6. Brook
My legs.
They move instinctively, feet tapping and twirling on the soft carpet, my arms weaving through the air, shaking off the frustration of the day.
What a fucking day.
The music pulses through my earbuds into every crevice of my exhausted body. The fast, rhythmic beat echoes the frantic pace of my heart.
I close my eyes, letting the music sweep through me as I seek a sweet escape. Usually, each beat is a drum roll, banishing my troubles, freeing me from the tight grip of stress.
Music has always been my therapist, my confidant. Today, it doesn’t seem to understand my need to let go. My body moves in sync with the pulsating rhythm, but I’m not finding relief.
My worries tend to fade away to the beat, swaying and shimmying, but none of today’s occurrences can fade away.
Baldo Cassinetti proposed to me.
The girl in me rejoiced, because that was something I used to dream about.
There’s probably still a diary in my desk drawer in the corner of my room where I practiced the Cassinetti signature.
Not that anything that ensued after I fell for the boy would ever allow for a wedding or any future together.
Yet here we are.
Baldo Cassinetti proposed to me.
The heartbroken woman doesn’t understand what’s happening. He took me by surprise, to say the least. What was he thinking?
I twirl in place a few times, bobbing my head, hoping some other way of thinking triggers understanding, but nothing happens.
I stumble, but catch myself before falling, and I may have even saved the move gracefully.
Not that this is a performance.
What am I going to do? I just got out of a toxic relationship. I can’t spend a year of my life with a man who took so much from me. Who left me behind without looking back.
So much went wrong that night when we were planning to run away.
A lot of it cost me years in therapy. Most of it left me empty and sheltered, building walls I don’t even know how to climb anymore.
I couldn’t protest his ridiculous proposal because, as London pointed out, it’s an easy solution to the stupid conundrum.
They all remember Baldo and I being close growing up. None of them know just how close we had become.
Or how suddenly we weren’t close. Rather as far from each other as possible.
Not that I could have explained any of that to my sisters earlier, thus me refusing the proposal would have only rendered me “difficult,” as they’ve always perceived me.
Perhaps if he wasn’t standing there, I’d have found my brain and come up with a rational explanation.
I want a huge rock?Really?
A new, slower song starts, and I sway to the rhythm, hoping to erase the images of him from my head.
God, did he grow up into a fine man. So fucking sexy, I had to clench my pussy every time I chanced a look at him.
The sultry song isn’t helpful in erasing the thought. I trace my palms up my thighs, around my hips, along my ribcage and back, while my ass rocks. The contact is soothing and caressing, grounding me in my own body.
Maybe there still is a way out. It would take putting on my big girl panties and talking to the man, convincing him it’s not a good idea.
With his business, he can’t be locked in New York.
Fuck. I completely forgot about my spontaneous decision to stay in New York. It was out of desperation, hoping he’d reconsider.
The stubborn bastard shook it off, but I’m sure he’s regretting it now.
Yes, we should just discuss it and announce it was a stupid idea. Then I’ll call my friends and brainstorm some solutions, without my family’s interference.
The beat changes again and, boosted by my solution, I spring and lean back and forth, enjoying the movement.
Fully immersed in my own little world, I let the melodies weave through my soul, stitching up the frayed edges of my day. I spin, fully diving into the fluid movement.
In my whirl of blissful ignorance, my eyes meet his dark irises.
“What the fuck?” I stumble to a halt and rip my earbuds out so violently that one of them flies across the room. “Ever heard of knocking?”
“I knocked. A few times.” Amusement tugs at Baldo’s lips.
How long has he been perched against the door frame? And why does he look so smug? And so fucking hot?
The boy I used to know was attractive, but this man should come with a warning: dangerous to your ovaries and panties.
Can he smell the pheromones? My core clenches. Who knew my pussy could weep.
His arms crossed in front of him, his biceps bulge. So casual and sure of himself. Now I know why it’s been so hard for me to find sexual satisfaction. This man ruined me. Without even truly having me.
Sweat glistens on my skin from what I thought was a private dance session, and I hold my head high as his gaze roams up and down my body hungrily.
Yeah, mister, you missed out.The desire in his expression gives me an unwarranted jolt of vindication.
It’s satisfying to see I’m not the only one affected. It’s also really, really bad. Dangerous. Not that my body cares.
In fact, my body flips me off with all its reactions: shallow breath, pounding heart, drenched pussy, goosebumps, and I’m pretty sure sometime between leaving the kitchen and now I started running a fever.
His eyes darken with something. If I was na?ve, I’d call it lust. We stare at each other for I don’t know how long before he cocks his head as if in question.
Oh, right, yes, we need to talk. We need to put a stop to this stupid scheme. Don’t we?
I clear my throat. “I like to dance the stress off.”
Yes, explain yourself to him. Because he invaded your privacy, spied on you during a private moment, and you owe him an explanation. Go, Brook.
“I can see that.”
That’s all he says, but my body rejoices at hearing his voice like he’s just complimented me. What’s wrong with me?
Everything. Everything is wrong with me when it comes to him.
I fold my arms across my chest, mirroring him. Only I’m not, because his stance is casual while I’m gearing up for a fight. To protect myself.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I have business in New York, and I came to visit Mom.”
