“You can’t make it better.” My nails dig into his shirt. “It’s unfixable.”
“It can’t be,” he laments, pressing his forehead against mine. “Please, Evie. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Tell me how to make it better, and I will. I promise.”
I know all too well his promises mean nothing.
Before I can even think of a response—or extract myself from his arms—the bell above the front door chimes, and someone strolls into the practice. At first, his or her identity is disguised behind a giant bouquet of richly colored poinsettias and red roses.
But when his smiling face emerges from behind the extravagant arrangement, I gasp.
Adam.
Evie
Wednesday,November23,2022
What is wrong with me? Brandon literally went on a date with another woman and all but friendzoned me less than a week ago, but, apparently, I have no willpower—or sense of self-respect—when it comes to him. How did this happen?
After he went on that double date, I stopped answering his calls and texts. I just couldn’t face him. I even took on some extra evening shifts at work and made sure to leave the house early when Grandma was expecting him for breakfast. But I have never met someone as doggedly persistent as Brandon. Whenever my car was in Grandma’s driveway, you could be sure he was puttering around the house doing goodness knows what. First, Grandma’s driveway needed salting. Then he wanted to ensure we had extra logs in the fireplace basket in case there was an unexpected power outage. And just yesterday, he was fixing a leaky pipe in the bathroom . . .
Then, this evening, I was in the basement, folding laundry when he made yet another surprise appearance. I had my wireless earbuds in, so I didn’t hear him sneak up behind me. I screamed when he pulled my left earbud out. Whirling around, my chest heaving, I found him looming behind me.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he accused, taking the other earbud out and pocketing it.
“Actually, I’ve been working,” I griped, grabbing his belt loop and yanking him forward. Shoving my hand deep into his pocket, I retrieved my stolen earbuds and turned back around, popping them back into my ears.
He removed them again, insisting we needed to talk. Facing him impatiently, I crossed my arms and waited for him to get on with it. He said he missed me—as if that was all he needed to say to get me to start fawning over him again. When I didn’t reply, hereached out to caress my cheek with this tender, repentant look on his face that took my breath away. I studied the familiar details of him up close. His strong jaw. His fair skin. His midnight hair and straight dark brows set over a pair of soulful, vivid, electric-blue eyes. They remind me of arctic glaciers and crisp winter skies—minus the frigidness. Brandon exudes warmth and gentleness and sunshine. Always has.
Even if he’s an egotistical jerk.
It took all of my willpower to turn away from the vortex of his gaze.
I jumped when his hands slid around my waist from behind, then stiffened as he cradled me close and dropped his lips to my ear. “I know you’re upset with me, Spitfire. Please forgive me. I told you that date meant nothing.” He swayed us slowly, and I nearly died and went to heaven when he blew gently beneath my ear, then kissed my neck.
Stunned, I just stood there, surrounded by his warmth and strength. I think I was suffering from emotional whiplash. Before, he wouldn’t even acknowledge we’d kissed. But all of a sudden, he was hugging me. Kissing my neck. Telling me his date meant nothing. It made no sense.
But it felt good.
Dangerously good.
I wilted with pleasure when he kissed my neck again, right on the soft, sensitive flesh below my ear. He peppered a trail of warm, reverent kisses down my throat while I contemplated whether I wanted to forgive him or not. I’m a fighter by nature. Attempting to push him away, I insisted I didn’t know what he was talking about.
He held me tighter and nipped at my pulse, and it jumped in response. Then he says, “We kissed. And then I went on a date with another woman. You’re upset.”
Grimacing, I folded a tea towel and carefully set it down, trying my best to ignore the sting of betrayal his words elicited. I insisted it was just a kiss, telling him “not to read too much into it.”
I was trying to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me.
Taking me by the shoulders, he spun me around so I was facing him again. Tipping my chin up, he chastened me with a simple look. He told me not to pretend our kiss didn’t mean anything—that he knows he hurt me, and that he was sorry. When I looked down, embarrassed by my petulant behavior, he gently kissed one eyelid, then the other. “I love you,” he whispered. “You know that.”
All the fight I had left died right then and there.
Then he said, “For the record, it meant something to me, too.”
“Then why act like it never happened?” I questioned, searching his eyes. “Do you regret it?”
Cradling my cheeks, he pushed his forehead against mine and gazed deep into my eyes. My stomach flipped. “I could never regret you, Genevieve.”
And then he kissed me.
