Chapter 43 Rhea
Iwait in the truck as Brighton drops Daisy off at Riona’s, staring at the container of pasta in my lap. Dinner went as well as expected. Reid stayed in his room the entire time Brighton was there, but Daisy had fun with the kids while I fielded all the embarrassing questions about our situation.
He took every single jab from my mother without flinching.
That house is like a cage. I glazed over through the entire dinner, periodically remembering that there were other people in the room when Shana made Toby cry, or Mom tried to get under Remi’s skin.
I washed the dishes quietly, taking the chance to try to catch my breath after being interrogated.
Brighton tried to help, but Gabe whisked him away to go through old albums, all while I convinced him that I was fine.
But his concerned expression is burned into my brain, and I just hope he doesn’t ask me questions I’m not ready to answer.
It was probably stupid to bring him there, to introduce him to that.
I can’t even imagine how I must look to him after all of that.
I curl my fingers around the container, trying not to cry from the overwhelming wave that consumes me.
I turn my gaze on him, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed as Riona talks to him, her eyes flickering to me periodically. Brighton nods, backing away as she shuts the door, and I refocus my gaze on my lap as he climbs into the driver's seat.
“Sorry.”
I laugh a little, and he scowls at me. “For what?” he asks.
“The wait,” he says.
“Brighton, you just sat through what some might describe as an FBI torture technique seminar…” I tease, and it brings a small smirk to his lips. “Sitting in the car for two minutes doesn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, the truck still in park.
“Yeah,” I sigh. It’s not the waiting that’s eating at me. Being in that house tends to make me a little frazzled; my brain’s still catching up from playing mediator, maid, nanny, and therapist for three hours. I’m just lucky today; I didn’t have to be a chef, too.
Brighton’s smile drops, and his jaw ticks noticeably as he stares me down.
“I’m just tired.” I lie easily. He might have signed up to kiss me now and again, but he certainly didn’t sign up for me having a total meltdown about my family.
He moves the truck away from the curb slowly, driving back down toward the Hollow to take us back to the apartment.
He’s quiet all the way there, both hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel and his gaze on the road.
He parks down the street like always, helping me out and taking my hand without a word.
The Hollow is busier than usual, but he doesn’t slow; he just weaves through the crowd, guiding me toward the stairs.
His hulking frame parts people out of our way until we pop out at the base of the stairs.
We’ve climbed them a hundred times in the last few weeks, but tonight I feel like I’m in trouble.
Maybe my emotions are haywire, and I can’t straighten myself out long enough to breathe, let alone decipher what he’s thinking, too.
“Brighton,” I say as we step inside, and he locks the door behind us. The sound of the bar beneath us is all-consuming today; it’s like we’re still in the middle of the chaos. But he moves around me, still silent, and wanders over to the living room.
Without explanation, he picks the coffee table up and moves it out of the way, creating space before he wanders back to me, takes the container, and throws it in the fridge.
“What are—”
He ignores me, disappearing down the hallway and returning with a stereo that he sets on the counter and plugs his phone into.
He stands quietly, his focus on the screen for a few moments before inhaling slowly, tapping it once, and setting it down.
He grabs my hand on the way by and pulls me into the space he created with such an effortless nature to his movements.
I twist around and end up with my back against his chest. His chin rests against my head as the music drowns out all the noise in the apartment, even our breathing.
I inhale slowly, and he tightens his grip around me.
I could cry. It feels so good—for the life of me, I can't figure out why it works so well—but I exhale, and it’s like all the muscles loosen in my body.
“Do it again,” he instructs.
I take a deep breath, he holds me close, and I exhale all the stress. I start to laugh wildly, on the verge of tears, and sink my teeth into my bottom lip.
“Why does that feel so good?” My voice quivers.
“My favorite feeling in the world used to be our rucksacks.” He explains. “The weight. Most of the guys hated it, but it helped me breathe.”
“Like one of those blankets…” I laugh gently, and he nods.
“Yeah.” He grunts. “You were overwhelmed."
“No, I wasn’t,” I lie again. He spins me gently to the music and brings me back chest to chest so he can stare me down. “I was… only a little.”
“Why?” His eyes search mine.
“That house holds a lot,” I swallow, “memories, anger, laughter, chaos. Everyone inside stayed the same. It’s like a time capsule and I—”
He cocks his head to the side when I drop my gaze from his. I feel childish. Who complains about that kind of thing—a happy family, a big house? People crave that comfort, and it rubs me like sandpaper.
