3. Brook
His eyes land on me after my sisters fawn over him and gush about his sudden appearance. What the fuck is that about?
As far as I know, he hasn’t come home since the night he abandoned me. But all thoughts of the past blur under his present gaze.
I was a girl when his smile spread goosebumps on my skin.
Nine years later, I have the same reaction. And for a brief—the briefest—moment, I allow myself to admire the fine specimen he has become.
Somehow the last nearly ten years have filled him out in all the right places. His tailored suit hugs his muscles beautifully.
The scruff on his face lines the perfect square of his jaw, and he has a man bun. I’m not a fan, but damn does it add a sexy roughness to his polished appearance.
And those eyes. I couldn’t resist the dark irises then, and being under their scrutiny now is doing things to me I don’t want to feel.
He’s your stepbrother, the devil on my shoulder reminds me. I never subscribed to that obstacle in the past because we’re not related by blood, but I go with it this time. I need the boundary.
Because, again, why the fuck is he here?
The worst thing is… a part of me wants to run into his arms.
He lost that right the night he left me behind.
I have imagined this moment so many times in my head. I rehearsed it, planned what I’d say, scripted the words.
They all still float somewhere in my conscience, but they don’t form fully. In all my fantasies, vengeance and the need for closure drove my actions.
Never did I consider the influx of emotions surging through me currently. It’s like my entire system goes into survival mode.
And in the eternal beats of time—that I’m pretty sure amount to mere minutes in reality—I have to relearn how to breathe, how to think, how to walk, how to human.
And since I can’t find my sass, or the English language, and all my paralyzed efforts are consumed by the last remnants of common sense that are stopping me from the primal need to flee, I decide to channel my hatred for him.
The most uncool of my feelings, but desperate times and all that…
Sufficiently equipped with that sentiment, I jump down from the counter and saunter toward him. Yes, I saunter, and based on his darkened expression and set jaw, he’s affected.
It feels like a win. Not that there’s a competition.
“Tokyo,” he rasps.
I swallow a whimper, most of my confidence deserting me. Showing up here after nine years is dreadful, but how dare he use that name with me?
For the benefit of the others, I mirror my sister’s welcome and I half hug him.
My body betrays me.
Even that excuse of an embrace sends my cells into high alert, immediately recognizing what they want. What they need. What they crave.
His touch. His caress. His attention.
Him.
Goddammit.
To stop myself from kicking him in the crotch—because yes, that’s where my survival instincts go—I immediately turn and dash to the glass door that opens to the backyard.
I stare into the darkness.
Ignore him.
Ignore your body.
Ignore the pain in your chest.
My breathing almost finds a rhythm. It’s chaotic, but it’s something. I can do this. He must be here for a brief visit.
I mean, he came unannounced, I’m sure of that. Mom would have mentioned something. She looked surprised, so that means it’s perhaps an unplanned visit.
He was in the neighborhood. Okay, not reasonable, but I’m adjusting.
And then my gaze collides with his in the glass’s reflection, and for the love of every murder, why is he still here?
I whip around, but don’t look at him. “When are you leaving?”
A part of me is marginally aware that it’s a fucked-up question.
But that part is shut up by all the other parts that don’t care about being a well-adjusted human, but rather focusing on the next minute. A minute that is so fucking hard in his presence.
“Brook!” Paris warns.
Her tone suggests everything she—and probably everyone else—is thinking. What’s wrong with you? That’s not polite! How could you?
“I’ll take the tea upstairs,” Mom says. “You’ll be here?” She looks at her long-lost son and I feel like the worst person ever.
Go figure—there’s still room to sink lower after all the surprises of the day.
That’s it. It’s not so much him as the will and marriage looming over me. No wonder I’m out of my element. I’m not normally a bitch.
And now I’m lying to myself.
For fuck’s sake. I go back to my wine glass and refill it. Only now I end up standing beside him and that isn’t helping me find composure. How and when did he even move to this corner?
Hoping to seem casual, I round the large counter—thank God for this humongous kitchen—and position myself at the opposite corner, hiding my face in the large glass.
Not that I’m looking at him. It’s just that he’s right across from me and all.
God, that suit fits him well. It gives him an air of dominance, like he’s in charge here.
Has he always been like this? Owning the room with his mere presence?
We were the youngest of the bunch, so I guess we kind of remained in the shadows.
The confidence he oozes is a turn-on. It pleases me to learn this new tidbit about him.
What? I don’t care. I don’t care.
Still, I can’t not observe him.
My sisters update Baldo on Dad’s health. Something passes through his face, messing up his composure. It’s a fleeting tick of the jaw that is gone immediately.
What was that about? Was it only my imagination, which usually serves up gruesome, bloody images?
I look at the floor and run an outline of a dead body with my eyes. If someone—none of the people here, I’m not that crazy—a fictional character hit his head on the corner of the counter, how would they fold as they fell?
“It’s iron clad.”
I jump at Dominic’s voice and file the image for… well, I file it away.
He joins us, with Hunter and Finn on his heels. He drops the will on the middle of the counter.
The bang reminds me that Baldo’s presence is not my only problem at the moment. Fucking roller coaster of a day.
I need to get married.
And why is it so hot in here?
I’m only half-listening to everyone around me. Introductions are made, explanations are given. My sisters whine about their unplanned, fast weddings.
As if that was the issue.
I’m the one who doesn’t have a partner.
I’m the one who has to go through this farce while Baldo is watching.
Out of everyone witnessing my humiliation, he’s the one person I can’t do this in front of. I can’t have him finding out how alone I am. How lonely I am. How desperate I am.
How I’ll have to look for a fake husband.
I groan, and when a hand comes to my back I almost yelp.
At some point during this cheerful conversation, Mom came back down. And while Bianca isn’t my birth mother, her instincts are dead on because she caresses my back.
And just like when I was a little girl, the soothing circles provide me with strength. Or at least a measure of comfort.
It’s not lost on me that she’s chosen to stand by me while I’m sure she wants every waking minute with her son. How pathetic must I be in her eyes, if she picked me at this moment?
Okay, Brook, grow up. He is here and you can’t make him leave, so you’d better focus on what matters.
If only the conversation in the room would finally move to the most pressing issue.
While they continue to yap away, I consider my options.
Is there a place online where I can find a husband? Like mail-order brides? There might be some sort of a modern alternative. Or I can order a bride. That would upset Granny’s need for tradition.
The thought almost cheers me up. It would if the man I pretend is not here wasn’t staring at me.
Or I think he is. While he converses with the others, I can feel the burn of his attention.
“I’d suggest that you”—Dominic looks at Paris and Sydney—“since you’re living together anyway, get hitched at the city clerk’s office now to comply with the paperwork and then have the weddings you planned later.” He looks at London. “I got us an appointment at city hall already.”
She grins at him. “I love you.”
Finally, my turn.
“Great, and now that we’ve resolved the issues that weren’t pressing since you were going to get married anyway, can we focus on me?” My tongue trips a bit.
Just how much of that wine did I have? And shouldn’t alcohol cheer me up?
Nobody rushes to offer suggestions. It doesn’t feel like my family is looking for a solution. The silence screams of their pity and my desperation.
But someone is thinking of a solution, and his words floor me.
“I’ll marry you.”