Chapter 30
thirty
. . .
Emilia
I was inspecting the new arches, since the guys who were here had finished painting and had packed up and left for the night. The job had taken longer than we’d expected, and I was grateful that they’d stayed late to get it done.
I knew Bridger was tired of having people in his home. And it was his birthday, so I didn’t want him coming home to a mess. I knew he’d love the way the archways had turned out, and now it was all about decorating.
It was my favorite part.
I’d pulled dozens of boxes in from the garage that I’d been storing out there, filled with items I’d ordered over the last several weeks.
I was most excited about the gorgeous mantel that had arrived today from Paris.
The old fireplace had been removed, and the wall had already been repaired.
I had two guys scheduled to come this week to get the new fireplace installed before the holidays.
Now it was all about me pulling everything together.
There were new chandeliers and sconces that needed to be hung. This home would look like it was meant to look in a couple of weeks. The behind-the-scenes work was done, and now the magic would begin.
I heard the sound of the door opening, and my stomach fluttered.
So maybe I was happy to stay late, in hopes that I would see him.
A small part of me worried that he might go out after dinner at his parents’ house and bring a woman home.
But I remembered him saying he never brought women back to his house.
I hoped like hell that was true, because it would hurt me to see him with someone else.
It made no sense. I had no claim on him.
And we’d gone back to normal since returning home from Paris, just as we’d planned.
We hadn’t talked about what happened while we were there, because that wasn’t how this worked.
So I’d tried hard to play it cool these last few weeks, but it was a challenge.
I’d forced myself to go on a date last night, and I’d had a miserable time.
But I was trying, and that’s all I could do.
Turns out that flings are fabulous while you’re in them, but for me personally, the longing that followed—one hundred percent don’t recommend.
I thought about him all the time.
And trying to act unfazed while I worked at his house every day was torture.
The worst kind of torture.
“Angel, are you here?” he called out from the entryway, his words slurring the slightest bit. He still used the nickname that he’d given me in Paris, and every single time it made me hopeful for more.
Like I said, this man was living rent-free in my head.
“Hey, I’m in the kitchen. I was just getting ready to leave,” I said, even though I’d basically been waiting for him to get here.
He walked into the kitchen, and I startled because his whole demeanor was… relaxed. Very un-Bridger-like. He had a huge smile on his face, and he looked quite pleased to see me.
“Don’t leave yet,” he said, moving right toward me and snaking an arm around my waist as he pulled me in for a hug. “Damn, you always smell so good.”
Well, this is unexpected.
“Happy birthday, Chadwick,” I said, my breaths coming faster now as he held me close.
Speaking of smelling good.
I was surrounded by the sexy mix of leather and sandalwood, and the added deliciousness of whiskey.
“I hate when you call me ‘Chadwick.’ I prefer ‘lover boy,’” he said, pulling back to look at me. “You look beautiful, angel.”
I glanced down at myself, and I had paint on my shirt because I’d gotten too close to the wall before it dried. My hair was tied up in a messy bun because I’d been in the garage organizing boxes. Needless to say, intoxicated Bridger was definitely wearing a pair of rose-colored glasses.
“That’s a stretch,” I said, my gaze locking with his.
He reached his hand forward and carefully removed the elastic from my hair as it fell all around my shoulders. “I love your hair.”
My brows rose with surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” He ran his fingers through the ends before his eyes moved beyond me to the island, where a small birthday cake and a present sat on the counter.
I’d known it was his birthday today, and I’d planned to bring this over with me. I hadn’t texted him until later in the day, because I didn’t want it to look like I was too eager.
I didn’t want him to read into it and get freaked out.
“What is that?” he asked as his gray gaze moved to mine.
“It’s just a little cake and a gift. I planned to leave them here for you, but you caught me before I left. The painters just finished up a little while ago. I’m trying to get as much done for you before Christmas as I can, because people will go on vacation.” Why was I rambling?
His lips twitched the slightest bit as his finger came over my lips, and I stopped talking. “You got me a cake and a gift. Thank you.”
“It’s not a big deal.” I shrugged.
“It is a big deal to me.”
“I thought you hated your birthday?”
“I do. But this makes it better. You being here. You thinking of me. It makes everything better.”
My heart pounded at his words. “How much have you had to drink, Bridger?”
He leaned down, and his lips grazed over the shell of my ear. “It’s my birthday. Call me ‘lover boy.’”
I took a step back, as his nearness was having me feel all sorts of things. “How many whiskeys have you had?”
“Too many.” A soft smile crossed his handsome face.
“All right, I need to get home. The snow is coming down hard,” I said as I glanced out the French doors leading to the backyard.
He reached for my hand. “Stay. Have a piece of cake with me.”
I nodded, trying to play it cool. “Okay. We can have some cake together before I go.”
I moved to the kitchen and grabbed two plates and a knife, and he moved to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. He held one up for me and shook it back and forth.
“Cake and beer?” I chuckled.
“Yes. It’s my birthday. Have a beer with me, angel.” His voice was smooth as silk tonight. No edge. No hesitation.
“It’s snowing and I’m driving, so that’s a no for me. But I’ll have cake with you,” I said.
“Obviously I wouldn’t let you drive if you have anything to drink. I know you’re a lightweight.”
“Yet you’re asking me to have a drink with you?” I asked as I set our two slices of cake down on the table and took a seat.
