Chapter 4
FOUR
NAOMI
S ebastian and Connor exchange knowing looks before slipping away, leaving me alone with their drunk, stubborn friend hunched over the bar.
“If you’re here to lecture me, get in line.” Brandon doesn’t turn around, just signals the bartender for another drink.
I slide onto the stool next to him, catching the bartender’s eye. “He’s done.”
“The hell I am!”
“You embarrassed yourself enough for one night, don’t you think?”
“Didn’t you know?” His jaw clenches. “I’m the class clown.”
“Real mature.” I reach for the glass the bartender slides over, but Brandon reaches it first. “For someone who hates being compared to his father, you’re doing a stellar job of following in his footsteps.”
“Low blow.” His fingers tighten around the glass until his knuckles turn white. I could almost believe he’d shatter it to feel something real.
“Truth hurts.”
“What do you want from me?” He finally turns to face me, and god, the raw pain in his eyes makes my chest ache. I’ve seen him drunk before, seen him angry and spiteful. But this… this is different. “Want me to apologize for not being the perfect Milton heir? For not living up to daddy’s expectations?”
“I want you to stop punishing yourself.” I’m hardly one to talk about self-destruction. But this isn’t about me.
He laughs. It’s hollow. Empty. “Funny.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He takes the last sip of whiskey, slow and deliberate like it’s part of some grand performance meant to piss me off, and then taps against the bar top, signaling for another pour.
“Water.” I level the bartender with my best glare. “Just water. He’ll thank me later.”
The bartender glances between Brandon and me before nodding and grabbing a bottle of water. At least one man is listening to me.
“You’re not my fucking babysitter,” Brandon says.
“No, I’m the woman who has to drag your drunk ass home.” I grab my clutch. “Though maybe I should leave you here. Let you figure it out yourself.”
“You wouldn’t.” His dimples flash. “Contract, remember?”
The bartender puts a glass of water in front of Brandon.
“Drink.” I push it closer.
“Make me.” His eyes lock with mine, challenge written across his features.
“What are you, five?”
“You’re the one treating me like it.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
He grabs the water, downing half of it in one go. “Happy now, cupcake?”
That nickname. Why do I even bother? I hate this power he has. How can he be a complete asshole, and I still want to grab him and…
“Ecstatic.” I keep my voice flat, refusing to let him see how much he affects me. “Now, can we leave before you make an even bigger spectacle of yourself?”
“Worried about what people might think?” He leans closer, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Isn’t that the whole point of this charade?”
I glance around. Some people are watching us, and I doubt that Elijah and Novalie’s speeches will go on much longer. Any second, those photographers will appear and find fucked-up, drunk Brandon. This wouldn’t be good publicity for his restaurant or me.
“Outside.” I hook my arm around his, towing him away from the bar. “Now.”
He resists, then relents, letting me guide him through the crowd toward a side door. The hallway beyond is darker and colder, the party’s chaos muffled to a distant hum.
I half-drag him toward a bench on the other side of the wall, pointing at it like he’s a misbehaving child. “Sit.”
He collapses onto it with dramatic flair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. For a moment, I think he might actually listen until he looks up with that trademark smirk, the one that screams fuck you without uttering a word.
“Didn’t know you were into manhandling,” he says. “Kinky.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. “If I wanted to manhandle someone worth my time, I’d start with literally anyone else in that room.”
“You’re still here, though.” He gestures vaguely between us. “Which means either you care… or you’re a masochist.”
“Maybe both.” I cross my arms over my chest. God knows there’s no other logical explanation for why I haven’t walked away yet or filed a restraining order against him in college.
“You really should’ve quit me by now,” he says. “Would’ve been smarter.”
Like he quit me? “I’ve always had a thing for lost puppies.”
This time, as he smiles, there’s no humor or concealed ‘fuck you’ in it—just something broken and tired lurking behind those pale blue eyes.
How do I get you back?
“You should go back inside.” His head drops, his shoulders sagging. “No point wasting your night babysitting me.”
