Say You Will (Trust & Tequila Book 3)

9. Franki

nine

Bronwyn rests on her bed, a folded washcloth over her eyes, pale blonde hair spread over her pillow like corn silk. The lights are off and the curtains drawn, but it’s still bright enough to exacerbate her residual headache. Without changing position, she pats the empty spot on the bed beside her. “Bring it in, Lennox. Oliver too.”

I kick off my shoes, lift Oliver, and climb on the bed beside her. Gingerly, Oliver and I scooch close. I lie on my side and he climbs up onto my hip, stretching out to lie on top of me. I wrap my arm around Bronwyn’s middle.

“I”m sorry,” she says quietly.

“You don’t have to do this now. Apologize when you feel better. I won’t love you any less, either way.”

She pats my hand where it rests on her stomach, tosses the washcloth to her bedside table, and rolls onto her side to face me.

“I love you too, Franki.” She shakes her head. “I never should have kept my marriage a secret from you guys. I broke Girl Code over and over. And for what? Because I was insecure? You never would’ve done to me what I did to you.”

After a brief hesitation, I say, “No, I wouldn’t have. It hurts that you didn’t trust me.”

Bronwyn plucks at a string of embroidery on her comforter, her brows furrowed. “It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. It was that, in my heart, I knew my marriage was a mess, but I didn’t want to face it because I was too afraid to lose him.”

I open my mouth to protest, and Bronwyn’s crystal blue gaze holds me captive. “You’d have told me I’d made a mistake and to find a way out of that prenup. Talking it all out with you would have helped me cope better. The ironic part is, Dean never would have left me. If I’d stood up and told him I wouldn’t tolerate half a marriage any longer, he’d have found a way to fix it. I didn’t have a clue how much he loved me.”

Lifting her hand into mine, I admit, “We all tell each other what to do constantly. I can’t speak for Janessa or Clarissa, but I’ll do better. You can tell me anything, and I promise I’ll listen without judgment or advice unless you ask for it.”

Fifteen minutes and one new confession from Bronwyn later and I regret my promise. Just a smidge.

I peer out her window, down to the flagstone patio below and the matte blue of the pool cover. Despite the McRae’s team of dedicated landscaping crew, a few colorful leaves take up temporary residence on random places like that pool cover or the short stone wall between the patio and lawn.

I almost regret that an industrious crew will sweep them clean. Real beauty requires the unexpected. Life needs some chaos. With a grimace, I turn back to where Bronwyn sits on the edge of her bed and mentally amend “a little chaos.” What she’s planning is not a good idea. “Would you . . . er . . . like my advice?”

Bronwyn gives me a mischievous smirk. “Nope.”

At my pained expression, she snickers. “Does it hurt to hold the advice back?”

I clutch my stomach and confess with a laugh, “So much.”

“You can tell me the bright side to my plan.”

“Oh, ha! This is a test. Let me see.” Tapping my chin with an over-dramatic finger, I pretend to think. “It could actually work, in which case you’ll be blissfully happy, though wracked with guilt. So, we’ll call it ‘gappy.’ But gappy is better than utter misery, so it’s a win.”

“You’ll note the guilt only gets one letter while happy has four. Clearly, happy is the greater part of the equation.”

“There you go. Positive thinking,” I encourage.

Bronwyn smiles before her face scrunches into concern. “You could come with me. You remember the house I inherited in Blackwater. There’s tons of space. Mom is taking care of finishing the renovations, so everything’ll be updated, but it’s still a crazy mishmash of Georgian mansion and Pennsylvania farmhouse. You’ll love it.”

“You want me to move in with you, your new husband, and stepdaughter? Why? I’d be in the way of your family bonding time.”

At her hesitation, the reason for Bronwyn’s offer becomes clear. “You pity me because I can’t stay with my father, and I don’t have an apartment yet.”

Bronwyn’s cheeks turn pink. “It’s just . . . I know you don’t like to be alone, and I’m worried you’ll feel awkward staying here without me and try to leave before you can afford to.”

I dart my gaze to the door then back to her. “Do they not want me here? Am I a nuisance or—”

“Think about my parents, especially my dad. Be for real. Arden McRae III isn’t tolerating anyone he doesn’t like in his home. He wouldn’t feel an iota of guilt about it either. They love you. The invitation was Mom’s idea in the first place.”

