Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
NAOMI
T he city stretches beneath us, a tapestry of lights against the darkening sky. Blake’s ‘small party’ has turned into exactly what I feared. A full-blown rooftop party complete with a DJ booth and open bar. The bass thrums through the concrete under my feet, and the air tastes like summer and vodka.
String lights crisscross overhead, casting everything in a warm glow. Bodies move to the music, drinks slosh, and laughter mingles with the night air.
I scan the crowd for the hundredth time. No Brandon.
Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe I read this all wrong, and he really is done with me. Maybe?—
“He’ll come.” Blake downs her third, or maybe fourth, shot of the night. The sequins on her short red designer dress catch the light as she sways to the music. “Stop looking like someone killed your puppy.”
Brandon kind of is my puppy. Is that weird? “I’m not?—”
She cuts me off with a look. “Your anxiety is making me anxious.”
My fingers trace the rim of my untouched glass. The ice has melted, watering down whatever expensive liquor she poured for me. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
“The only mistake is that dress.” She tugs at the hem of my black cocktail dress. “We should’ve gone with the red one.”
“B.”
“What? The red one showed more?—”
“Not helping.” My stomach churns as another group of people emerges from the elevator. Not him.
Her expression softens, a rare crack in her queen bitch armor. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I take a deliberate sip of my drink, grimacing at the watered-down taste. “I was too nervous.”
“I knew it.” She plucks the glass from my hand, replacing it with water. “No more alcohol for you, young lady.”
“Young—” My whole body freezes as I spot a tall figure with light brown hair. But it’s the wrong shade. Wrong person. “What if he doesn’t show?”
“Then we’ll know exactly where we stand.” Blake’s voice hardens. “And I’ll personally ensure his pretty face meets my pretty fist.”
“B!”
“Repeatedly.”
The elevator doors slide open, and my heart stops.
Brandon.
He steps out, flanked by Connor and Sebastian, clad in a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. But there’s something different about him. Something harder in the set of his jaw, in the way he carries himself.
My feet shift toward the exit.
“Don’t you dare run.” Blake’s fingers dig into my arm.
Brandon’s gaze sweeps the room. When his eyes meet mine, there’s nothing. No flash of recognition, no hint of the man who held me through panic attacks and taught me to make pancakes. The same Brandon who’s seen me at my absolute worst and didn’t run screaming. The same Brandon who looked at me like I hung the fucking moon, even when I was falling apart.
Sebastian spots us next, his lips curling into that cocky smile Brandon usually puts on, and instead of walking over to us, they make their way to the bar.
Shocker. I know.
So, this is bad. He doesn’t even acknowledge me anymore. Did I fuck up that much?
My fingers clench around my glass. “What am I doing here?”
“Living.” Blake straightens my dress. “For once in your life, you’re actually living instead of hiding.”
“Is that what this is?” My voice sounds strangled. “Because it feels like dying.”
“Don’t hate me for this.”
“For wha?—”
She whips around, weaving through the crowd toward the DJ booth
“No.” No, no, no. What has she planned now?
Blake grabs the mic, tapping it twice. The feedback makes everyone wince. “Geez. Sensitive ears here. Anyway. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Tonight isn’t just any party.” Her voice carries over the music, which fades to the background. “We’re bringing back a college classic. A beer pong tournament! Wohoo!”
A cheer goes through the crowd, and I feel the blood drain from my face. This can’t be happening.
Beer pong.
Brandon and I always played. Every party, same wagers, same outcome. Him trying to get me to go on a date. Me winning and making him cook for me instead, which, now that I think about it, could be construed as a date anyway.
“And because you were all so kind to put your names in this bowl…” Blake holds up a glass bowl I hadn’t noticed before, her smirk pure evil. “Let’s see who our first contestants are.”
The crowd shifts closer. I glance over to Brandon, his jaw clenched as he watches Blake dig through the papers.
“First up…” Blake unfolds a tiny piece of paper with dramatic flair. “Oh, Brandon!”