“And leave you here to what? Spiral further into self-pity? Not happening.”
Because underneath all the bravado and whiskey-fueled defiance is someone who’s drowning and too damn stubborn.
I sigh, letting the fight drain out of me like air from a punctured balloon.
“Look.” I kneel in front of him, leveling our gazes, but he looks away the moment our eyes meet. Coward. “You want to drink yourself into oblivion? Fine. But do it on your own time. Not at some fancy event where half the people in there are waiting for an excuse to tear you apart.”
“Like you care about my image.”
“I care about mine,” I say, “and right now, it’s tied to yours. So suck it up and pretend to be a functional human being for one more hour. Then you can go back to wallowing in your man-pain or whatever the hell this is.”
I push to my feet and smooth down my dress, conscious of his eyes following every motion. The hunger in them makes my skin prickle and I force myself to dismiss it, like always. Does he know? About how sometimes when he looks at me like this, I forget why I’m supposed to hate him.
“One hour.” He stands up, adjusting his cufflinks.
I narrow my eyes, studying his body. His posture’s too straight, and the slight sway from earlier? Gone.
“You’re not drunk,” I say.
“Never said I was.” He adjusts his tie with precise fingers. No tremor, no hesitation. “Maybe just a bit inebriated.”
“You absolute dick. Was this all just an act?”
A strange sense of relief washes over me, that he’s still here, still fighting, even if it’s against me.
“Needed an excuse to get away from the vultures in there.” His lips quirk. “You provided a convenient exit strategy.”
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. “I should’ve left you to drown.”
“But you didn’t.” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and warm. “Lead the way, cupcake.”
We head back into the reception hall, side by side, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries.
Brandon plays his part well, all charming smiles and easy laughter. No one would guess that minutes ago, he was falling apart at the seams.
It couldn’t all have been a lie. I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, which are constantly darting toward the next bar as if drawn by some invisible force. He’s holding himself together with sheer force of will, and I can’t help but admire him for it.
Even if he is a complete ass.
“Food. Now.” He tugs at my arm.
My stomach clenches. “I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten all night. And I saw you eyeing it earlier.” He stops. “You need something to soak up all this fancy champagne.”
“You’re the one who needs soaking up.” I plant my feet, refusing to budge. “I’m fine.”
A group of women drift past, their gazes lingering. Is it my dress? My makeup? The way I’m standing?
Brandon’s grip on my arm tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me he’s there. “Stop overthinking.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are. Now come one, let’s eat something.”
Before I can protest, he’s guiding me through the crowd, his hand switching to the small of my back.
A massive spread of food lines the reception hall from end to end, making my gut twist with equal parts need and nausea.
Breathe. I need to breathe.
“Pick something.” His breath is warm against my ear. “Anything.”
“I told you, I’m?—”
“Naomi.” His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it that makes me look up at him. His eyes are serious, searching mine. “One bite. That’s all I’m asking.”
One bite of…
Chocolate-dipped strawberries glisten under the chandelier lights. Too sweet. Too rich. The calories would sit like lead in my gut. The seafood tower? God no. Those prawns look like they’re staring at me, judging. The pasta? Might as well tape it directly to my thighs.
Brandon’s hand burns against my back, steady and warm.
I glance at the other side of the buffet.
“Salad.” I eye the mixed greens. No dressing. I could pick around the candied nuts and avoid the cheese crumbles.
“Try again.” His thumb traces small circles. “Something with actual substance.”
The vegetable crudités? Raw. Simple. But it would be awkward to pick out one carrot, and it wouldn’t fit his requirement of something with actual substance. So…
“Here’s the deal.” He reaches for a small plate, loading it with a single butternut squash ravioli. “You eat something, and I’ll switch to water for the rest of the night.”
“That’s manipulation.”
“It’s negotiation.” He grabs a fork, holding both out to me. “Take it or leave it, cupcake.”
The ravioli looks innocent enough, delicate, and perfectly formed. But after last night, I don’t know if I can hold something so buttery in.
spear“But only because you’re insufferable when you’re drunk.”
