Page 50 of Claimed By The Other Brother

My stomach clenches at the memory; his hands on my body. The way he made me feel—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. I can still smell him on my skin. Clean, masculine, expensive aftershave mixed with something uniquely him. Even after three showers, I swear I can still feel his touch.

The sex was... I don't have words for what it was. The best of my life doesn't even begin to cover it. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away. Guilt floods through me. I slept with Miles's brother. Hours after being abandoned at the altar, I fell into bed with Dax Blackwell.

What does that make me?

Finally, hunger forces me out of bed. I grab my phone from the nightstand and shuffle to the kitchen in my pajamas, squinting against the daylight. The apartment is a mess—takeout containers on the counter, empty wine bottles, tissues scattered everywhere.

I make coffee, the ritual giving my hands something to do. While it brews, I pop a bagel in the toaster and lean against the counter, waiting. My phone is now on the counter, lighting up with notifications. Missed calls. Text messages. Voicemails. I scroll through.

Mom (4 missed calls)

I'm not ready to hear her voice. Not ready for the "I told you so" that's inevitably coming.

Barbara Blackwell (3 text messages)

Miles's mother has been texting me. Sweet, concerned messages asking if I'm okay, if I need anything. I haven't responded. What would I even say?:

Sorry your son humiliated me, but don't worry, I had amazing sex with your other son to cope.

Work emails flood my inbox. I took two weeks off for what was supposed to be a honeymoon. Miles never actually booked anything—said we'd figure it out on a whim, be spontaneous. That should have been the red flag. That should have told me everything I needed to know about his commitment level.

Jane and Sarah have been texting nonstop.

Jane: How are you doing? We're here if you need us.

Sarah: Just checking in. Love you.

Jane: Scarlett, please let us know you're alive.

I've been responding minimally. Short messages.I'm okay. Just need space.

They've given me three days. I appreciate that. But I know they won't stay away much longer.

And then there's Miles: His name appears again and again in my call log. The first call came yesterday afternoon. Then more throughout the evening. By this morning, he's left six voicemails and fifteen textmessages. I haven't listened to any of them. Haven't read the texts beyond the preview that pops up on my screen.

Miles: Scarlett please..

Miles: I'm so sorry.

Miles: Can we talk?

The coffee maker beeps. I pour myself a cup and take it black, too tired to bother with cream or sugar. The bagel pops up. I butter it mechanically and take a bite. It tastes like cardboard.

I sink onto the couch with my coffee and stare at my phone. Against my better judgment, I open the voicemail app. One listen. That's all I'll give him. I press play on the most recent message.

His voice fills my living room:

"Scarlett, I'm sorry. I know I can't explain this right now. I just... I panicked. Please call me back. We need to talk."

Panicked? He panicked?!

Three years together. One year engaged. All the planning, all the promises, all the future we were supposed to build—and he panicked.

I delete the voicemail and toss my phone onto the couch cushion beside me. I can't deal with Miles right now. Can't hear his excuses or apologies or whatever the hell he thinks will make this better. Nothing will make this better.

By late morning, I can't stand my own smellanymore. I draw a bath, making the water as hot as I can tolerate, and pour in half a bottle of lavender bath salts.

Steam fills the bathroom as I sink into the water. My muscles relax. I close my eyes and let the tears come. They're slow at first. Silent. Then they build into sobs that wrack my entire body. I cry for the humiliation. For the wedding that never happened. For the future I thought I was building with Miles.