Chapter 4
TATUM
“Oh my gosh.” I spring up from my spot on the bed, and Brandon’s hand falls away from where it had been absently playing with my hair.
“What?” He lifts his gaze from the notes he’s reading.
“One of the Koch sisters just commented on my latest BookTok,” I say, turning to face him.
“The one about my plans to open a romance only, special edition book shop.” My heart pounds in my chest as I quickly tap out a reply.
“She says if I have any questions or need any advice, to hit her up once I graduate.”
A crease forms between his brows. “Remind me who the Koch sisters are again? Are they authors?”
I roll my eyes and reach out, smoothing the crease with my finger, and ignoring the way my heart thumps in my chest as his expression softens with my touch. “No. They’re the women who own the Ripped Bodice.”
“Oh, that dope bookstore in New York City we went to?”
“That’s the one.” I grin because I love that he remembers, but I love how cool he thought the place was even more, considering it’s one of the inspirations for my own future boutique shop.
“Well, that’s big, right?” he asks, setting his notes down.
I nod, not even bothering to hide my excitement. “Huge. Could you imagine having access to whatever brilliant ideas they might have, let alone all the wisdom and experience they’ve accumulated from having been there and opened their own store?”
Brandon’s smile widens. “I wanna see,” he says as he reaches for my phone, then whistles. “Not only is that incredible, but—holy shit, Tate—you’re at over sixty thousand followers now. How?” He glances back up at me and the awe in his expression tugs on my heart.
I lift one shoulder in a half-shrug. “My videos have been all popping off lately.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen, but . . .” He shakes his head and hands back my phone. “Still, I mustn’t have been paying attention. Incredible.”
I sit a little taller, back a little straighter.
Brandon has been my number one fan, my largest supporter since I started my book username on social media a few years ago, and he hasn’t wavered since.
When I get nasty comments, he’s the first to silence the trolls.
When I have an amazing idea for a video, he’s the one who helps me film it.
And when I need encouragement because the reel I spent hours creating only gets a couple hundred views, he’s the one to push me—to stop me from giving up.
It pains me to think of what I’ll do when he’s no longer at my disposal, when we’re miles apart and he can’t drop everything to be at my side.
Ethan is amazing, but he doesn’t understand my love of romance or my dream of owning my own romance book boutique, not like Brandon does.
Then again, no guy has stacked up to Brandon.
Sometimes, I wonder if anyone ever will.
I reach out, nudging him in the shoulder. “You’ve been really quiet today,” I say. Ever since he showed up at my dorm room, he hasn’t been himself. “Anything you wanna talk about?”
He shakes his head, dropping his gaze back to his notebook. “Nah, I’m good.”
My stomach sinks, because I know what this is about.
It’s been three days since I told him I’m thinking of transferring schools to be with Ethan, and I hate the fact that he’s still upset over it.
Not that I blame him. Ethan came out of nowhere and our relationship evolved so quickly, even my head is still spinning.
If the roles were reversed, I’m sure I’d be freaking out, too.
“Are you still mad at me for wanting to transfer?” I ask.
Brandon’s shoulders tense. He sets his notebook aside completely, then meets my gaze. “I’m not mad at you, Tate.”
“Then what’s with the brooding silence?” I press. “Until, I saw my post and squealed, you barely said ten words to me all evening.”
He runs a hand through his sandy locks, making them stand up in that adorably messy way I’ve always loved. “I’m just . . . processing.”
“Michigan State isn’t that far,” I say, even though I know it doesn’t make it better. The fact of the matter is we won’t be able to just see each other whenever we want.
“It’s far enough,” he says quietly. “And it changes everything.”
“It doesn’t have to. We can still see each other.”
He cocks his head, and I can read what he’s thinking just by the expression on his face. Get serious. “With football and my training schedule, you might as well be transferring clear across the country.”
I tuck my legs underneath me, pleading with my eyes for him to listen. “We’ll still talk every day. We can FaceTime and see each other over Christmas and summer.”
Brandon reaches for his water bottle, taking a long swig while I watch the muscles in his throat work before returning my attention to his face. “Right. Because long-distance friendships always work out perfectly,” he drawls.
“Ours will,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
“We’re not just any friends, Brandon. We’re .
. .” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence because the truth is, Brandon has always held a special little piece of my heart, and I don’t want that to change any more than he does.
The emotion playing across his face makes my breath catch. His eyes, those deep blue eyes that have always seen right through me, search mine for something I’m not sure I can define.
“We’re what, Tatum?” he asks, his voice softer than before.