I was referring to my room, but okay, let’s broaden it up.
“You couldn’t have picked a better time.” I meant it as a question, I think. My tone is laced with sarcasm, so it came out as a statement. Or an accusation.
“There has never been a good time to return.” He pushes off the frame and steps closer, shutting the door.
My childhood room is still very much like I left it, with all the signs of my teenage personality. A poster of One Direction, pink and white throw pillows, a collection of mugs and my murder mystery paperbacks.
I didn’t bother to redecorate it since I came back, because what for? With Baldo stepping inside, I regret that neglect. The room—and me by extension—just feels more pathetic.
Like he went into the big world and made something of himself, carrying his experience with swagger, while I stayed in my old pink, girlie room, with nothing to show for the past nine years.
The rational me knows it’s not true, but his presence is overwhelming and all-consuming, not leaving much space for logic.
He came to this room before—many times in secret—and in some sense it feels the same. My body trembles, my mouth goes dry.
Only years ago, I’d have jumped up to lock the door and wrap my arms around his neck. Today, I want to yank the door open to get more oxygen and wrap my hands around his throat.
And squeeze.
Okay, I don’t want that. I want him to squeeze his hands around my neck. Pleasant shivers shudder through me and I barely stifle a moan. What the hell?
He narrows his eyes. “Are you okay?”
Unsuccessful stifle then. “Sure. Do you want to go downstairs and talk?” That sounded reasonable, I think. An exit strategy.
“In a hurry to see me out?” He smirks and takes another step in.
It takes all my willpower not to step back. No way in hell am I going to show him that he affects me.
I snort. “Ah, look, and I thought you lost all common sense.”
He takes another step, and his scent hits my nose. For fuck’s sake, no break with this man. And why is my room so small? Has it always been like this?
We’re so close now, he has to look down at me. I will my eyes to meet his, anxiety causing my tongue to dart out to lick my lips.
A fucking mistake.
Baldo’s eyes flicker with hunger. He raises his hand and my heart takes off, galloping around my poor chest.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Only he doesn’t remove his hand after, just lets it linger there. Electricity courses between us while I try to remember why I hate him.
A lock of hair falls across his face, and I almost copy his move but stop myself. “What’s up with the man bun?”
He shrugs. “You don’t like it?”
“I hate it.”
In the absence of any sensible need to remove myself from the current closeness, I can at least hate his hair. God, where the fuck did I leave my wits?
“Duly noted.”
His fingers trace the skin of my neck, along my shoulder, down my arm.
A very elegant retrieval of his hand from my ear. What his touch does to me isn’t healthy.
I swallow because my mouth is so dry and, of course, it prompts my tongue to dart out again. Only this time, I catch myself and retract. Unlike his move, mine lacks grace completely.
It seems to amuse him and encourage him as well, because the same hand he’s just removed from me—and thank God for that—returns.
Only this time, his thumb touches my bottom lip. Right where it is still damp from my tongue.
A woman with my life experience, especially when it comes to toxic men, should bite his finger off. I know that beyond any shadow of a doubt.
But as if someone kidnapped my body and my sanity without my knowledge, my lips part. Not only that, they close around the tip of his finger.
He hums. The sound strips me of any propriety or inhibition, and I suck. He tastes like salt and sin. I want his fingers elsewhere. Jesus.
He groans and grabs my throat with his other hand, squeezing gently.
What the fuck am I doing?
What the fuck are we doing?
What the fuck is he doing?
Jumping away from me. That’s what. Out of the two of us, he regains his senses first, drops his hand and steps back.
Leaving me completely vulnerable, exposed and embarrassed.
“We should talk about the next steps. Other than the big rock you demanded.”
He puts his hands in his pockets, but removes them quickly because the action prompts me to look down. And lo and behold, he’s sporting a semi.
We’re so fucked.
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” I try to move gracefully to my desk and sit on the chair.
“Do you want to call it off? We can, of course.”
The way he throws it out there hurts. It shouldn’t, but it does, and that pisses me off.
“But you would be the one announcing it, because I’m for sure not backing out. It would only confirm what they all think about me.”
“What do they think of you?” He frowns.
What, now he‘s my therapist? “Never mind. What were you thinking, anyway? Proposing?”
“Are you blaming me for wanting to help you out?”
And here is his true reason. He rode to the rescue. Poor Brook needed saving. Fuck him.
“I’m not backing out either,” he continues. “I’ll marry you.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “To stop the funding of questionable organizations.”
That stings a bit. Not the reason I wish for. I wished for. A long time ago. “Great. Let’s get married then. It’s make-believe, after all.”
I guess we’ll go with being stubborn rather than reasonable.
He pulls out his phone, unlocks it with his thumb print and hands it to me. “Save your number.”
I do that and return the phone, practically dropping it in the effort to avoid even the slightest touch.
“I’ll call you.”
He ambles away, shutting the door behind him, leaving my heart in pieces at my feet.
Not for the first time.
I need to get a grip. And I will. Today was just a big surprise. Tomorrow I’ll be better prepared to face him.
Baldo Cassinetti proposed to me.
And I’ll marry him. Make-believe. Nothing else.