20. Jules
CHAPTER 20
Jules
Both men come in as introductions kick off. Brian nods toward the tall, rugged guy standing next to him. “This is Logan.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your chauffeur?”
The two men exchange a contemplative look, the kind that speaks volumes without a word. “I guess I’m whatever the boss needs,” Logan says, his tone smooth.
Brian claps a hand on his shoulder. “Mostly combat support since the article.”
“Combat support?” I echo, suddenly concerned.
Logan’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Yeah, keeping the crazed fans off the boss has become a full-time job. Ever since some wackadoo of a journalist turned him into a Marvel superhero, the attention’s been relentless.”
Smug as the day is long, Brian chimes in, “I prefer to think of her as a mad fan.”
Mad fan? I am not a fan. In fact, I’m the polar opposite of a fan and want to set the record straight, but all I squeak out is, “Oh. ”
I play dumb, taking refuge in another sip of my wine, trying to mask any hint that the wackadoo in question is me.
Brian jumps in. “And he only drives when my leg gives me trouble. Usually later in the day.”
A flicker of concern snakes up my throat, spilling out before I can stop it. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
Brian looks at me with an expression I can’t quite pin down—maybe surprise, maybe something deeper.
Then, with a subtle lift of his jeans, he reveals the gleam of metal where muscle used to be. “Me, 2.0,” he says, his voice carrying a challenge, daring me to feel sorry for him.
But I don’t.
So much stirs inside me, but pity isn’t one of them. What’s a day in his life really like? When he’s not being an insufferable ass, that is.
Every person carries a story, and I’m drawn to his like a curious moth to an irresistible flame. It’s like standing before a masterpiece I’ll never paint, yet I’m compelled to understand every brushstroke.
I want to see more of Brian Gabriel Bishop—the man that all the bruised parts of me are desperate to forget but somehow can’t seem to ignore.
Taylor elbows me, breaking the spell.
I clear my throat, trying to shift gears. “Um, we don’t exactly have a big place. The kitchen table’s tiny, but we’ve got some fold-up chairs in the closet.”
Brian steps into the kitchen, and it’s like the air shifts—his presence filling the room, commanding attention, and leaving no space unnoticed.
His eyes lock on to the nearly drained wine bottle. “St. émilion,” he whistles, clearly impressed. “Nice. But it looks like it’s on its last leg.”
“Sadly, it is,” I say, downing the last drop in my glass.
Brian’s lips curl into a grin. “Funny thing, I brought the exact same bottle.”
The last thing I want is for him to think I’m pretending to be someone I’m not—or worse, that I need expensive things to feel complete. “Mine was stolen.”
“Same here,” he says, flashing that infuriating grin. “I left an IOU with Mrs. D.”
I can’t help but smile. He used to pull that stunt all the time. We all did—grabbing food and leaving her IOUs like they held real value. And if any of us tried to make good on one, Mrs. D. just opened a drawer, shook her head, and insisted it wasn’t there. If it wasn’t there, nothing was owed.
I love imagining Mrs. D. with a secret stash of those IOUs hidden away in a secret warehouse—or better yet, tossing them into the fall bonfire every year, savoring her own fancy glass of wine as they burn to ash, a satisfied smile on her face.
“If I remember correctly,” Brian says, “one leg, one thigh, a quarter plate of green beans, another quarter of mac and cheese, and honey butter on the cornbread.” He hands me the plate, his voice casual but his eyes sharp.
By the time dinner winds down, I’m so stuffed I’m not sure I can even move.
The entire evening has been light and easygoing, full of laughter over memories I haven’t visited in so many years, I forgot they were ever there.
Like the time he taught Mrs. Thompson’s parrot to say “ Pluck Off” and “Kiss my Big Beak” so she’d stop bringing it to church.
Or the time he convinced the evil math teacher that all the thermostats were voice-activated. The poor guy spent a week screaming at the thermostat. It wasn’t until he shouted, “Warm up, damn it!” loud enough that the principal heard and finally set him straight.
My stomach aches from laughing so hard, a feeling I haven’t had in what feels like forever. I’ll give the credit to both Brian and my fourth glass of wine.
And then, without thinking, I open my mouth. “Why did you do it, Brian?”
Brian’s expression falters, the bright ocean blue light in his eyes dimming to a stormy sea of gray. But I wasn’t asking about that—about my epic waterslide crash into the nickname Peach Pop. No, that’s a conversation definitely reserved for straight liquor.
I quickly scramble to cover. “I mean, why did you join the military?”
He shakes his head as a faraway look settles in his expression. “It was all I ever wanted to do. My dad and grandpa were both vets. Plus, it helped transform me from the hellraiser I was into something more...” He struggles to find the word. “Manageable?”
Logan cuts in with a grin. “Or into someone who’s only slightly less of a pain in the ass.”
Brian lets out a small laugh, then shares a look with Logan—one that seems to be Logan’s cue to leave. “I need a little air.” He stands. “Care to join me?” he asks Taylor.
Taylor practically lights up, her excitement barely contained. “Absolutely! I’ll just grab a sweater.” She darts off, returning in record time, beaming as she links her arm with Logan’s.
They head out, leaving the room quieter, more charged. Brian’s gaze locks on to mine, studying me like he’s searching for something.
Before the blush heating my neck can hit my cheeks, I jump in. “You said something about an offer?”
He leans back slightly, his tone casual, but his eyes are razor-sharp. “I heard you were fired.”
I can already see where this is headed. The guilty rich boy wants to ease his conscience. So I do it for him.
“At the risk of denting your overinflated ego, the world doesn’t revolve around you.” His head tilts slightly, those sharp eyes of his softening. “Roxana Voss got me fired, not you. And honestly, I never liked the job to begin with.”
He pauses, as if considering his next move, then nods and reaches out, smoothing a hand over mine. The touch is electric, a current that feels too natural, too right.
It scares the hell out of me, so I pull away, shaking off the lingering sensation. “How’s your little girl?”
He sighs, the weight of whatever he’s carrying pulling down his shoulders. “She’s fine. But she’s...not mine.”
“Huh?”
“The kids. They were, uh, sort of on loan,” he admits, the words falling out awkwardly.
By this point, I’m pouring the last of the wine into his glass. A Roxana Voss story? Now, this, I have to hear.
He takes a generous gulp, and flashes a shy grin. “I needed an excuse to cut my meeting with the vampiress short, and their father had this idea and, well, sort of volunteered them.”
I shake my head, a smirk pulling at my lips. “Using kids as a shield? And you call yourself a soldier.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough, cutting through the tension, but it doesn’t ease the knot in my stomach. I can’t dodge the elephant in the room any more than I can ignore the intensity in his gaze or the way his damn aftershave lingers in the air between us. “Why did you really come here, Brian?”
He lets out a slow breath, as if he’s figuring out what to say. And for a second, I think he’s about to stand up and walk out. But then, he shifts, kneeling down in front of me, his hand gently wrapping around mine.
His eyes find mine, and when he speaks, his words hit with the force of a Mack truck, head-on. “Because I need a wife.”