“I step inside, and it’s like I’m back there.
Just that seventeen-year-old girl with absolutely zero control over her life.
” I blurt. “It’s disorientating, and infuriating.
Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between their happy, playful screaming.
It’s like I know it’s Toby and Shana, but I hear Reid and Remi. ”
Brighton tenses, his hands tightening around me as we dance lazily.
“So why did we go for dinner then?” he asks, not making me feel stupid about all the other stuff.
“Because—” I huff, and he waits patiently for me to figure it out. “That’s what people do. They meet each other’s parents, suffer through family dinners, and look at embarrassing photos.”
“Hellcat,” his tone shifts so eloquently I barely notice the change until his lips curl to the side and his eyes soften on my face. “I like you.”
“That’s good news,” I scoff, and he laughs gently.
“I mean, I like you.” He repeats it with emphasis, but I’m still confused.
“Still kinda vague, Brighton.” I stare up at him, and he nods, understanding that he’s going to have to elaborate just a little more.
“You like me, right?” he asks.
“Probably too much,” I confess, and he smiles brighter.
“Me?” he says, “I wasn’t always this person.” He stumbles over his words, and it’s unusual because he’s typically so calm and collected. “At seventeen, I was scared all the time, angry because my parents didn’t want kids anymore, helpless and undereducated to care for Day.”
I’m starting to understand what he’s trying to convey.
“I’m older, smarter, less scared,” he admits. “Can’t say the anger got better, it's just weaponized now. I know that if I ever saw my parents again I’d fucking kill them.” The honesty is terrifying, but he never breaks eye contact as he speaks. “I like you,” he says.
“Me.” I nod, understanding now.
“Yeah,” he hums, “Hellcat. You.” He kisses me gently, “Intelligent, funny, chaotic, messy and a little scary.” He continues to pepper open-mouthed kisses down my jaw and throat. “I like that you keep me on my toes.”
“That’s a polite way of saying I’m crazy.” I sigh, wrapping myself around him and resting my forehead against his chest.
“It is.” Brighton agrees.
I snap my head up, and he catches my jaw between his hands, “but I like you.”
“You keep saying that,” I whisper.
“Do you believe me yet?” he asks, his lips brushing slowly against mine, softer than before. His nose traces upward, and he kisses my top lip and then my cheek and temple.
“You might have to say it a couple more times,” I tease.
His mouth finds my ear lobe, his teeth tickling my skin, “I really like you.” He pulls back to look at me as I lift my fingers to trace his lips, as I think about how serious he sounds. “Rhea,” he whispers.
“You know you’d look really handsome with a mustache,” I study his face as my brows come together. My brain is just blurting crap to keep from overloading on how I feel when he watches me like this. I can hear Kaia climb him like a tree, but make sure that’s all you do.
“Never going to happen.” He denies me without even cracking a smile. Well, that prevents me from falling in love according to her list… easy.
“Boo,” I pout.
He takes advantage of it, dipping down and kissing me so hungrily that he has to steady me in his arms. My fingers push into his hair, and his tongue slides into my mouth. I pull gently and feel his smile grow against my lips as his hands roam up my back and press me flush to him.
Climb him like a tree.
“Hey, Brighton,” I break the kiss to catch my breath. “How come you haven’t…” I stumble over the words, “you know tried to—”
“Have sex with you?” He finishes my sentence. It’s the perfect opportunity, the apartment is empty, every makeout gets closer and closer to us crossing that line, but he always slows down, pulls back, goes cold.
“Yeah,” I swallow as his eyes flicker over my face.
“Sex ruins friendships,” he pauses.
“I think we’re past friendship, aren’t we?” I hum impatiently.
“I just want to take it slow, make it right,” he explains.
I stare at him, watching the way his jaw clenches, the muscle flicking tightly as he waits for my response. I understand what he’s saying, but I’m so sick of crawling into bed alone when he’s right here, and I’m begging to be touched just a little more.
But he’s trying to be a gentleman, and if it were anyone else, I’d be pissed that all they wanted was in my pants. I just can’t think straight around him.
“Alright,” I agree. “But—” I curl my fingers into the collar of his shirt and bring him eye level with me. “I want a proper make-out tonight, hands wandering, lines crossed. Do you hear me?” I order. He scoops down, lifting me with such ease, and carries me to his room with a smug look on his face.
“I hear you, Hellcat.” He laughs, kicking his door shut.