7. Sophie
7
SOPHIE
O kay, I’m getting really close to losing it.
Like, full-on, straitjacket-level cray-cray. My relationship expertise might be a little thin, but I’m a conventionally attractive twenty-four-year-old with an engineering degree. I get hit on. In fact, I’m pretty sure my Bram-inspired drinking spree the other night was the first time I’d paid for my own drinks in years.
I must have lost more blood than I could spare, however, because the way Bram Vogel was looking at me earlier… Yeah. It doesn’t make sense. As far as I know, he has a girlfriend, and his being so incredibly kind to me today was because he’s an incredibly kind man. That’s it. Any suspicions I had that my feelings might be reciprocated were firmly put to rest the other night, and the last thing I need is to talk myself out of moving on with something as flimsy as a look.
Sighing, I tilt my head back, letting the spray of water warm the chill that settled in my bones just going from Bram’s car to the house. The blood has long since run off, but I can’t bring myself to get out of the shower just yet. In a few minutes, I’m going to have to go downstairs and eat dinner with Bram, and it would be ideal if, before that happens, I could stop fantasizing about him telling me to get on my knees for him.
Groaning, as the reminder alone makes my clit pulse, I turn off the water, stepping out of the huge shower onto a fluffy white bath mat.
Before today, I’d been to Bram’s house only once, for a birthday dinner he threw for Honor six months ago. That night, I spent an hour in the bathroom, plucking my eyebrows and exfoliating every inch of my skin, as if I didn’t see the man every single day at work. It felt different to be in his home, though, the boundaries of our relationship expanding past E&V.
Nothing happened that night. Obviously. I wasn’t expecting Bram to declare his wild attraction and undying love for me at his daughter’s birthday dinner. Even so, I was excited to get a glimpse into his personal life.
I wasn’t disappointed. Bram’s house—a stunning, mid-century modern structure built right onto the side of a mountain—is breathtaking. After a year of working for him, I know his signature style, and every line of this house is a testament to what a brilliant architect he is. When the immediate sense of wonder wore off, I spent a good portion of the night imagining him fucking me against all those flawlessly designed walls.
Tonight is different. For one thing, it’s just the two of us. For another, I’m committed to ceasing any and all wall-fuck fantasizing. Easier said than done, now that the man has literally saved my life.
I mean, come on.
Here I am, trying to do the right thing for everyone and get over the guy. Then, he has to go and push me out of the way of an out-of-control car, carry me through a snowstorm, sit with me in the emergency room for three hours, and take me back to his home.
I’ve decided to pretend the moment in his bedroom didn’t happen. Denial seems like the best course of action here.
Upon inspection, it turns out that the tank top I was wearing beneath my sweater miraculously avoided blood stains. My limbs feel heavy and weak as I put it back on, along with Bram’s sweatpants, trying (and failing) not to think about his dick coming in contact with the same soft, worn material as is currently brushing my bare skin.
The bedroom he showed me to is stunning, with an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, framed in natural wood beams that extend over the slanted ceiling. The bed is made up with puffy, forest-green bedding, and I’ll probably need a running start to get into it later with how high it is. On the opposite wall, an entertainment station is stocked with a huge TV, books, and even a little basket of individually packaged snacks.
I’m so far out of my league here.
The back of my head throbs as I gather my hair up into a loose bun. The pull of my skin in the sutures is strange, but the pain isn’t as horrible as I would have expected. Slipping my phone into my pocket, I do my best to ignore the butterflies and heated twist of anticipation low in my belly as I poke my head out into the hall and look both ways.
Bram is nowhere in sight, but I can guess where he is because something smells amazing.
Like, actually incredible. The kind of food smell you get when you’re walking by a gourmet restaurant on your way to get Taco Bell. I’m not great in the kitchen (hence the excessive Taco Bell consumption), and most of my expertise lies in breakfast food and takeout ordering. In our apartment, Honor is the designated cook, and it never occurred to me that she might have learned from Bram until this moment .
I edge downstairs. It’s totally dark outside now, and I’m able to see the reflection of the kitchen in the windows opposite the stairs.
Pausing halfway down, I watch as Bram’s tall form moves into view, his hair damp and brow furrowed in concentration. It’s the same face he makes when he’s studying a blueprint or listening to someone’s project pitch that he’s not so sure about. Now, it’s directed toward a simmering saucepan, which must be the source of the scent currently responsible for my salivary glands going into overdrive. Meanwhile, my stomach, which hasn’t enjoyed the steady stream of snacks it’s become accustomed to today, growls audibly.
As if he can sense me standing here, Bram looks toward the window I’m currently using to creep, and his eyes meet mine in the dark glass. A hot, restless pulse of awareness moves through me, and as I begin my descent again, I force myself to take a long, deep breath.
Keep it together, Sophie.
“Hi.” Bram props the wooden spoon he’s been using on the edge of the pan, dark eyes searching my face. “Still feeling alright?”
“A little sore,” I admit, reaching up to touch the back of my head gingerly. “Much better now that I’m not cosplaying murder victim number four from the Saw movies.”