Tension unfurls and I breathe out through my mouth. “I’ll enjoy my visit and when I find a place, I’ll be fine alone.” I indicate my sleeping pooch. “Alone with Oliver, anyway. It’ll be a million times better than living with my mother.”

“But you’re sad.”

I laugh. “How in the world did you decide I’m sad? I’m always looking on the bright side.”

“Because you always have to look on the bright side.”

Silence falls between us.

“I challenge you to tell me something that stinks,” she says.

“That’s negative thinking.”

“Acknowledging that some things suck sweaty monkey balls isn’t negative. It’s accepting reality so you can move past it.”

I squinch my face up in disgust. “Unnecessarily graphic, but okay.”

I hesitate, then say, “Something that sucks is your brother offered me a paycheck to be his wife so your grandmother will give him shares in a real estate development company.”

It takes three solid beats of my heart before Bronwyn explodes. “That bonehead.”

I shrug. “I turned him down, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she says dryly. “Did he think because you had a crush in high school that you’d fall at his feet now? How rude can he get?”

I smile ruefully. “I’m not sure he realized how big of a crush I had. It’s fine. He apologized and accepted my refusal with good grace.”

Bronwyn’s brows come together. “Really? Henry accepted defeat gracefully?”

I nod. “He’s a practical person.” A hard ball of stress tightens in my stomach, and I clear my clogged throat. “He offered me a job, though. He’s in the beginning stages of acquiring a small tech company in France, of all places. He needs a translator that can act as go-between. I’m excited about it.”

She tilts her head slightly to the side. “Interesting timing.”

“He calls it serendipitous. It is for me too. I can do this job. I’ll be good at it. My French is flawless, and he says I can use voice to text when my body isn’t cooperating with me.”

Despite the squinted eyes from her headache, a smile breaks across her face. “You’re right. It’s perfect.”

“You want to know something else unpleasant about my life? My father expects me to keep some old hotel magnate entertained until the man signs a contract with him.”

Bronwyn’s expression morphs to disgust. “Why do I get the impression you’re not talking about an hour of conversation in your father’s office?”

“The guy saw my photo and wants to ‘get to know me.’ Jonny made it sound like whether the deal goes through or not depends on how friendly I am.”

“That’s revolting.”

I glower. “I know.”

“When are you going no-contact with your parents? They are so toxic.”

“I’m getting better at boundaries with them. I’d still be in California with my mother and I’d have agreed to date that guy for my father if I weren’t.”

Before Bronwyn can interject and tell me that’s not enough, I go on. “Besides, what’s the point of going no-contact with my father? I hear from the man once a year, if that. Everything goes through his PA.”

She shakes her head.

“You,” I accuse, pointing a finger, “are giving me unsolicited advice. We just agreed to stop doing that.”

She grimaces. “Oops.”

“You and Henry with your ‘oopses’ and your ‘hmms.’”

Her eyes widen. “Did you just pull a ‘you’re just like your brother’ on me? Henry and I are nothing alike. At all.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t absorbed some of his techniques in handling people. I won’t believe you.”

“They’re effective,” she defends.

“No doubt.”

A tap on Bronwyn’s doorframe, and at Bronwyn’s call to enter, Henry, himself, stands with one hand in his pocket. Nodding to me brusquely and adjusting his glasses, he says, “Your hair looks different. Nice. Good job.”

My insides turn to pure, delighted mush, and I pat my fishtail braid self-consciously. “Thanks.”

Bronwyn’s voice drips with warning. “Henry.”

He looks back at her. “Yes?”

Glancing my way, Bronwyn shakes her head at my sunny expression, visibly shores herself up to keep her mouth shut, and mutters, “Never mind.”

Henry turns his attention back to me. “I wondered if you’d like to have dinner with me this evening. We can discuss your new position and your requirements for an apartment. I can look into some possibilities based on your needs.”

For a moment, when he asked me to dinner again, I lit up inside like I was full of the lightning bugs we once caught together on a summer trip to Blackwater. But this isn’t an invitation to a date. It’s about my new job and finding me a place to live. I rejected his marriage proposal. Now he’s being friendly. Totally makes sense. It’s what I asked for. What I want. Sheesh. Get it together, Franki. “No—Yeah.” I take a slow breath and try again. “Yes. I would love to have dinner with you and discuss plans to get started on my job.”

When Oliver trots over to sniff him, Henry crouches and pets his back. Unimpressed, Oliver puts his nose in the air and pitter-patters his way back to me. When he reaches me, he stretches the entirety of his long body across both of my feet and gives Henry side-eye. The message is clear. “Mine.”

