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I unbuckle my seat belt. "Yes."
The moment our eyes meet, I can feel it. That heat. A tiny spark before the roaring fire ruins everything in its path.
"Have a good night, Iz," he nods.
I grab the door handle. "You, too, Brady."
As I slide off the leather seat, I look over my shoulder. He's still staring.
"What?" I smile as I turn to face him.
"Nothing," he shyly shifts his gaze to his lap.
"You know," I click my tongue, "as the co-founder of the Jerk Off to Thoughts of Izzy Club, I give you permission to jerk off to thoughts of me."
Brady grins. "Yeah?"
"Just don't tell Elliot," I boldly reply before shutting the door and hurrying up the concrete walkway.
As soon as I'm inside, I shut the door and lean back against it.
I can't work for Brady.
I can't work for Brady.
I can't work for Brady.
But damn, I really want to.
Chapter 4
Sundays are family days on the mountain. They always have been. And they probably always will be.
For as long as I can remember, the Thompsons gather at Cedar Ridge Lodge every week to eat brunch and bicker. It's their specialty.
To every other family member, it's a religion. To me, it's a reminder that I've failed. That my family is fractured and broken. That I didn't marry the love of my life—my soulmate.
The Thompsons have an annoying gift—finding the right person and holding on tight. Guess it must be part of their DNA. It's definitely not part of mine.
I take a deep breath as I grip the steering wheel in front of me. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can finish job hunting. Kind of seems like the theme of my life. Get this over with, then you can move on.
Brianna frowns when I unbuckle her car seat, but she doesn't say much. Mom and Dad took Dad's yellow Jeep to secure the heavily-sought tables at the lodge while I let Brianna sleep in. When she was up and ready to go, we took Mom's car.
Another reminder that I'm a failure. I don't even have transportation. I have to rely on my parents foreverything. Housing, food,anda vehicle.
"When are we going home, Mommy?" Brianna finally speaks up.
Ah, that's why she's frowning.
"Well," I clear my throat, trying to find the right words as we head toward the double glass doors.
How do I tell my three-year-old that Daddy and Mommy aren't going to live together anymore? How do I tell her that our life is here now? That what we had in California is gone—over?
"We're not going home," she states as we stop on the sidewalk. "Are we?"
I kneel in front of her as a cool breeze rustles through the crowded parking lot. "No, we're not. We're going to live here now."
"What about Daddy?"