His laugh is soft, genuine. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I stare at the ravioli on my fork, its edges glistening with butter. One bite. Just one bite, and he will stop drinking. Simple math. Easy trade.
So why won’t my hand move?
“You’re thinking too hard.” His fingers brush my arm, feather-light. “It’s food, not nuclear physics.”
“It’s not just—” I snap my mouth shut. No. We’re not going there.
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I force the fork to my lips. Butternut squash and sage dance across my taste buds, and—cinnamon. Clara.
My throat closes up. The room spins, and suddenly, I’m eight years old again, standing outside the church, Mom’s perfume surrounding me like a vice.
I drop the fork, and it clatters against the plate.
“Naomi?” Brandon’s voice sounds far away.
My stomach heaves. No. Not here. Not now. Not with him watching me like a hawk.
It’s suffocating. The food, the attention, the way my dress suddenly feels two sizes too small. I need air. I need space. I need?—
“Bathroom.” I spin around. “Be right back.”
I don’t wait for his response, marching with single-minded determination to the one place that can rid me of the taste.
I burst into the restroom and barricade myself inside a stall, collapsing against the door while struggling to steady my breathing.
The cinnamon lingers on my tongue, mixing with—I lurch forward, holding my hair in a ponytail, retching.
I need it gone. I need to be empty, clean, perfect.
My fingers are down my throat before I can stop myself, triggering the gag reflex with practiced ease. The ravioli comes up in chunks, burning my throat.
But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Not until there’s nothing left but bile and self-loathing. Until I’m hollow and aching and so fucking tired of fighting this battle every single day.
I don’t want this anymore.
The cold tile bites into my knees, my hands shake, and mascara-stained tears drop on the white toilet seat.
I’m sorry.
A knock on the stall door makes me freeze.
Shit. Was I too loud?
“Naomi?” Brandon’s voice sends a fresh wave of panic through me. “You in there?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I wipe my mouth with toilet paper, willing my hands to stop shaking.
The handle rattles. “Open the fucking door.”
He knows. He fucking knows. Brandon Milton might play the drunk fool, but he notices everything. “Just… give me a minute.”
My hands tremble as I fumble through my clutch, pushing aside lipstick and keys. Where the fuck is it? There has to be a mint in here somewhere.
“You’ve been in there for fifteen.” The stall door is the only thing between us, his voice just beyond it. “Open the door.”
“Fuck off.”
“Not happening.” A soft thud. His forehead against the door? “Either you open it, or I’m coming in. Your choice.”
I glance up. The stall walls are not that high, and the door doesn’t seem that stable. Brandon’s tall. Athletic. He’d do it, the asshole.
“You wouldn’t dare.” But my fingers move faster, more frantic. Shit. My house key skitters across the floor.
“Try me.” His shoes appear under the gap. “Three.”
I finally find the tin of mints buried at the bottom, but the lid refuses to open, and my sweaty fingers slip. “This is the women’s restroom.”
“Two.”
The tin pops open, and I shove two in my mouth. The sharp peppermint barely masks the acid burn in my throat. “Can’t a girl?—”
“One.”
“Alright!” I yank the door open, nearly hitting him.
His eyes scan my face, taking in what I’m sure is a disaster of running mascara, smeared lipstick, and the mints I’m practically crushing between my teeth, hoping to mask what is crystal clear. I grab my keys from the floor and put them with the tin back into my clutch.
“Happy now?” I try to push past him.
He doesn’t budge. “No.”
“What do you want?” My voice cracks. “A first-row seat to the Naomi shit show?”
“Stop.” He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “Just stop.”
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh, unforgiving, and highlighting my awful features in the mirror behind him. Pale, haunted, caught.
My words come out in a whisper. “I need to fix my makeup.”
He steps aside, but his eyes never leave me. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I turn on the faucet, concentrating on letting the water run over my fingers.
“I thought we agreed you’d eat something.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I did.”
