Chapter 3 – Roman #2
I hear her pad into the kitchen and turn to find her looking adorable in my oversized clothes. Her brown hair is brushed back off her makeup-free face, and her milk-chocolate brown eyes are bright.
“Better?” I ask.
“Better. But I might not give you this hoodie back.”
“I might not give you the option.” I pull out a sauvignon blanc that will complement the chicken and pasta and start uncorking it. She climbs up onto a stool and gratefully takes the glass when I slide it across the marble to her.
“You’re making my favorite?”
“Kid, you got your heart broken tonight. Of course I’m making your favorite. I also got stuff to make pecan bars with caramel ice cream.”
She rests her head on her forearm on the counter. “Thank you. Thank you for being on my side with this. I know by coming to you, I put you in a weird spot with Adam.”
“There’s no weird spot. I love him like a brother, but you’re my Braelyn, and right now, he’s just Adam.”
Her eyes close, and she bites into her lip to push back her emotions. “This sucks, you know?”
I don’t, but I do, so I just nod and turn back to the food so I don’t burn anything.
“I got out of work early because we were overstaffed, and I walked in to find them fucking to Harry Styles.”
My brows furrowed because that’s just… “Harry Styles?”
She snorts a laugh as she takes a hearty sip. “I know, right? How random is that? She was also faking her orgasm. It shouldn’t make me feel better that he couldn’t even get her off, but somehow it does.”
“How can you tell she was faking?”
She cocks an eyebrow at me, and my lips twitch up into a smirk.
I raise a hand defensively. “I’ve never experienced anyone faking it, so I wouldn’t know. I’m simply asking.”
She laughs and gives me two thumbs-up. “Okay, yeah, sure. I’m sure you’re the Zeus of all sex, and no woman has ever faked it with you.”
“I mean, you said it. I didn’t.”
She puffs out a sarcastic noise. “The arrogance of men never ceases to astound me. Haven’t you ever seen When Harry Met Sally? All men say that a woman has never faked with them, and yet all women have faked at one point in their lives. As Meg Ryan said in that film, you do the math.”
I shrug as I whisk the eggs and yolks together before I add the parmesan and pepper to them. “Not with me, they haven’t.”
“Riiiight. I honestly don’t want to challenge you on that. You say you hand out orgasms to women like they’re M&M’s, and I believe you.” She takes another sip of wine. “He never made me scream. That’s all I’m saying.”
I toss the pasta into the salted water. “She might have been faking, but he certainly never gave you a proper orgasm then. You should have been screaming every night.”
A flush spreads up her cheeks, and she stares down at the counter. I’m a fucking idiot for saying that. That wasn’t helpful to her at all.
“Brae—”
She waves me away. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not, but whatever.
I found them like that and left. But I feel so dumb.
I was going to marry him. I planned to spend my entire life with him.
Mapped out our future. I’ve known him since I was fourteen.
How long has he been cheating on me, and I was totally clueless about it? ”
I finish up the pasta and slice the chicken, plating it up with a sprinkle of Italian parsley and more parmesan.
“You’re not dumb,” I tell her adamantly as I put her bowl in front of her along with a napkin, fork, and spoon.
“He’s the asshole and I can’t defend him even if he’s my friend.
Weak men cheat. Callous men cheat. I can’t tell you why he did it, and I haven’t talked to him to hear his side, not that it really matters or could excuse anything.
I just know he’s a fool for cheating on you and an arrogant prick because he didn’t think he’d get caught.
He’s the dumb one, and now I get to kill him. ”
“I don’t want to ask if that’s hyperbole or not.”
I smirk at her as I twirl the pasta around my fork with my spoon. “Probably best if you don’t. That way you can deny knowledge of anything and aren’t an accomplice.”
She sighs, and a tear hits her cheek that breaks my fucking heart. I hate seeing Braelyn sad. Fucking hate it.
“Three years of my life—hell, almost thirteen years of my life—are over, and right now, I’m riddled with a million questions and self-doubts. It’s a shitty feeling. Incidentally, you likely have an invitation to my wedding waiting in your mailbox.”
I got their wedding invitation this morning.
I stared at that fucker for a solid ten minutes before I shoved it in a random drawer.
Yes, I’m her maid of honor and his best man.
Yes, I was going to stand by their side and try not to raise my hand when the pastor asked if anyone objected to this wedding.
That invitation hurt. Her wedding was going to kill me, and I had plans to get very drunk that night.
But I was going to kiss her cheek and tell her she was the world’s most beautiful bride and shake his hand and tell him he was the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet and be there as my best friends got married.
All I want is for her to be happy, and right now she’s not. I wish I knew how to fix this for her. I wish I knew how to take her hurt away.
“You can stay here as long as you want. As long as you need. Hell, you can stay forever.”
Her head falls to my shoulder. “Thank you. I might take you up on that for a bit.”
I kiss the top of her wet hair, leaving an imprint of moisture and the smell of my shampoo on my lips.
“You’ll have the place to yourself next week.”
“Huh?” She pops her head up, but recognition instantly flickers in her eyes. “Oh, right. You’re going to Las Vegas for your restaurant opening and then to Mexico. What are you doing there again?”
“Overseeing the setup of a restaurant in one of the resorts there. They need me to come in and approve the final specs and things on it.”
She picks up her fork and starts twirling her pasta. “Right. Lucky you. I wish I could go to Vegas and Mexico,” she mutters in an offhand way, but it sparks something big and bright and possibly insane in my head.
“Why can’t you?”
Her fork stops mid-twirl, and she curiously tilts her head to me. “Why can’t I what?”
“Come with me to Vegas and Mexico.”