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12
Bronte’s apartment was exactly how Chris imagined. Neat and tidy. He helped himself to a peek around as she made coffee. The second bedroom seemed to double as a closet, with a sewing machine, desk, and plastic bins filled with craft supplies in the corner. He bypassed the bathroom and poked his head into her bedroom. Surprisingly, her bed was rumpled, her flowery turquoise comforter barely clinging to the corner of the mattress. He would’ve thought she made it up every morning, and he smiled at her very slight mess.
A collage of picture frames hung on one wall in the shape of a heart, and he studied each one: Bronte tailgating at a football game with three other girls in matching T-shirts, a short one with long, golden-copper hair, a tall, statuesque blonde, and a fire-engine redhead on Bronte’s back as if she’d surprised her with a piggyback. These girls were obviously important to Bronte because they popped up in a bunch of other photos, and he had to guess they were the same ones she had been visiting with in Chicago.
Although there were a few photos of her niece and nephews, and a couple more with her parents and siblings, Chris noted there were none of Hunter. And wasn’t that something? But there was one in particular, toward the point at the bottom, that he couldn’t stop staring at. It was a black-and-white of Bronte at the beach. She wore a bikini, splashing in the water with one leg up, laughing so her dimples were prominently displayed. A floppy hat covered her head, and she looked an awful lot like Audrey Hepburn there. She was beautiful.
“Black with a little sugar, right?”
“What?” He pivoted around, finding Bronte right behind him, holding out a coffee mug to him with World’s Best Teacher in colorful block letters on it.
“Yeah, perfect. Thank you.” He followed her back to the living room, and they took a seat on the couch.
She cleared her throat, holding her cup close to her lips when she spoke. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” Her voice was extra thick, probably from all the crying, making it even huskier than usual. “You drove all that way to pick me up, and you didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” He wanted to be the guy she called. Even though he could admit to himself he had no right to be since he would be leaving eventually. The attachment he felt to her was too strong to ignore.
And to her family. He was attached to them too.
When Pattie had called him to come over, he’d thought Steven was dead, seeing him unconscious on the floor. Adrenaline must have kicked in, because he assumed control, following directions from the 9-1-1 operator while keeping Pattie calm. As soon as the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over, a panic attack had started to take shape. He’d had difficulty filling his lungs with air, his vision closing in, his chest heavy.
Chris was terrified his neighbor, friend, and pseudo father figure would die right in front of him. Then, to make matters worse, he’d arrived at the hospital to learn Bronte was stuck out of town. He hadn’t thought twice as he’d grabbed his car keys.
He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d picked up Bronte in New Hope, but he didn’t mind when she’d launched herself into his arms. All he wanted to do was comfort her. He would give her anything—everything—to make her feel better, and the temptation to kiss her, comfort her without words, lose themselves in each other to forget this terrible day was strong. Now, when she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, he had no choice but to abandon hope of seducing her at the feel of her hiccupping breaths against his cheek. He held her close, rubbing soft circles against her spine.
“I’m sorry I’m crying so much. I started, and now I can’t stop.” A strangled giggle escaped, and she lifted her head, the corner of her mouth curling up. She swiped a hand across her nose. “I’m a mess.”
Chris gently cradled her face between his palms, wiping at her tears with his thumbs. Her cheeks were puffy, lips swollen and chapped, and her eyes rimmed red behind big, dark-framed glasses. Didn’t stop the attraction between them from overwhelming him. He figured it’d always be there, no matter what she did or said or looked like. He tucked strands of tangled hair behind her ears. “You’re beautiful.”
She batted at his shoulder. “I don’t want your pity compliments.”
He let out a breath, releasing his hold on her to run his hands over his hair. It was long now, past his chin, and he wove his hands into it, keeping them off her. “It’s not pity. It’s the exact opposite of pity,” he said, sharper than he intended to. “Bronte, I gotta tell you, I was nervous. I was really nervous your dad wasn’t going to make it. I felt…”
He stood up suddenly, needing the physical space away from her to get his thoughts together. “When everything went down with my parents, even my sister stopped talking to me. I was out in California by myself, and I didn’t think I’d ever get over being lonely. I spent so many years trying to make up for that, surrounded myself with people who didn’t give a shit about me, thinking as long as I was the life of the party, they’d care, but they didn’t. Then I came here, and your parents have taken me in like one of their own. All I could think was, if he dies, he’ll never know how much he means to me.” Bronte tried to interrupt, but he stopped her, barreling on with his declaration. “I don’t want to live like that. I don’t want to live with regrets. So, I want to be honest with myself and with you.”
Although there were plenty of things he’d like to get off his chest, he hadn’t given much thought to this spur-of-the-moment speech, so he started with what he thought was most important. “I like you, Bronte. I know that sounds juvenile, but I do. And I hate that you’re with somebody else who, by the way, I think is a real asshole…but don’t let me influence your decision to break up with him.”
She fought a smile, and he took that as a good sign, closing the distance between them. He bent over and traced her lips with his finger. “I want to kiss you. Real bad,” he said and then straightened, slipping both hands safely into his pockets. “But I won’t. Not until you get sorted and tell me it’s what you want.” He let out a ragged breath. No matter how much he wanted her, he wasn’t going to kiss her while she was still with someone else. “I didn’t realize it’d be so difficult, especially when you look at me the way you do.”
She swayed in front of him, and she reached for the edge of the couch as if to anchor herself. “What way is that?”
“I assume it’s the same way I look at you. Like the last piece of your favorite dessert is locked behind a glass door. Like you’re trying to hang on to the final shred of restraint you have before losing it all.”
Her attention snapped to him, and with her wide eyes and open mouth, he figured he’d either nailed how she felt about him or was dead wrong. Then her features softened, and she gazed up at him with the tiniest lilt to her lips, nodding.
He called it right. She was in this as deep as he was.
Fuck being the good guy.
He wasn’t good anyway. Never had been.
He lunged toward the sofa and pulled her to standing. She didn’t hesitate to place her hands on his chest, scrunching the material of his shirt in her fingers. He wound his hands into her hair, drawing her close enough to smell the vanilla creamer she put in her coffee, and goddamn, he wanted to taste it. When she leaned into him, he could feel every part of her body pressed up against his, and he fought back a groan.
He’d never worked so hard to kiss a girl before.
He’d never worked so hard to not kiss a girl before.
But as he lowered his lips to hers, her phone rang.