He’s right behind me. “And then you threw it back up.”
I scrub my hands harder. “It was disgusting.”
“Then eat something else.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Stop lying.” He braces his hands on the counter, his arms bracketing my hips. “Tell me why the thought of cinnamon sends you running for the toilet.”
“Back off.”
His lips ghost across the sensitive skin of my shoulders, leaving goosebumps. “Not until you talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You think I don’t see it? The way you count every bite? How you disappear after meals?”
“Oh, now you notice things?” I turn off the water and grab a towel, drying my hands. “When you’re not drowning in whiskey or wallowing in daddy issues?”
“You can say whatever you want.” Brandon’s hands land on my hips, grip firm enough to anchor me in place. “I won’t leave your side.”
His lips find the crook of my neck, and my body betrays me, head tilting back on instinct. My reflection blurs in the mirror, and I grip the towel harder, trying to ground myself.
“I can feel your pulse racing.” His breath tickles my ear. “You can’t hide from me.”
My eyes flutter shut. “Brandon…”
“What are you so afraid of?”
I wrench away from him, stumbling backward until my shoulder blades hit the bathroom wall. The tile is cold through my dress, and I press harder against it, needing the shock of discomfort to clear my head. “Stop touching me.”
He finally backs off, hands raised, but the concern in his eyes makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
“Okay.” His voice is soft, careful. Like I’m some wild animal about to bolt. “I’m not touching you. But I’m not leaving either.”
“You want to play therapist? Fix your own shit first.”
His jaw ticks. “This isn’t about me.”
“It’s never about you, is it?” I throw the towel in the basket. “Just like it wasn’t about you when you offered this deal. No, you were just trying to help poor, pathetic Naomi escape her family.”
“Okay, let’s talk about it.” He inches closer, and I flatten myself against the stupid, unyielding wall. “Let’s talk about how you’re breaking your end right now.”
“I didn’t break anything.”
His eyes bore into mine. “Pretty sure ‘pretending to be functional’ was part of the agreement. Someone might think I don’t cherish you enough when you have to puke your guts out. So, this”—he gestures to the bathroom stall—”isn’t functional.”
“Neither is drinking yourself stupid at your father’s memorial.”
He’s so close that I can smell his cologne mixed with whiskey. “At least I’m not hiding my demons.”
“Oh, no. You run from them. You laugh and make jokes about yourself instead of crying because somewhere along the way, you taught yourself to invalidate your feelings so it wouldn’t hurt so bad. So, fuck you.”
“Want to try?” His fingers ghost over my cheek. “I’m all for it.”
I grab his wrist, but I can’t decide if I want to push him away or pull him closer. “Back off.”
“Like you backed off about the event today? About the speech? About alcohol?”
“That’s—”
“You get to push and prod.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “But the moment someone tries to help you, you shut them out.”
You want to play Milton. Let’s play. “When’s the last time you cooked anything? Hell, when was the last time you even stepped foot in your restaurant? The one which is sitting empty, waiting.”
“You want honesty, cupcake? I’m fucked up. Haven’t cooked in months. Can’t even look at my restaurant without wanting to put my fist through a wall.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “Your turn.”
It would be so easy to kiss him, to lose myself in the heat of his body and forget everything else. To let him consume me until there’s nothing left but emptiness.
But that’s not what this is. That’s not what we are.
“My turn?” I bat his hand away. “Here’s honesty. You’re using me to avoid dealing with your problems, just like I’m using you to avoid mine. That’s our deal. Nothing more.”
The warmth from his voice drains with each syllable. “Right. Just a deal.”
I use this chance to move past him, straight to the door, grabbing the handle. “Brandon?”
“Yeah?” His eyes are anchored to the ground
“Don’t do this again.” My fingers tighten. “Don’t follow me into bathrooms.”
“My mistake. Next time, I’ll just let you choke on your own vomit.”
At least then, I’m getting rid of this all. I yank the bathroom door open and storm out.
I hate him.
This beautiful disaster of a man.