Chapter 20
Meirna
And the surprises keep on coming.
I’d never admit this to Bronte, but today was more than I could ever have imagined in my head.
Bronte took me around Prague, letting me wander into random nooks and alleyways that led to another place I had to record and photograph.
We walked through beautiful courtyards, walked through a cemetery blanketed in snow, and ate roasted almonds, mulled wine, and Trdelník, which is a sweet pastry of rolled dough wrapped in a stick and coated with sugar and nuts.
We had dinner at a pub with lively tourists and locals, and then came back to the suite.
Where there are ingredients and cookie cutters scattered all over the countertop of the kitchen.
Flour, sugar, frosting packets, measuring cups, stick butter, spices, sprinkles, and everything I could possibly need to make Christmas cookies.
“I never did get to try your cinnamon cheesecake cookies,” Bronte mutters behind me, causing my face to skew because he thought of everything.
He put time into everything.
He’s showing me everything.
Is this bullshit? Is this going to stop and change when we get back to the States?
“However, Alexander, my head of security, couldn’t find any cream cheese. So, I was hoping you could whip something else up.”
I love making Christmas cookies.
Like, it’s unhealthy how much I love baking them. It’s something my mother and I used to do every year when I lived at home in upstate New York. I carried the tradition in New York City, and we’d video call each other while we did it, so we could be together still.
And now, I’m on my honeymoon. I was okay with not making Christmas cookies because I’d be here and have my mind kept busy with other things, but…now I don’t have to.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I try to suck them back in. It’s embarrassing how something so small like this is getting me emotional.
I had a really good day with Bronte. I don’t want to ruin it by crying like a child.
“This is perfect,” I utter softly, unzipping my coat so I can focus on something. “I love it.”
“Good.” He suddenly kisses the top of my head from behind while his chest brushes against my shoulders. “I’m no good at this. I’m going to stay out of your way. My mother always taught me to stay the hell out of the kitchen when a woman is working unless asked.”
“Yeah,” I agree, swallowing down the emotions bubbling in me that threaten to break free. “Kick rocks, please.”
“I’m gone then.” He disappears, and I hear him stride out of the kitchen and around to the living space. “What movie, Daydream? I know you have a list.”
I watch him find the remote. The kitchen has an open access to where you can see inside the living room, so I could see the TV from here. It’s the perfect setup.
Everything is perfect, and I hate it.
I hate that it feels somewhat comfortable.
“Have we… ever watched one together?” I ask before he glances stoically at me.
“Once,” he mutters.
Oh, God.
Now, he’s going to ruin Christmas movies for me.
“Which?
I try to go back to Christmases before. But I watch so many that I can’t land on one.
Sometimes Bobby would watch a few with me, other times we’d cuddle and mess around. But, most of the time, he wouldn’t be home or working.
Or fucking someone else with recent receipts.
Bronte doesn’t answer the question when he fishes his phone out of his back pocket and glances down at it.
Then he promptly glowers.
I notice the way his jaw tightens before he rights it and inhales deeply from his nose.
That’s when his light green eyes flick up to me.
“Bobby’s here.”
Instant dread.
That’s what coils and seeps into all my organs, into every nerve ending of my body, and replaces my once chipper mood with aggravation.
I didn’t expect Bobby to be here right away. It's after eleven at night and I just spoke to him this morning. He would’ve had to have just landed and gotten to work looking for me.
For what, I have no idea because it’s a lost cause.
“I don’t want to see him,” I reveal honestly, and I don’t care how that makes me sound. I don’t want anything to do with Bobby here, in Prague, period.
“Then you won’t see him,” Bronte divulges. “He wouldn’t know we were here anyway.” I perk a brow when he tacks on, “I used a different name checking in.”
“So you are someone else?”
He gives me an exasperated look. “I wasn’t going to put you in a position where Bobby was going to harass you on our trip.”
“And here I thought it was so you could have me all to yourself with your secret spy name.”
He gives a small shake of his head. “Like I said, I’m not that interesting.”
I don’t know about all that.
My interest is piqued because there isn’t much I know about him besides that he takes his coffee black, he’s always in a suit—besides yesterday when he wore sweatpants—he doesn’t have a fondness for sweets, and he does not like it when I call him Bobby.
