here (Distance #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

NAOMI

I should ring the bell.

The spare key digs into my palm as I stand outside the apartment.

I would ring it. But I know he won’t answer.

The key slips into the lock easily, and I push the door open with my shoulder, the stench of stale beer and take-out immediately turning my empty stomach. Wrinkling my nose, I step cautiously inside and softly close the door behind me.

The living room is a disaster.

Empty bottles, crushed beer cans, crumpled food containers, and a lone sock draped over the arm of the couch. And the sink in what used to be a chef’s dream of a kitchen? A mountain of dirty dishes that could rival Everest.

This isn’t the Brandon I know. The Brandon I know is a neat freak, obsessive even, about cleanliness. You could have eaten from every surface. Now? It looks like a frat house the morning after a rager.

I weave through the junk toward his bedroom. “Brandon?”

If he’s passed out, I suppose waking him gently might save me from his wrath.

The door is ajar.

He is sprawled on the bed, one arm hanging off the side, the other covering his eyes. His bare chest rises and falls steadily, the defined six-pack tapering into a low V that disappears beneath the blanket draped across his hips.

I should leave. Turn around and walk out. Let him wallow in his misery.

But my feet carry me closer.

Half-empty bottles litter his nightstand, along with a container from Elliot’s restaurant.

“Brandon.” I touch his shoulder. “You need to get up.”

He stirs, arm sliding from his face. Those blue eyes crack open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they land on me.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite cupcake.” A smirk tugs at his lips, his eyes lingering on my collarbone, then my waist, before meeting my gaze again. “Come to join me?”

God. Help me.

His face is shadowed by stubble, and his hair is a disheveled mess. He looks like hell. Maybe he’ll be too weak to fight me on this.

I step back, crossing my arms. “When’s the last time you showered?”

“Dunno. What day is it?” He pushes himself up, the blanket slipping dangerously low.

“Tuesday. You missed the board meeting, and the event starts in 2 hours.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” comes the obvious lie. I’m here, after all. “But people will talk if you don’t show. You can’t just skip it.”

He closes his eyes again, rubbing his temples as if that’ll fix everything or make me disappear. “Tell them I’m sick or something.”

“Like they’ll believe that.”

“Maybe I don’t give a shit. Ever think of that?”

“This isn’t just about you. The company?—”

“He’s dead.” He swings his legs over the bed and reaches for the whiskey bottle, but I snatch it away.

“You had enough. Don’t you think?” Luckily, he wears boxers. Otherwise, I would have sprinted out of this room.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” He stands up, and for a heartbeat, I think he’ll lunge at me, and we’ll wrestle over that bottle like toddlers fighting over a toy. Instead, he stumbles toward the dresser, opens the top drawer, and pulls out a bottle of aspirin, shaking a few into his palm and swallowing them like candy.

“Naomi,” he says, softer. “Just… leave. Please.”

I should. I could be doing a million other things, like being at the gym right now. But here I am, babysitting a grown man who can’t seem to get his shit together.

So, I’m going to drag his sorry ass out of here. Whether he likes it or not. “Again. If you don’t show up, people will talk. And if they start talking, they’ll wonder why your loving girlfriend”—I point at myself—”isn’t able to convince you to attend a simple event held in your father’s honor.”

He appraises me, top to bottom. “You’re really nailing this whole ‘supportive girlfriend’ act. How about a career in Hollywood?”

I set the bottle down next to some others at the door. “Only if you promise to be my co-star. We could call it ‘The Reluctant Asshole and the Girl Who Couldn’t Care Less.’”

“You’re the one who agreed to it.” He takes a step toward me. “You could have said no. You could still say no.”

“And then what?” I close the distance between us, jabbing my finger into his chest. “My mother hounding me about being single, and my father, who barely acknowledges my existence at the office as it is, throwing me out the moment I stopped meeting their expectations? Don’t act like I have any real choices here.”

We’re close now, too close, and I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. The smell of alcohol seeps from his pores, mixed with the faintest trace of his cologne. It’s intoxicating, making my heart race for all the wrong reasons.

I take a step back, creating some much needed space.

“I’m just saying,” he says, “if it’s so unbearable, you could end our oh-so-loving relationship. I’m not holding a gun to your head.”

No, just a knife to my throat. Just like when we were in college and he’d corner me in the hallway, all charm and dimples, asking me to taste his latest culinary creation. The same fluttering panic. The same helpless surrender.

“I’ll play my part,” I say. “Can you?”

“Would you be here if we didn’t have that stupid deal?”

I hesitate, and that says everything.

He walks past me toward the bathroom, scratching his chest with the nonchalance of a condemned man. “You can let yourself out.”

What I let out is a silent scream of frustration. Can’t he be like in college and follow me around like a lost puppy? That would help right now. A lot.

“Fine,” I call out loud enough for him to hear through the half-closed bathroom door. “Asshole.”

The sound of running water drowns out whatever retort he might have had.

If I leave now, I can still make it, maybe salvage this with some excuse. But if I do leave now, he won’t come. And he needs to show up, for himself, if not for anyone else.

Six months have passed. He seemed fine at first, but then… Why do I stay? I fumble the key from my purse, turning it over in my fingers. Elijah said I could keep it and that Brandon would want me to have it. But would he? I’m not so sure.

The shower stops, and hope flares in my chest like a match struck in darkness.

No. He’s just washing off the sweat and stink. He’ll crawl back into bed if I let him.

“Brandon?”

No answer. Figures.

How do I convince this stubborn asshole? It’s useless, isn’t it? The silence stretches, uncomfortable, and just as I turn to leave, the bathroom door swings open.