Apparently satisfied that I’m not about to keel over, Bram turns his attention back to the food, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t sure what you liked. Is mushroom risotto okay?”
“It’s great. I should be cooking for you, though. It’s the least I can do.” I wince, immediately regretting the offer when I realize he could possibly take me up on it. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day.
“It’s my pleasure.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I look away, studying the beautiful room we’re standing in. Much like my bedroom upstairs, the ceiling is composed of stained wood panels that make the whole space feel like a warm hug. My heart sinks when my gaze catches on a framed picture of Bram, Leni, and Honor sitting on the mantel. It’s recent, taken at Honor’s and my college graduation. His arms are around their shoulders, and father and daughters are smiling into the camera.
It’s familiar, because I was the one who took it. Afterward, Bram bought lunch to celebrate. The four of us sat at a round table at a Chinese food restaurant full of other graduates and their families, laughing about the weird commencement speaker and talking about our plans for the coming months. Honor and I had just decided to get an apartment together in her hometown, and when I mentioned needing space for my resin printer, Bram’s eyes lit up.
That was the first time I realized I was attracted to my best friend’s father. Not in a passive, objective way, more like a please pin me down and use me to fulfill your every filthy desire way.
God, I’m a mess.
Eager for distraction, I look around the room, examining it more closely than I did when we walked in. Despite the upcoming holiday, Bram doesn’t have a tree or any decorations set up. Whatever holiday plans he had, it’s clear he had no intention of spending them here.
A pain, sharper and more acute than the injury that necessitated me being here in the first place, spreads outward from the center of my chest.
“I’ll get out of here as soon as the roads are clear,” I promise, perching half my butt on one of the stools across from him. “Honor said you had plans. I won’t get in the way.”
Bram’s movement toward the saltshaker falters, and he clears his throat, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t have plans.”
Interest piqued, I watch as he resumes his cooking. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but I could swear there’s a little bit more color in his cheeks than there was a minute ago. “Canceled because of the storm?” I ask, trying to sound as though this is a throwaway question and I’m not even a little emotionally invested in the answer.
“No.” Bram peers up at me, offering a tight smile. “I was never doing anything. I just didn’t want Honor and Leni to feel guilty for not spending the day with me.”
“Oh.” I fiddle with the tie of my borrowed sweatpants. Fabulous. As if I needed further evidence of what a good guy he is. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I also told Honor I had plans for Christmas because I didn’t want her to feel guilty.”
Bram looks up, frowning. “You aren’t going to see your family?”
Ah. My family. A subject I’ve been careful to avoid whenever possible, even with Honor. She seems to think we have a friendly, if distant, relationship, and I never corrected the misconception.
“They’re not really big on celebrating,” I hedge, trying to decide just how much I should tell him. “My dad is a pastor, so they’re more into the Jesus dying for our sins thing, and less into the drinking eggnog and exchanging gifts thing. Not my scene.”
“A pastor,” Bram echoes, lifting his eyes from the simmering risotto to look at me. “I never would have imagined you as a pastor’s daughter. Where did you grow up?”
“Kentucky. I haven’t been back in ages, though.” Or talked to my parents, for that matter. They send a card in the mail for my birthday every year containing a long Bible verse about the power of forgiveness. This is usually accompanied by a note letting me know that they’ll be happy to welcome me back with open arms when I realize the error of my godless, hedonistic ways. Considering I have yet to do so, our relationship hasn’t improved.
Bram seems to be taking this in and turns his attention back to our dinner. “So, you’re usually alone for the holidays?”
“Don’t feel bad for me,” I say in a rush, because I can’t imagine anything more mortifying than Bram seeing me as some kind of charity case. “Trust me, if you met my family, you’d realize being alone is a massive improvement.”
Setting a lid on top of the pan, Bram shakes his head. “I don’t feel bad for you, I feel angry at them.”
I was angry once, too, but I got over it. After all, they are who they have always been, I’m the one who came out of the mold all messed up. Even as a young child, I was skeptical, but those doubts about the world as it was presented to me grew to full-fledged contempt when I was a teenager.
Now, safely removed from the situation, I know I must have been a nightmare to them. After raising three perfect, godly sons, Pastor Richard Nelson and his devoted wife Ivy had no idea what to do with their rebellious youngest child. For years, the Nelson house was plagued by an unending clash of wills, and I think we were all relieved when I went off to college. Only months later, the great falling out took place, and I haven’t seen any of them since.
“What do you typically do?” I ask Bram, eager to steer the subject into less emotionally damaged waters. “Are there any Vogel family traditions?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the cabinets behind him. “The girls usually go to their mother’s house in the morning, and we spend the afternoon together. There are gifts, sometimes we play a board game. Dinner is the main event. All of us like to cook, it’s something we’ve always bonded over. A few weeks before the holiday we’ll decide on what recipes we’re going to try, gourmet stuff, you know? Things too much of a bother to try normally. ”
That’s incredibly sweet. I like the thought of the Vogels bustling around the kitchen together, probably with Christmas music playing in the background and a fire crackling in the fireplace. Not a traditional family, or a perfect one, but one where the people in it love each other and fit.