“What happens now?” I ask. “He tries to find us, and we try to dodge him at every turn?”
Bronte shakes his head. “He’ll be here for another hour or two before he heads back on a temper tantrum.”
“You have information on his return flight ticket?”
He shakes his head. “No. I just know my brother. He’ll give up and wait until he hears from you next.”
“He won’t.”
“After some time, and he knows you’re back in New York, he’ll show up.”
I hate that he’s probably right. That Bobby isn't going to read the room and fuck all the way off.
Shrugging, I reply, “Well, I’m staying here.”
“Here?” Bronte repeats. “You’d leave your non-profit behind?”
No.
But the idea sounds nice, just the same.
“I’d have to think about it,” I convey non-committedly. “No existence with Bobby sounds ideal to me.”
“Don’t allow him to run away, Daydream. He’s not worth it.”
“Well, you’re not going to be there to save me. You live in Boston. And my non-profit is in New York City. We have separate lives. So, that’ll mean I might need to adjust mine.”
“You say that as if I hadn’t thought of moving.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Because?”
“We’re not fully committed. And you shouldn’t leave your life behind—”
“I’m fully committed to you, Meirna. I’m not Bobby.”
He spits his brother’s name out like it’s rancid in his mouth. It also sounds like a conviction that I’d even deal with and want to marry that.
Him.
Not Bronte.
“I don’t want you to put so much pressure on this,” I mutter. “I have until New Year’s—”
“You can divorce me, Daydream,” he professes, his voice strained. “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving to go anywhere.”
I stare openly at him. I’ve never met a man who would allow a woman to divorce him but still want to give the relationship a shot.
I’m fully committed.
Yeah.
Apparently, we are.
And Bobby’s here.
Bobby’s here, and I could go back to New York right now. I could leave with him, listen to his fake apologies, but eventually get away from both of them so I can think.
“What if I left and went somewhere?” I concede evenly. “If I…wanted to leave.”
“Here?” I slowly nod. “If that’s what you want.”
“With Bobby.”
Just like I imagined, Bronte’s whole body tenses, and his eyes bore into me like I called him by his brother’s name again.
I’m testing the waters.
I’m pushing him to see if he’s as dangerous as I think he might be to my emotional state, or if he’s something I need to run away from.
“Bobby,” Bronte repeats, sounding as though his temper is working on either staying dormant or ready to explode. “As my wife, I have an obligation to protect you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” He aimlessly tosses the TV remote to the couch and moves toward the kitchen. “You’re lookin’ to make me crazy, aren’t you, Daydream?”
I don’t respond, waiting for his next move. Any other inkling that he’s going to do something drastic, like, I don’t know, marry me or something.
Bronte stops on the other side of the counter, still in the living room, but the wall in front of us doesn’t stop me from being slightly nervous.
“Yes or no, Daydream?”
I swallow. “Yes or no, what?”
“That you’re fucking with me. Because, if you’re not, I’ll walk you to the elevator myself. I’ll even have my driver personally take you and my brother to the airport. You can even take my private jet.”
“Why?” I hedge softly. “So you can kill Bobby on the way there?”
He doesn’t blink or hesitate when he says, “The idea has crossed my mind. I can’t say I’m a fan that my wife still has a hard-on for my brother.
Murdering him would take care of that problem.
You wouldn't have another man to run to. One who’s been with you in ways that makes me want to torture him before I end his life.
However, I’m game for you to go home with him if you are. ”
I frown. “You are?”
“Did you need to pack first, or did you just want to wing it?”
He knows.
He knows I’m testing him to see if I can discover another unhinged piece of him.
However, I reply, “Wing it. I’m sure he’ll want to leave right away.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees. “He didn’t want to come to Prague anyway.”
Ouch.
Bronte moves, causing a sense of unease to slither down my spine when I realize he’s starting for the door. “Coming?”
Damn it.
I stride for the door because he can’t be serious. Bronte is not going to let me go after he tricked me into marrying him, brought me to Prague, and requested New Year’s to make my final decision.
There’s no way.
None.