“Maybe I’m trying to get you drunk so you stay here.” He smirked.
Now I was irritated.
I was struggling with being around him, and he was just casually asking me to stay? After we’d agreed what happened in Paris would stay in Paris. Or at least stay on the plane home from Paris.
That memory was still etched in my mind.
“Bridger, don’t mess with my head,” I said firmly. “Open your gift, drink your beer, and eat your cake. I need to get home.”
“So salty,” he said teasingly, and I pushed the box toward him.
He unwrapped the box, pulled the lid open, reached in, and pulled out three framed photos.
One of Bridger and his parents, one with him and his siblings, and one where he was sitting with Cutler and Melody on each side of him. I’d gone on Ellie Chadwick’s social media and pulled a few photos from there and had them blown up and framed.
He was silent as he studied each photo, as if he’d never seen them before. I took a bite of my cake and watched. His dark hair was a disheveled mess, and the stubble peppering his jaw was so sexy I itched to run my fingertips along it.
And then he looked up at me.
Gray eyes filled with emotion. “I love these.”
“Well, that’s part of the décor plan for this place, right?
To warm it up. And family photos are going to be displayed throughout the space.
I have several more for you to go through and choose from, but these three were my favorites.
” I smiled as his thumb traced over the wood frame surrounding the photo with him and his niece and nephew.
“Why isn’t there a picture of you?”
“Of me?” I chuckled. “Why would I give you a photo of me?”
“I’m thinking right there,” he said, turning to look at the large wall where the mantel would be going. “I want a huge photo of you over the mantel. Preferably naked.”
“Okay,” I said, pushing my feet. “It’s time for me to go. You’ve clearly had one too many whiskeys.”
He moved to his feet quickly, standing in front of me. “Don’t go.”
“Bridger, stop.”
“Angel. I won’t stop.”
I rolled my eyes. “What do you want from me? You want another romp in the hay? Is that what this is about?”
“Is that an option?” he asked as he barked out a laugh and then held his hands up. “I’m kidding. That’s not what I’m asking for, though I wouldn’t turn it down.”
“I need to go.”
“I’m asking you to stay.” He stepped closer. “Please.”
Please? Is he serious right now?
“Why?”
He rubbed his face. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I couldn’t believe he was saying this. But he was drunk. He didn’t mean it. I glanced out the back door at the falling snow and blew out a breath.
“It’ll pass, Bridger.”
“Maybe I don’t want it to pass,” he said as he reached for my hand.
“You’re letting the booze talk.” I pulled my hand away and moved toward the front door, where my boots were sitting beside the entry bench. I sat down to slide them on.
“Emilia,” he said, from the other end of the hallway, his voice hard and unwavering.
“Yes?”
He stalked toward me. “This is not the booze talking. The booze is what I’ve used to cope with what I’m feeling, actually.”
I slipped one boot on over my foot, tucking my jeans inside. “What is it that you’re feeling?”
“Ever since we arrived home from Paris, I can’t get you out of my head.
No matter how hard I fucking try. I think about you when I fall asleep at night and when I wake up in the morning.
I’m trying so fucking hard to be professional when you’re over here, but I don’t want to be professional with you,” he said as my heart pounded so loudly in my chest I was certain he could hear it.
“But you waited to confess your feelings when you were drunk?” I asked, one brow raised. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe he felt the way about me that I felt about him. But I knew he was unattainable. He was the one who’d told me so.
He moved closer and dropped down to his knees, and my eyes widened. “I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, but maybe being drunk means I don’t give a fuck if it’s a bad idea. I want you to know. Regardless of what you say, you should know how I feel.”
“Why would it be a bad idea?”
“Are you serious?” He shook his head. “Look at my fucking track record.”
As far as I knew, he hadn’t had a serious relationship in many years.
“What track record? I mean, no offense, but look at mine. I’ve dated plenty, yet nothing has worked out. That doesn’t mean I stop trying.”
He blew out a breath. “I’m not talking about failed relationships.
It’s deeper than that. Look at the people in my life.
My mother died giving birth to me. My fucking father clearly resented me and drank himself to death.
My adopted mother, who stepped up to raise me, grieves the loss of her sister every fucking year.
Year after year we relive it. And I caused that pain.
I’m not the guy you hitch your cart to, Emilia.
But I want to be with you, just me and you, until you find someone who can give you what you want. ”
My jaw hung open, because this man knew how to shock the hell out of me.
I slapped his hand away when he attempted to close my mouth.
“Let me process this, Bridger. The fact that you’re blaming yourself for a medical emergency during childbirth, or for your father being an addict and losing his life, is not rational.
Nor is blaming yourself for Ellie’s pain.
You saved her. And what about your father, Keaton, and your siblings and your cousins and your niece and nephew.
They aren’t suffering from having you in their lives. ” I threw my hands in the air.
“Right. I can’t stop them from having a relationship with me, and I just have to hope like hell that I don’t somehow manage to destroy their lives. But bringing someone new into the picture, someone who has expectations and plans for her life? I’ll fuck it up, Emilia. It’s what I do.”
“So you’re deciding what I want for my life without asking me?” I hissed.
“I know what you want. I know what you deserve.”
“And what’s that?”
“Everything.” He laid his head on my lap, and it was such a vulnerable move that my heart nearly shattered.
Because Bridger Chadwick had found his way into my heart.
And even though I knew he would break it—I still wanted him.