I swallow hard. “We’re us. Brandon and Tatum. The dynamic duo,” I say, offering him a weak smile.
He nods slowly, but the disappointment is evident in the slight downturn of his lips. “Right. The dynamic duo.”
The silence between us stretches uncomfortably. I fidget with my phone for a minute, hating how awkward this feels when Brandon suddenly lunges forward and snags the paperback I’d abandoned in lieu of my phone.
The movement is so unexpected that I let out a surprised laugh, the tension between us breaking like a bubble popping.
“So, what’s the latest soap opera you’re losing yourself in?
” he asks, flipping the book over to examine the cover.
His eyebrows shoot up as he takes in the shirtless man.
“Ah, I see we’ve got the classics here; brooding professional athlete meets feisty city girl who teaches him how to love again. Am I right?”
I snatch the book back, feeling my face warm. “Excuse you, this is a western romance with complex literary elements and serious themes about grief and resilience of the human spirit.”
“Western romance?” Brandon points at the cover. “He’s not even wearing a cowboy hat. And what kind of rancher in real life has abs like that?”
“The abs are artistic license,” I say primly, trying to keep a straight face and failing miserably. “And not all cowboys wear hats.”
He falls back against my pillows with a snort. “Next you’ll tell me he doesn’t even own a horse on his ranch.”
“He’s not a rancher,” I correct him, poking his side where I know he’s ticklish. “He’s a reformed bad boy, turned cowboy, licking his wounds after the death of his only love.”
Brandon jerks away from my finger, grabbing my wrist. “Let me guess, he says howdy and y’all a lot and has a mysterious scar?”
I try to maintain my dignity but dissolve into giggles. “Stop it! He does not. That’s terrible.”
“Terrible as in bad or terribly accurate?” He releases my wrist to flip through the book, landing on a random page, and his eyes widen theatrically.
“Whoa, Tatum Rose! Is this what you’re reading in public?
” He clears his throat and adopts a ridiculous hillbilly accent.
“‘Darlin’, I been holdin’ back as long as I can, but I can’t keep these hands to myself no more—’”
“Brandon Michael Lambert!” I dive for the book, but he holds it just out of reach. “Don’t you dare.”
He continues reading, his accent getting worse with each word. “‘Yer body calls to me like the trail calls a restless horse—’”
“That is NOT in there!” I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts as I climb over him, trying to reclaim my book.
“How would you know? Maybe I’m improving it.” He’s laughing too, holding the book above his head while I practically climb him like a tree.
“Give it back, you literary terrorist!”
“Literary terrorist?” He guffaws. “Has a nice ring to it. I’m putting that in my Bookstagram bio.”
“You don’t even have a Bookstagram.”
“Maybe I should. I bet a lot of people would follow me.”
The sad part is they probably would. Bookstagram and BookTok girlies go feral for hot men who read. But I don’t tell him that.
We’re both breathless with laughter as I finally manage to grab the book, but not before losing my balance and collapsing half on top of him. His arm comes around me automatically, steadying me, and for a moment we’re just there, faces close, still smiling.
“God, I’ll miss this,” he says softly, and I know exactly what he means. Because I’ll miss it, too.
“Same,” I admit.
His eyes lock with mine, and something shifts in the air between us.
The laughter fades from his face, replaced by an intensity that makes my breath catch.
I become acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch—my leg draped over his, my hand on his chest, where I can feel his heart beating just a little too fast. His fingers absently tracing a pattern on my arm, leaving goose bumps in their wake.
What the hell is happening?
“Tatum,” he whispers, and the way he says my name makes my stomach flip.
I should move. I should definitely move. But I don’t want to. There’s something magnetic keeping me here even though I know it’s wrong; something in his blue eyes that I’ve never let myself look at too closely before.
His hand moves up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, lingering there against my cheek. The touch is gentle, questioning, and I find myself leaning into it without meaning to. The air feels thick, charged with something I’m not ready to name.
My phone chimes loudly from beside us, the sound shattering whatever spell had fallen over the room.
I practically leap away from him, fumbling for my phone with all the dexterity of a toddler.
Ethan’s name and photo light up the screen, and when I glance back at Brandon, he’s already putting distance between us, his expression guarded. Gone are his easy smile and laughter, and I realize as my thumb hovers over the screen how badly I want them back.
“You going to answer that?” he asks, his voice rough like gravel.
I nod, my pulse is still racing from Brandon’s touch and the way his voice wrapped around my name like it meant something more. At one time, I would’ve given anything for it to have meant more. But not anymore. Because now I have Ethan.
Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself as I swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear.