“You’re having a panic attack, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling me closer. “It’s okay. Breathe with me.” He walked me through my first panic attack, and, honestly, the combination of his gentle, soothing voice and the inviting smell of his musky cologne did more to calm me than the breathing exercise he taught me.
When I could finally think straight again, I slumped into his arms. “What am I going to do?”
Brandon hugged me tight, and in his arms, I felt at peace for the first time in a long time. It was strange. I’d known Brandon all my life, but we didn’t do affection like that. As my brother’s best friend, he would sooner dunk my head in the toilet or give me a blood-drawing noogie before he would ever be caught dead hugging me. He had always been like another big brother to me.
But did that stop me from crushing on him? No.
And did I enjoy that hug much more than a betrothed woman should have? Absolutely.
“What should I do?” I muttered into his shoulder.
Brandon sighed and pulled back. I tried not to show my disappointment. “I don’t know. I’m not the best person to ask for advice when it comes to things like this.”
I snort. “Right. Best not to get marital advice from an unmarried rake.”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “No. Best not.” He looked so handsome in his suit and tie, with his dark hair parted neatly to the side. I’d always had a crush on him, yes, but it also felt like I was seeinghimfor the very first time. “Do you love him?”
“Of course.” Because I did. Adam and I were born three days apart, so we were inseparable as children. He was my best friend from the very beginning,and there was a running joke between our family and friends that we would get married one day. Not to mention the whole Adam and Eve thing . . .
“But?” Brandon pressed incredulously, his brows sitting high on his forehead.
“But . . . I don’t think I love him like a woman should love her husband,” I confessed, my heart racing. The only man I had everwantedin that way—like, in thebiblicalsense—had been standing right in front of me.
Brandon pursed his lips and glanced at the door, then down at his watch. Finally, those piercing eyes met my gaze again. “Evie . . . have you discussed this with Adam before?”
“No. Never.”
Brandon sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” He cleared his throat, then reached out and squeezed my arm. I felt the warmth of that affectionate gesture right down to the tips of my toes. “But if you’re having second thoughts, now’s your chance.”
“My chance?” I squeaked.
“To back out,” he murmured, his expression remorseful.
“I don’t know if I can,” I whispered, my eyes watering. “Everyone is down there, waiting . . .”
“Why are you marrying Adam, Evie?” he asked gently, his voice compassionate, like my old therapist’s. “Have you ever asked yourself that before?”
I took a slow, deep breath, considering his question.
Then I confessed everything, explaining that I didn’t want to hurt Adam by declining his proposal. That, and I didn’t want to disappoint our families, who had been expecting this for years. Brandon listened quietly, acting the part of the wise, intelligent psychiatrist he no doubt is, allowing me to get everything off my chest. All he needed was a white lab coat and a set of bifocals to complete the image.
When I finally took a breath, he asked me if I thought about Adam while we weren’t together. Or if I wanted to spend quality time with him. And if I enjoyed beingintimatewith him.
Blushing, I answered no on all counts. Because it was the truth. The shameful, shocking, depressing truth. I didn’t love my fiancé. At least, notromantically.
“Who do you think about?” I blurted without thinking. “Being intimate with, I mean?” Brandon had always been a serial dater and had never had a serious long-term relationship that I could ever recall, so I was curious.
Brandon’s mouth popped open, then snapped closed quickly, his alabaster skin warming as he looked to the door—almost like he couldn’t believe the turn our conversation had taken and wanted to run from the room.
Me and my stupid big mouth. I’ve never had much of a filter.
Mortified, I tried to laugh the question off as a joke. “Kidding.”
He laughed, too, though it sounded shaky and apprehensive. “Sure you were, Spitfire,” he said with a wink, regaining his usual composure. My eyes widened. Was he . . .flirtingwith me? “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about me before.” Then he chuffed my chin, his eyes warm with teasing affection. “I know all about your little crush.”
That was the beginning of the game. From that point forward, he’d tease me by asking me if I’d thought about him since the last time I’d seen or spoken to him. If I had, I lost the game.
If Brandon thinks he can waltz back into my life, expecting a repeat of what happened between us, he has another thing coming. I may not be very good attaking care of myself,but I have more self-respect than he seems to think I do.
