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“Nothing boring about you, and just because she isn’t over me doesn’t mean I’m not over her. It really doesn’t matter. I’ll wait until he gets bored and fucks off to hound someone else.”
If only it was that easy. I don’t dare mention the X-rated video dangling over my head like a guillotine, a career-ending atom bomb Carmen could unleash anytime, even if it wrecks her, too.
“Nick, I’m sorry this Osprey guy wants to trash your reputation. Your family’s been through enough with everything that happened last year. But doesn’t that prove my point? Don’t you have your own crap to worry about?” She tilts her head, studying me. “I just...I don’t understand. Is this some kind of weird stress relief for you? Trying to fix my life because—because maybe you can’t fix yours?”
What the fuck?
My gut twists, even as her face registers pure horror a second after the words fall out. This is what she thinks of me?
Hell. What if she’s right?
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean...” She grabs my arm. “Nick—wait!”
“Forget it. I’ll walk the rest of the way since we’re only a few blocks from my place. Have a good night, Reese.” I open the passenger door and stalk out.
I’m across the parking lot and on the sidewalk when I look back. The Lincoln’s still parked.
Whatever. She can sit there as long as she wants. I have nothing to say if I only bring her grief over ulterior motives.
She calls me three times.
After the third attempt, I send her a text, walking through the lobby of my penthouse.
I’m busy. See you tomorrow.
I silence my phone and drop it back in my coat pocket.
I have nothing left to say to you tonight, Miss Halle.
Can I really blame her for thinking that, though? Honestly?
The Chicago Tea proves one thing—there’s an avalanche of shit out about me waiting to break every day. If I were a twenty-something year old woman whose life was falling apart, I wouldn’t put my faith in the Nicholas Brandt either.
No matter what I do there, I’m cursed.
There’s no coming back from the past.
Memories of her first month race through my head. I probably mistook her for a college boy because I was drunk off my ass. Even with her bulky winter trench coat and cap, there’s no way a body like Reese Halle’s looks remotely male.
I’m such a fallen fucking star.
If my grandparents weren’t Brandts, I’d be living in a cardboard box.
No wonder she questions my motives even if she’s dead wrong about them.
No wonder I look like this clumsy, washed-up superhero charging into her mess with nothing but deep pockets to help.
No wonder I’m still jerking off to this woman, coming in the shower with a release that hurts—and it’s as close as I’ll ever get to having her under me.
Let her think I’m human trash.
I’m not backing off until I know they’re safe. She can be pissed and insult me to my face if she wants. I don’t fucking care.
Helping her is one thing I won’t regret, even if I’ve got a better chance of becoming the Pope than having one torrid night of sheet-ripping sex with Reese Halle.
Sitting by the fireplace I don’t bother to light, I stare at the darkening cityscape until I’m buried in shadows. I unmute my phone before I bother voice-activating the lamp.
She hasn’t tried to call again.
Good, I lie to myself.
Jaw clenched, I send another message. Forget about earlier. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stormed off like a dejected thirteen-year-old.
Her response is immediate.
Bossman, truth be told, you’re always a little Jekyll and Hyde. But you’re not the one who should be apologizing. I had no right to ask you that crap, and I’m sorry.
I smile because that’s my Reese.
Correction: that’s Reese, and I only wish she was mine.
I know what I need to do.
I have to get to the bottom of whatever’s happening with her sister, before it gets the jump on her or that poor kid.
Then I need to permanently delete her from my dirty dreams, my lust, my quiet obsession that only grows harsher the longer we play this long game.
Even if it kills me, I’ll protect her from me.
13
Cannonball Proof (Reese)
Millie and I are at Millennium Park, her favorite place in the city.
She’s adorable and carefree, tottering around the Bean, a gleaming icon like quicksilver in the sun.
In my head, I keep replaying my stupidity with Nick last night. And it feels pretty terrible that he was the first to apologize—even if I tried to beat him to the punch with my calls.
He shouldn’t have. I was nothing short of rude as hell. On impulse, I send him a text.
I’m sorry again for last night.
The worst part is, I’m not sure I was wrong. I definitely should not have blurted it out to his face, but...