However, the door is open when I turn the corner. Bronte is holding the knob as he patiently waits for me to waltz through.
And it feels like a prison sentence going back to Bobby.
The thought of going downstairs and seeing his face makes me sick to my stomach. But something inside wants to continue forward.
To test us both.
If I see Bobby, I might scream.
I might slap him across the face and leave him in the lobby because there’s zero way I’m going anywhere with him.
But I want to see if Bronte would let me.
I wish to see if he’s going to give me free rein to make my own choice, while his brother’s ego believes I’m going to flip sides to what is familiar or if we’re even going to make it to the elevator.
I enter the hallway and only have to walk a few feet to the elevator. Bronte’s behind me, I can feel his broodiness emitting from his frame as I push the button for the thing to arrive.
And it does immediately.
Shit.
The doors slide open, prompting my curiosity to either fuck this all up or walk into a bigger issue for the night.
Like I said, seeing Bobby would be like throwing myself down a flight of stairs for the hell of it. It’ll hurt all the way down, I’ll chastise myself for not being more careful and regret the aftermath.
Nonetheless, my stubborn feet enter the small space with Bronte on my heels to test my theory of how far my husband is going to allow me to get away with this.
So far, he’s acting like it’s no big deal and can't wait to be rid of me.
Wedging myself into the corner, I bitch at myself for doing this in the first place because a Christmas movie and baking cookies sounded really nice.
It was sweet.
And I’m being the biggest and most ungrateful piece of crap right now.
The doors close when Bronte turns and props his back against the wall beside me. I feel the soft drop, and my stomach does the same.
What are we doing, Meirna? We’re not going to leave.
Inhaling, I start to freak out internally when Bronte turns and sandwiches me between himself and the corner I threw myself in.
“Kiss your husband, goodbye, Daydream. You’re gonna have a long road ahead of you.”
I don’t want to say goodbye.
I’m not going to.
But I still glance up at Bronte like I am, trying not to give anything away that I’m experimenting with. “You’re the one who’s committed. I just came along for the ride—”
Bronte’s in my face before he slams his lips against mine, pressing me hard into the wall so that he can suffocate me with his kiss and presence.
I can’t get any air from my small gasp when he slides his tongue between my lips, coaxing mine wider when his palm rounds my hip and drops instantly to my ass.
A small, needy growl rumbles from deep inside his throat and, before I know it, my fingers are lacing in his hair and cupping the back of his head to keep him near.
My tongue plays along with his licks and lapses, causing Bronte to lean and lift me in the air with his forearm, holding me straight in the air because there’s no space for me to wrap my thighs around his waist.
But now that we’re level-faced, we have more access to be on an even battlefield of tongue, lips, and breath.
I run one of my hands over his shoulders, feeling butterflies dance excitedly in my gut. This secret little make-out session doesn’t feeling like a send-off but a crack of deep-seated emotions that’s slowly being chipped away.
There’s nothing here that makes me guilty. Everything that’s transpired, everything that’s happened—whether I’ve known it or not—sits here with us.
And I don’t want to walk away from each just yet.
They say curiosity killed the cat. But I’m not entirely sure I’d be able to live without knowing all the little things that make this man tick.
Meanwhile, Bronte’s kisses are aggressive, at best. He throws all his experience into them as if this truly is a farewell. As if I could forget him the moment I went back with Bobby and his lies.
The ding of the elevator indicates we’ve reached the lobby and, on cue, Bronte pulls away from me as if that’s the end. His time is up, and mine is starting with what I chose.
Gently, he places me down, then takes one step back and to the side, giving way to my being able to leave the elevator.
However, I don’t move.
There’s zero chance I’m stepping out into the lobby with or without Bobby being there.
My feet refuse to move.
My mind won’t give the order.
And my body is still reeling with sparks of pleasure and warmth from that kiss.
“I want to make cookies and watch It’s a Wonderful Life,” I mutter, not moving an inch from where he placed me.
Bronte’s green eyes stare down at me, doing the usual, giving nothing away because emotions either don’t know how to make it up to his face or he’s thinking that I’m messing with him again.
Finally, after a few more seconds of not moving from my place, Bronte nods, then hits the button back to our floor and prompts us back up to our suite.