Bronwyn, apparently unaware of the interchange between Oliver and Henry, huffs and twists her lips as she looks down at the sneakers lying on the floor near her feet. “Must be nice to leave the house. Except for traveling from the hospital to here, I haven’t been outside in weeks.”

“Are you up for it? I’ll help you with the stairs if you want,” Henry says.

She nods. “I need it. Just for ten minutes or so.”

Henry must notice her hands shaking at the same time I do because we both find ourselves kneeling in front of her and reaching for her sneakers simultaneously.

When we go for the same shoe, my fingers brush his, and we still. Henry’s gaze takes mine captive, the sparkling twilight depths hiding . . . something from me. His lashes fall briefly, then Henry dips his head, picks up the other sneaker, and holds it out to me. “Trade you.”

I’m crouched directly in front of Bronwyn’s right leg, but I have her left shoe. It’s the silliest thing in the world that his eyes on me and the way he’s offering to swap shoes has my heart racing and a giddy sort of happiness rising in my chest.

He’s so close I imagine I can feel the heat of his body sinking into my skin.

There’s no reason for us to touch when we make the swap, but Henry’s fingers coast over the back of my hand when I pass him mine.

Henry is tall and lanky, and his hands suit the rest of him. They’re lean, but strong, with long fingers and wide palms. Masculine. Capable. The hands of a surgeon or a pianist.

I noticed last night that several scars litter his knuckles, and my gaze falls on them now. The worst of them is a broad, silvery-white slash across the knuckle above his ring finger. Most of those scars happened after I left for Europe, but I knew some of what he’d been doing before I left.

I have the insane urge to tell him everything will be okay. It makes no sense. He’s not in pain or in trouble, but my heart hurts at the sight of them.

He kneels in front of his sister, carefully fitting her foot into her shoe and tying the laces.

Henry’s hands tell the story of two men. One capable of heartrending kindness and one of unspeakable brutality.

He saw that his sister needed care, and he’s providing it.

Janessa would roll her eyes and say something about the bar being in hell for me being impressed by that, but anticipating another person’s needs isn’t something most people do.

Bronwyn squirms. “This feels a little weird guys.”

She lightly shoves her brother away. “I appreciate the help, but I don’t need the ladies’ maid treatment, especially not from both of you at the same time.”

Since we’re done tying her shoes anyway, we both move back. Henry rises, then offers to help me to my feet.

I place my palm against his as I stand. Henry doesn’t let go afterward. Instead, he holds on, twining his fingers through mine and staring at our hands with an intent expression on his face.

“Henry,” Bronwyn says quietly.

We both glance her way. She looks down at our hands, then back at her brother, giving him a frown and the tiniest shake of her head.

It’s a sort of ingrained shorthand in this family. One of those things hardly anyone ever notices. Bronwyn is younger than Henry, and in every overt and obvious way, he’s been her protector. He’s the older brother who takes care of her and tells her what to do.

That may be what it looks like on the outside, but on the inside, there’s nuance most people will never understand. Right now, she’s trying to protect him from me. Bronwyn wants Henry to mask his autism, as though I’m a stranger or someone who would use it against him. She’s afraid I’ll misinterpret his actions and hurt his feelings.

When Henry attempts to release my hand in response to his sister’s signal, I refuse to allow it. He’s not letting me go because someone else, someone not me, says he should.

Henry lifts his eyes to mine in surprise.

Holding his gaze, I try to impress on him how serious I am. Not for the first time, I wish I had a deeper voice or that I could make myself sound stern the way Janessa does. I settle for giving our clasped hands a shake. “We”re friends, Henry. Please don’t worry about trying to fit some socially acceptable mold with me.”

I lift my shoulders and offer him a self-deprecating smile. “I’m still just Franki.”

He shakes his head, his gaze flicking away. A lump lodges in my throat.

When he looks back, Henry’s attention shifts to my eyes, then my mouth. Then back to my eyes. In response, my breaths grow shallow and too fast.

Never, outside of fear, have I experienced this kind of chemical reaction in my bloodstream. A hot mix of adrenaline and electricity courses through my body, controlling everything from the beat of my heart to the air in my lungs to the hyper-awareness of his calloused skin against mine. My veins sing with it, but I don’t want to run away or hide. I want to know what his kiss tastes like.

His words, when they come, are quiet, fervent, and sound outright offended. “There has never been any such thing as ‘Just Franki.’”