabriel Alexander again. The last part is kind of irrelevant given the sizable life insurance check that’s been sitting in my bank account since last year when Mom died, but I’m still not taking any risks because ending up in a house with my dad would cost me what little sanity I have left.
The past twelve months have been hard enough but living with the piece of shit who might as well have put her in the grave himself, made it all unbearable. Listening to him weep over pictures of her and romanticize their history. Sitting through his attempts to try and walk me down a rose-colored memory lane like I didn’t live through all of their dysfunctional bullshit.
The lies.
The cheating.
The slaps across her face.
The bruises from his hands around her neck.
It all slowed down when I got old enough to shield her body with mine. And then when she got sick, breast cancer in the advanced stages, it stopped altogether. He just transformed into this loving, gentle man who doted on his sick wife, tending to her every need with the kind of devotion he refused to give her for years. It was sickening to watch him, knowing all those years of abuse could’ve been avoided if he hadn’t woken up every day and chosen to be a mean, heartless bastard.
For all of those reasons—and a few I’m probably not far enough along in therapy to fully understand—I have to stick to my plan. A plan that didn’t include attending frat parties with Chris, the resident assistant on my hall, or being brought to my knees by the walking contradiction that is the woman sitting on my lap right now.
I came out here to avoid her. To get away from the white dress, long legs, and sexy mess of curls flowing down her back. To avoid the inevitable moment when the air around me was replaced by her heavenly scent and the sweet, fruity notes wafting up from her skin mixed a little too well with the smoky flavor of the liquor on her breath. I don’t know how, but the moment I saw her I knew she would spell disaster for the plan. Probably because none of the bullet points included feeling this way about a stranger.
