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“Whatever.” I roll away from her and sit up. Prop my elbows on my thighs and drop my head in my hands.
The sheets rustle and the bed dips behind me. Soft fingers trail around my waist as she scoots closer. I flinch and hate myself immediately for my negative reaction to her touch. A touch I crave more than is healthy.
“Sorry,” she whispers against my shoulder. Her lips kiss the top of my shoulder blade and I clamp my eyes shut.
I shake my head. “Don’t apologize.” My fingers drift to my hair and tug. “I wasn’t thinking.” Shrinking out of her hold, I rise from the bed. “Be back in a sec,” I say as I head for the bathroom. Eyes forward, I feel hers on me as I leave the room.
The door closes with a soft snick. I flip the light on and use the toilet. Crank the cold water and cup my hands under the sink faucet. Splash my face and snap myself back to reality, to the fact that nothing good will come from wanting the woman in the other room. I turn off the water, dry my face, and stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror for far too long.
Flipping off the light, I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom. Pad across the bedroom and stop when soft snores hit my ears. Minutes pass as I stare after her. Watch her chest rise and fall in time with those sweet snores.
An ache sparks beneath my sternum and I jab the heel of my palm to it to the dull pain.
“Time to go.” Before I lose the will to do so.
I step around the bed, lean down, and press a kiss to her spine. “Maybe in another life,” I whisper.
Then I pad across the room, taking one last glance before walking out the door. At the front door, I slip my shoes on. Unlatch the security chain, twist the dead bolt and handle lock, then turn the knob right. A whoosh of cool air sends goose bumps across my skin as I step out the door. I engage the lock on the handle and slowly close the door.
The latch clicks softly, but it is the loudest sound I’ve heard. The din of the end.
CHAPTER18
BRAYDON
The cursor taunts me as it blinks on the blank page. Notes and brochures and photos lie scattered across my desk. My project outline a blur of nonsensical places and moments and ideas. Words bounce around in my head. Images from weeks ago play on repeat. The scent of pine and lavender still fresh in my memory.
Yet, every time I rest my fingers over the keyboard, not a damn letter gets tapped. Not one. The words are there, just on the tip of my mental tongue, yet I can’t get them out. Can’t speak them. Can’t write them. Can’t set them free.
And it is all because of her.
Alessandra.
The woman overrides every damn thought I own. And she shut me down when I pushed for something beyond acquaintanceship with benefits.
I wholeheartedly believe she doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body. Hurting me wasn’t her goal when she’d said it wasn’t a good idea for us to keep in contact. The truth of her words stung—still sting—and faulting her for being honest makes me cruel.
The pang in my chest… that is on me. It is my burden to carry. My wound to heal. My hurt to mend.
What I need is to write this damn story. Get it over with and move on. Wrap up this small chapter in my life and squash the artificial feelings I associate with it.
Everyone and everything I hold close is here. In Seattle. My family, my job, the small group of people I call friends. All of it is here, not in some small town an hour south. Not in a brick building on Main Street in Lake Lavender.
A knock on my office door snaps me from my mental tirade. I blink at the screen then lift my gaze to see my father in the doorway.
“Mind if I come in?”
I gesture to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “By all means.”
Dad takes a seat, props an ankle on his knee, and stares across the desk. I close the lid of my laptop and give him my full attention. Lace my fingers in my lap and lean back in my chair. Wait for him to say something. Anything. Dad isn’t a boisterous man, but he isn’t the type to shelter his thoughts.
His sitting in silence serves a purpose. What the purpose is, I have no clue.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a soft timbre in his voice.
Of all the people to recognize I am far from myself, I should have known it would be Dad. When it comes to his son, nothing gets past Edward Harris.
When my relationship with Gabby fell apart, he was the first person to sense something was off. That I needed more than an ear to listen, but also a shoulder to cry on. A shoulder he offered without hesitation. A shoulder he let me cry on and didn’t make me feel less than because I displayed emotion. If anything, Dad encouraged tears. Coaxed me to share what society says to bottle up. Because real peoplefeelit all, and there is no shame in being human.