A towel is slung low around his hips, water glistening on his skin like he’s stepped out of some movie. A far cry from the disheveled mess he was moments ago. He looks… better. More like the Brandon I remember. A droplet of water escapes from his hair, trailing down his neck, and my eyes betray me, tracing the lines of his chest, down to his abs, to where the towel clings precariously. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

“What?” he asks, and I snap back to his face.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without the ‘hungover hobo’ look.”

“Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.” He’s holding up a razor, the kind you get from a dollar store, three to a pack. The exact ones I got him. Where did his old fancy one go?

“You’re going to dry shave?” I ask.

“Normally, no. But I destr—” He glances down at the razor and then back at me. “I’m out of cream.”

Of course he is. “Elijah told me to bring… stuff. In case of emergencies.” I dig through my bag and toss him the shaving cream I brought along with the razors he doesn’t need anymore.

He catches it mid-air, eyeing it suspiciously before heading back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him again.

Guess the beard has to go for now. Pity.

“You know, contrary to what you believe, your father cared.” I sit on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over my chest. “He believed you’d do great things.”

I hear the hiss of the shaving cream and the sound of the razor scraping his skin. “He was delusional.”

“He was your father. He wanted what was best for you.”

“He wanted a clone of Elijah.”

I stand and approach the bathroom door. “I think we remember two different people.”

Silence, then the scraping noise resumes.

I lean against the wall next to the door, my head thudding softly against it. The razor keeps scraping, and I close my eyes, trying not to picture him. But the image comes anyway. Water droplets flowing over his defined chest in rivulets, arm muscles, strong enough to pick me up and throw me on the bed, flexing and—God, I hate this arrangement.

Hate that I need it as much as he does. Hate that every time I’m near him, my body betrays me with these stupid little reactions. Like I’m still that college girl who watched him cooking, who dreamed about those hands on…

The razor stops. Water runs.

Focus. Get him dressed, get him to the event, and keep the act going. That’s all that matters.

The water stops running, the razor clatters against the sink, and the door swings open again.

“I’m done.” He emerges clean-shaven and dripping wet, the towel still clinging precariously to his hips. I’m sure he’s currently not wearing any boxers.

“So you’re coming?” I ask.

He grabs a shirt from a pile on the floor and wipes himself down absently. “I’ll tell Elijah I had a migraine. That I was too sick to get out of bed.”

“So you’re not coming.”

Again. No answer. Instead, he walks to his closet and pulls out a suit.

“I’ll come,” he says, “if you make it worth my while.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Worth your while? This isn’t a negotiation.”

The arrogant prick smirks. “Come on. Don’t you want to show the world how madly in love we are?”

“Pretending to tolerate you is my greatest performance yet.” I hold up one finger. “I’ll let you do one public display of affection. Your choice.”

Now, he’s the one raising his eyebrow. You horny— “You mean I can hold your hand or kiss you, just like a real boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you?”

“One small gesture, Milton,” I warn him with my tone, not that it ever does any good with him. “Don’t push it.”

“How am I allowed to touch you then?”

“I don’t know. Surprise me. But keep it PG, got it?”

“Oh, I’ll keep it family-friendly. Trust me.”

“At least you haven’t lost your humor.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny?”

“Humor.” I point out flatly. “Funny would mean I would actually laugh.”

“Same to me.” He winks and gets a dress shirt from the closet. How did this guy survive until now?

“Let me.” Without waiting for permission, I walk over and take the shirt from his hands, unbuttoning it methodically. “You’ll need to dry off first.”

He nods and lets the towel fall away to scrub his hair dry, then dabs at his chest and…

I cover my eyes. “Put some clothes on.”

“Why? You’re the one who barged into my apartment.”

“Didn’t barge. I have a key.” I spin around, which feels less about giving him privacy and more about hiding my reaction from him.

He tosses something—probably the towel—aside, and suddenly, his voice is right next to my ear. “What’s wrong? Never seen a naked man before?”

“None quite as full of themselves.”

“But you have seen some?” His voice drops dangerously low. “Recently?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re right.” Some rustling sounds as he starts getting dressed, thankfully, but not before adding, “It’s not like we’re actually dating.”

“Just get dressed.” I hold the shirt out behind me.

He takes it. “Yes, ma’am.”

A stack of unopened mail and folders on the dresser catches my attention. The top envelope bears a red ‘URGENT’ stamp across its surface. I hope it’s an eviction notice. Maybe they’ll finally kick him out for not replying to them, but then again, he probably owns this place, or at least Elijah does.

“Though I have to say,” he says, “if we were dating, I’d make sure you didn’t have time to look at other men.”

“Your ego is showing. And it’s not big.”

“You haven’t seen my ego yet, cupcake. Big tip.” A belt clinks. “It grows.”

My mouth goes dry, and heat crawls up my neck.

Usually, I have some sharp retort ready. But right now? Nothing. Just the thundering of my heart and the acute awareness that I should say something. Anything.

I’m just grateful he can’t see my face.

“I’m done,” he says.

Turning back, my eyes catch on the askew collar, like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. He must have done it on purpose. Silent now, he watches with dull eyes as I reach up, straightening his shirt with jerky hands.

One small gesture. That’s all it’ll take to keep up the charade, to make it look real. I can handle that. I have to.

I step back, admiring or rather scrutinizing.

He looks almost presentable, like the man he’s supposed to be.

“If you want me naked,” he says with that devilish glint in his eye, “all you have to do is ask.”

“Behave yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” He grabs a set of keys beside the mail and walks to the door, not waiting for me.

Brandon Milton doesn’t have an innocent bone in his body, and somehow, that makes me want him more than ever.