I know from experience that the family you’re born into isn’t always the correct one.
A little afraid I’ll say something to inadvertently reveal the hollow pit of grief and yearning that’s opened inside me, I look toward the dark window. Enough light is spilling out from the house to illuminate a solid foot of snow built up on what must be the porch. “I haven’t even looked at the news. Do you know when this will stop?”
In the glass, I see Bram look at the floor, his shoulders tense. “Not for a few days, I’m afraid. The governor has closed the roads for everyone except emergency personnel.”
Which means I’ll be here for most of Christmas Day, possibly even the day after. This will be the first time in six years I haven’t been alone for the holiday, and it’s only because I was nearly run over by a car at the start of an epic snowstorm. I suppose that’s what I deserve after single-handedly ruining at least four Nelson family Christmases.
When Bram speaks again, his tone is cautious. “You’d be welcome to join us. Next year.”
Our eyes meet again in the darkened glass and, just for a moment, we stare at each other. I feel… exposed. This is the first time I’ve talked semi-openly about my family, and it’s not comfortable to confirm my long-held suspicion that it would make me the object of pity I don’t deserve.
I fix a smile on my face that looks wooden, even to my own eyes. “Oh, I’m a terrible cook. I don’t think my instant mashed potato contribution would enhance the celebrations much. ”
“Sophie,” Bram replies sternly, expression grave. “I mean it.”
I know he means it, and that makes it even worse. This man’s kindness has already gotten me mixed up too many times. If he invites me to Christmas dinner and welcomes me into his cozy, warm, loving life, I might as well hand over my shriveled-up heart on a silver platter. Then there’s the very real possibility he’ll invite his girlfriend, too, and I’ll just have to throw myself into the snow and hope for death.
“Don’t worry,” I assure him as I get to my feet, stretching just to vent some of my nervous, restless energy. “Leni told me about this dating app. So maybe I’ll have a boyfriend to bother by then. Besides, I’m sure Rebecca will be invited, right? She seemed super cool, by the way. From what I can remember.”
Insert self-deprecating laugh here.
Bram stares at me, brow furrowed, and mouth pressed into a flat line. “No. She won’t be coming to Christmas next year. That was our first and only date.”
Oh. I swallow, my heart fluttering against my ribcage like a trapped bird. What he’s saying is good, right? I mean, I didn’t want him to date Rebecca, but it was a solid motivator to cease the hopeless pining. Now, we’re right back at square one: stupid obsessed with the absolute worst man to be stupid obsessed with.
Unable to stand the silence for another second and eager to put some distance between us, I draw back. “I’m just going to go sit down for a minute. A little tired.”
Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and cross the room to the corner of the couch farthest from him, pulling my phone from the pocket of his sweatpants as I go. For a moment, I don’t even turn it on, just stare blankly at the dark screen. Am I losing my mind? I might be. For months, I’ve been clinging to moments just like the ones we shared in his bedroom earlier, trying to read something into them, seeing what I want to see. It’s pathetic.
If he wanted to, he would, right? That’s what everyone says. Granted, there are some extenuating circumstances here, but it all comes down to one thing. Not once, in over a year, has Bram said or done anything that could be interpreted as an undeniable expression of interest.
Cold with misery, I turn on my phone and, spotting the new icon for the dating app I downloaded this morning, jab my finger at the screen. Enough is enough. I’m moving on, whether I like it or not.
The universe must be out to get me.
Or maybe God is real after all, and I’m getting smitten. If so, well played, oh Heavenly Father. There’s no better smiting than opening an app filled to the brim with a limitless selection of prospective bang-buddies, and the very first picture I see is the man who prompted me to join in the first place.
Holy shit.
Holy actual ever-loving shit.
My pulse throbs as I stare down at the profile picture of: Bram (44) —Lives in your city! 94% YUM Match! He’s standing on a job site, grinning directly into the camera, a tablet in one hand and a hard hat in the other.
Ninety-four percent? That’s… that has to be really high, right? The muscles in my lower belly flutter, and I peek over my phone at Bram, who is adding ingredients to the risotto, lips turned down in concentration.
I swallow, turning my attention back to the phone. If I didn’t know him, if we were just two strangers on an app, would I swipe right? Absolutely. In fact, I bet there’s a whole host of other ladies who have done just that, and I can’t blame them.
Then again, maybe this could be a good thing, a way to finally get the closure I need. If I swipe right, then my profile will pop up on his possible matches. When we inevitably don’t match—because he’ll probably be mortified to see that I’m interested in men his age—won’t that be a way to prove to myself that he isn’t interested?
Yes.
It will hurt. I’ll probably spend the next couple days lunging for my phone every time I get a notification and feeling more ridiculous each time it’s a reminder to pay my cell phone bill. None of that would be worse than carrying on as I have, falling head over heels for Bram Vogel, even while knowing nothing can ever come of it.
Biting my bottom lip, heart lodged in my throat, I drag my finger across the screen. Dimly, I’m aware of a notification popping up on my screen, but that doesn’t seem super important right now.
Because, across the room, Bram’s phone chimes.