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Brandon stood next to the open back door of his Mercedes. He looked like he had rolled out of bed and grabbed the first things he could find: worn, light-blue jeans, a blue T-shirt that was creased like he'd been sleeping in it, and a pair of running shoes that were only half-laced. His shirt hugged the contours of his chest and the lean, defined muscles in his arms. His wavy hair, gleaming gold at the ends, stuck out from under his favorite frayed Red Sox hat, and the street light above caught a glimmer of stubble lining the sharp edges of his jaw. Those piercing blue eyes that haunted my dreams nightly shined even in the dark, but were slightly puffy, like he had just woken up.
It had been just over two weeks since I'd seen him last, on the same day I'd graduated, when we'd fought and kissed and eventually said goodbye on the banks of the Charles River. On that day he'd worn a suit, the kind that made him look like his billions. Tonight, in the same basic uniform of half the men in Boston, he looked even better.
"H-hi," I said weakly, barely able to wonder what he was doing here or how he knew to come. My head throbbed. My stomach roiled again, but there was nothing in it to come up.
Brandon tipped his head to the side and sighed. He rubbed a hand over the bill of his cap, causing his shirt to ride up and reveal the hard lines of his abdomen. I drooled.
"Get in, Red," he said gruffly.
And, God help me, I did.
~