Whoops and cheers erupt. Brandon’s expression doesn’t change, but his knuckles whiten around his tumbler. Any time that glass will break.
“And going against him…” Blake’s eyes find mine across the room. That bitch. That absolute fucking bitch. “What a coincidence. Naomi!”
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, heads turning as they cheer, while in the corner, two guys set up the table.
My feet carry me to it.
I’m going to kill her. Slowly. Painfully.
The red cups form a perfect triangle on each end of the table.
What if Brandon doesn’t bite?
I look up.
He stands at the other end, rolling a ping-pong ball between his fingers. The movement is so familiar it hurts. How many times have we done this?
His eyes lock with mine, and for the first time tonight, there’s a flicker of something. Recognition? Anger? Want?
The crowd presses in around us, their excited chatter fading to white noise.
His voice carries across the table, low and controlled. “Ladies first.” Too controlled.
I shake my head. “Your ball.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, a smile, but not quite. It’s the same expression he wore the first time we played, back when we were strangers, and this was just a game.
“Scared, cupcake?”
Terrified. Of watching him walk away. Of never feeling his hands on my skin again.
My fingers curl against the table. “Remember our usual stakes?”
“Vaguely.”
“If I win, you cook something special.” The words come out softer than intended. “If you win?—”
“A date.” He places the ball down. “That was the deal.”
“Same stakes then?” I ask. “For old times’ sake?”
“Counter offer.” Brandon circles the table, each step deliberate, predatory.
The crowd’s excitement rises, but all I hear is my pulse thundering in my ears.
“If I win.” He stops behind me, his lips brushing my ear. “I get a kiss.”
Why do I feel excited? We never kissed. Not once. “Just one kiss?”
His chuckle is warm, indulgent, stirring the fine hairs at my nape. “You want more?”
“And if I win?”
“Your pick.”
“If I win… you open a restaurant.”
“Aiming high. Are we?”
“You in or not?”
“Sure.”
I straighten up, forcing steel into my spine. “Hope you’re ready to lose, Milton.”
“I’ve been losing since the day I met you.”
There’s no hint of humor in his voice, no playful edge. Just raw honesty. He’s not talking about beer pong. He’s talking about every moment since we met. Every time I pushed him away. Every time he tried to get closer and I built my walls higher. Every time he offered his heart and I pretended not to see it.
He lingers a moment longer, his presence a solid wall of heat at my back, then returns to his end of the table. The look he gives me is pure challenge, mixed with something darker that makes my stomach flip, in a good way.
Blake materializes at my side, pressing a ping-pong ball into my palm. “What did he say?”
I close my fingers around it, feeling its smooth surface against my sweaty palm. “He wants a kiss if he wins.”
“Holy shit.” Her grin is downright feral. “And if you win?”
“He has to open his restaurant.” I can’t look at her as I say it.
“That’s… not what I expected, but it works. You both win either way.”
“Or we both lose.”
Brandon picks up the ball. “Ladies first.”
I line up the ball, ignoring the slight tremor in my fingers. Just like old times.
Except now the stakes feel impossibly higher.
The ball leaves my fingers and misses completely.
His smile is wicked. “You missed.”
“Your turn.”
His first shot arcs through the air in a perfect trajectory. The ball bounces once, twice, and plunks straight into my center cup.
“Drink.” His voice carries that same commanding tone he uses when—no. Not going there.
I lift the cup, downing the contents in three quick gulps. The crowd cheers. But wait—the familiar burn of alcohol doesn’t come. Instead, there’s the sweet bite of ginger ale sliding down my throat. My eyes snap to Blake, who gives me the tiniest wink.
That sneaky bitch.
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by gratitude. Of course she wouldn’t let me drink on an empty stomach. I set the empty cup aside, hoping my face doesn’t betray the deception, and take my next shot. It clips the rim of his cup before spinning away.
Shit.
Brandon doesn’t even pause. His second shot lands in my front right cup with surgical precision.
“Getting rusty, cupcake?”
