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Cutter cursed softly under his breath. “How soon can you plan a wedding that doesn’t look slapped together?”
“In Sunset? January sixth.”
“That’s too long. Your pregnancy will likely be showing by then.”
“Maybe not, with the right dress. But everything is booked up with the holidays. Out of curiosity, I called Norma Kay and asked if she could cater food for an event in December. She said she promised her family she’d do pre-Christmas parties, then take a vacation until the first of the year. Who else in Sunset can do the event except Violet? She just had a hip replacement yesterday in Baton Rouge.”
“Brea, you’ll have to bend a little or run the risk of everyone finding out.”
“If I bend a little, as you call it, people will guess that something’s off right away.”
“What if we took a cruise out of New Orleans and got married in the Caribbean, told your father and the rest of the town we eloped because we didn’t want to wait? You’ve always said you wanted to sail to paradise. Everyone knows it.”
That made her pause for a long moment. “Let me think about that. Maybe…maybe everyone would buy that. Can I let you know next week?”
“Yeah.” There was that something heavy weighing him down again.
“Cutter, are you all right?”
He paused such a long time that dread twisted her. Finally, he sighed. “I, um…need to get something off my chest.”
“Of course. What is it?”
Yes, she worried about her baby and her situation and how to save face in Sunset. But she loved him and worried about him, too. “I’ve been babbling on about my issues and haven’t listened to yours. I’m sorry. Tell me.”
“I need to make sure you can handle a marriage that isn’t…romantic. If we do this, we either have to give it a genuine go or—”
“It’s not possible.” She couldn’t be intimate with a man she considered her brother. Heck, she didn’t think she could betray her heart and have sex with any man who wasn’t Pierce.
“I don’t think I can, either.” He sighed again. “Bre-bee, I’m in love with someone.”
Brea froze as his words registered and shock sank in. “Oh. Then of course you’re not marrying me. I’ll find another way to keep my baby and my life. Don’t worry. Please. Marry the woman who has your heart. I want you to be so happy, Cutter. I want that for you more than anything.”
“I can’t. She’s sweet and wonderful—but she has her own huge life that doesn’t include me. I knew going in that she’d talk to me, go to bed with me, but…”
Since Cutter had never before mentioned being in love and he’d been uncharacteristically quiet these past few days, it seemed obvious he’d fallen for the actress he was guarding. “So, it’s your starlet client? I’m sure she’s very pretty.”
“That’s not why—”
“You don’t have to say anything. And you don’t have to make excuses. I understand. I really do, more than you know.” Sometimes love just happened, whether a person wanted it or not. And once it took hold, there was no shaking it. “If you think there’s no long-term chance between the two of you—”
“None.”
The finality in that sad syllable made her heart hurt for him. Brea knew what it was like to love someone who would never love her back. “Then she doesn’t know what a great husband she’s missing out on, and it would be my distinct honor to be your wife.”
A sad pause hung between them. “It’s settled. You think about eloping, and we’ll make a plan once I’m home next week.”
“Okay.” She’d already messed up her life. All Brea could do now was hope she didn’t mess his up, too. “I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you don’t regret this.”
In case any of Montilla’s assholes had eyes on him, One-Mile hadn’t had any contact with Brea since that shitty morning in her foyer thirteen fucking agonizing days ago. Being apart from her—her smile, her softness, her kiss—was driving him beyond batshit. He paced his cubicle at EM Security Management like it was a cage.
Since the clusterfuck of Montilla’s breakout in St. Louis, the bosses had punished him with the shittiest assignments. Last week, he’d spent two days in New Orleans babysitting the son of a former president, now running for Senate. The former first son had received some vague death threats on social media shortly before attending a summit on responsibility in government. After giving a rousing speech about community and personal accountability, he’d rubbed elbows and shaken hands for two hours. Then the white-privilege poster boy had spent the rest of his Big-Easy stay balls deep in strippers while snorting perfect white lines of cocaine.
No wonder people hated politicians.
And that had been his most hard-core assignment lately. Logan had sent him off for “training” with a group of corporate security blowhards who fixated on firewalls in between hours of coma-inducing slideshows about gun safety—a class he could teach in his sleep. For three days, they had focused on things like safekeeping of records and, his personal favorite, maintaining a strict chain of command. The following day, Hunter had volunteered him for security at an all-day seniors’ bingo tournament. And on Tuesday, he had worked a community parade.