The nickname hits differently now, my fingers trembling as I reach for the cup. “Just getting started.”
But I’m not. Three shots later, I’m down to my last cup, while Brandon still has four.
The carbonation from all the ginger ale makes my stomach feel full, and the adrenaline of the game clouds my head, making the lights overhead blur into streaks of gold as we continue. Maybe it’s not alcohol, but the high of being this close to Brandon, of finally letting myself want him, is more intoxicating than any beer could be.
My shot bounces off his last remaining cups.
Would losing even be bad?
He picks up the ball, and his eyes never leave mine as he lines up what could be the winning shot.
The crowd holds their breath, me included.
This is it. If he?—
Brandon lowers his hands, weighing the ball in his palm.
Why did he stop?
“So,” he says. “Do you want to adopt a puppy or send him back to the shelter?”
What?
Does he mean…
He’s asking if I want him?
Really want him. Not just for our arrangement, not just for the physical stuff, but all of it. The messy parts, the broken pieces, the 3 AM memes, and the cold bathroom floors.
That stupid, infuriating man.
He’s giving me a choice. A real one. Stay or leave. Keep him or let him go.
This is bigger than beer pong. Bigger than a kiss or a restaurant. This is Brandon Milton laying himself bare in the middle of a crowded rooftop, asking if I’m ready to stop running.
“Keep him,” I say, my voice barely carrying over the crowd. “I want to keep him.”
Brandon’s eyes darken, and the ball drops from his fingers, bouncing across the table and rolling off the edge. But neither of us moves to catch it.
“Say it again.”
“I want to keep you.” The words come easier this time, breaking through a wall I’ve been building since that first beer pong game in college. “All of you. The messy parts, the broken pieces?—”
He’s around the table before I can finish, his hands cupping my face. The crowd erupts in cheers and whistles, but all I can focus on is the way his thumbs trace my cheekbones, how his breath fans across my lips.
“You sure about this, cupcake?” His eyes search mine. “Last chance to back out.”
“I don’t run from a bet.”
“I didn’t win.”
I don’t care. I fist his shirt, drawing him closer. “I’m sure.”
“Thank fuck.” Brandon’s lips crash into mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s years of wanting, of dancing around each other, of pretending this was just an arrangement. His teeth graze my bottom lip, sending a tremor through me as my knees buckle. Before I can falter, his arm tightens around my waist, pulling me in until there’s no space left between us. The crowd fades away, their cheers, the music, and everything except his lips and his fingers digging possessively into my hips.
Why did I deny myself this for so long?
I’ve imagined this moment countless times, but reality hits different. My fingers slide into his hair, soft and thick between my fingers. He tastes like hope and possibility, every late-night conversation we’ve ever had, every almost-moment, and every time I wanted to cross that line but held back.
A small sound escapes my throat as his tongue wrestles with mine, his hand cradling the back of my neck to deepen the kiss.
This isn’t just a kiss. It’s a claim. A promise. An answer to every unspoken question between us.
“Get a room!” Sebastian’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, the word more reverent than crude. His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard. “Ignore them.”
“Hard to do when?—”
His lips capture mine again, softer this time but no less intense. “I’ve wanted to do this since college.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You wouldn’t let me win at beer pong.”
A laugh bubbles up, and he swallows it with another kiss. I let myself get lost in the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against mine.
Now, I know why. This seals the deal. I can never go back.
“Okay, okay. Nothing to see.” Blake’s voice pierces through our bubble. “And you two save some for later!”
Brandon breaks the kiss but doesn’t let go of my waist. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, swallowing the ocean blue.
“We should probably…”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t move.
“Brandon.”
“Give me a minute.” His thumb traces my jawline. “I need to memorize this.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His smile is soft, real. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
My fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling him away from the crowd, away from the prying eyes, and Blake. The service hallway’s dim lighting casts shadows across his face as I drag him into what looks like a storage room, empty except for some folded chairs stacked against the far corner.
“Naomi—”
“Shut up.”