12. Brook
“You must admit that his refusal was kind of gallant,” Celeste says dreamily.
“I can’t believe you still believe in romance.” Saar laughs and stuffs her mouth with a handful of popcorn.
“I can’t believe someone scarred you so badly that you don’t. Who was that club owner, anyway?”
I felt so shitty, and not only due to my hangover, that I invited my friends over to help me sort through the bitter aftertaste of Baldo’s rejection.
“Just someone I used to know, but it turns out he isn’t worth the trouble.”
“No second chance for you?” I tease with sarcasm.
“Oh, because it’s going so well for you. You’re a glowing endorsement for second chances.”
“And fake marriages.” I sigh.
“Sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to be a bitch.” She sends me an air kiss from her seat.
We are lounging on the back patio, with iced teas and snacks on the table. The weather is gracing us with lovely temperatures, so we’re taking advantage of it.
“Yes, you did.” I pout.
“Stop whining, both of you,” Celeste says. “You’re gorgeous, smart women. You don’t need second chances, you just need one right chance at true love.”
Saar makes a gagging sound and I giggle. Once upon a time, I thought Baldo was my true love. I know better now.
The door swooshes open as if I summoned the man with my thoughts. For some reason my face heats, and I quickly snatch my glass from the table.
This is what things have come to. I need to reset myself to find my groove around the man. Okay, I haven’t seen him since my theatrics last night, so perhaps the embarrassment is well grounded.
He’s wearing a suit with a navy tie and pocket square, an arresting confidence and a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Celeste jumps up from her chair. “Oh my, is this your husband?” She smiles and extends her hand. “I’m Celeste Delacroix.”
He kisses her hand instead of shaking it. “Baldo Cassinetti. Nice to meet you.”
“Saar van den Linden.” My friend bats her lashes and stands up to get her hand kissed.
“You’re Saar?” He frowns, but his question doesn’t sound like he recognizes the famous model. “Hm.” He shakes his head and then smiles. “Good to know.”
And then he throws me off when he leans in to kiss my temple. “Have you behaved, darling?” He squeezes my shoulder.
I snort. “They’re my best friends—they know.”
At that, he drops his hand and nods to Celeste and Saar with his blinding, sincere smile. One that he doesn’t give me before he leaves.
“Oh my God, he’s hot. Like super-hot,” Saar mouths.
“Cool down, you can have him in twelve months.”
And while I throw the idea out there, the possibility squeezes at my stomach and spreads bitterness in my mouth.
She laughs. “You’re such a good friend. I might be desperate, but not enough to grab your leftovers.”
We move the conversation to other, inconsequential topics for a bit before I walk them out.
After shutting the door behind them, I hesitate at the base of the stairs. A part of me wants to go hide in my room, but I also want to face Baldo to see where we stand.
Why is it so awkward to be around him? Because you got drunk and propositioned him. Okay, I better address the disaster head on.
I find him in the library, sitting behind Mom’s large desk by the picture window, opening his laptop.
“Your friends left?”
“Yes. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to set up here.” He looks at me. “If you don’t mind. I’m assuming you haven’t been using this office?”
Because I don’t work?“And why would you assume that?” I spit out.
Fighting wasn’t the reason I came in here, but somehow I always find myself throwing verbal punches around this man.
“Because it’s Mom’s office and she only left a few days ago. Did you plan on using it?”
“No.” I stand there and fidget while he ignores me. “I’ll be upstairs.”
Not sure why I feel the need to share that. It’s not like we owe each other our whereabouts.
“Hold on.” He gets a box from his briefcase and hands it to me. “I got you a new phone. Your old one is canceled and all data transferred to this one.”
I stare at the box. “How?”
“I have people.”
My heart speeds up. Another gesture to throw me off kilter. “Thank you.”
“I got your old number ported to this, so you wouldn’t miss any calls.”
It’s sad that I don’t remember the last time someone did anything thoughtful for me.
Or what to do with the fact that this phone isn’t the first, nor the only thoughtful thing from him.
Or how to accept it in light of his rejection last night.
“Thank you,” I repeat.
He shrugs. “It’s just a phone, sis.”
Sis?Fuck him.
* * *
The next several days pass in a blur of work and tension. For the most part, we avoid each other.
I bury myself in my latest manuscript. Baldo is out of the house more than he’s here, and when he is home he stays out of my way.
I can’t decide how I feel about it. His distance is for the best, I try to argue with myself.
And yet, it’s like getting a dose of rejection every single day. It seeps through my veins, poisoning me with foul feelings. And a bit of self-pity.
I hate all of it.
My latest book will feature an unprecedented amount of murder. And a lot of sibling hate.
Perched on my bed, I type away to finish the chapter. I’m hungry, but I don’t want to go downstairs because I heard Baldo come home earlier.
As I finally reach a cliffhanger that satisfies me, I call it quits for the day. I save my work and create several backups.
Putting my laptop on the floor, I slide on to my back and stare at the ceiling. We have been married for a week. That leaves us with another fifty-one.
My phone pings with a message.
Syd
Vegas was amazing. We needed to get away.
Lo
And elope (laughing emoji)
Paris
Don’t call it that, Lo.
Lo
(eye-roll emoji)
How is the honeymoon, Brook? (laughing emoji)
Fuck off, a few more days and it might end in bloodshed.
Paris
Play nice, Brook, it’s for a good cause.
Syd
Not too nice. I’m still weirded out you married our brother.
Stepbrother
Lo
Let’s hope you don’t get pregnant.
Paris
(laughing emoji)
Sydney
(laughing emoji)
Refer to my earlier fuck off.
I drop the phone and consider calling Saar and Celeste. A dinner in town would be nice.
Normally I don’t mind being cooped up while I’m working on my first draft, but with my housemate trailing the scent of coffee and him everywhere he goes, I need to get out more.
My phone sounds again and I answer without thinking.
“Brook speaking.”
“Finally,” the voice I really didn’t miss drawls on the other side. “I thought you were screening my calls, baby doll.”
“What do you want, Dylan?”
“Don’t be so cold, doll. How are you?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Okay, okay, just hear me out, please. Don’t you miss me?”
“Like one misses hot coals in their ass.”
He laughs. “You were always so funny, doll. I’m calling because my agent is trying to get me an audition in this pilot, and it seems like that bloke John Carver is involved. Isn’t he your friend?”
John is my agent, but Dylan doesn’t know that because he believes, like everybody else, that I’m just a rich socialite.
It says something about our relationship that we dated for three years and I never told him what I do.
But that was the least of our problems.
“Are you seriously calling in a favor, Dylan?”
“Baby doll, you skipped town so quickly we didn’t sort out our last fight. When are you coming back, by the way? I miss you.”
“You miss my bank account, and right now my connections.”
“Don’t be a bitch about it.” His temper flares up. In his case, it never takes long.
“Fuck you. Don’t call me again.” I hang up.
While I recognize he’s an ocean away, the memories of his tantrums rush through me and my body shakes despite my best efforts.
Suddenly feeling the need for some companionship, I dash out of the room and knock on Baldo’s door.
I have a lot of my mental health issues under control, but I can’t call my therapist every time something spooks me.
Besides, it’s the middle of the night in England. It didn’t stop Dylan, apparently.
When Baldo doesn’t answer, I go downstairs. Light is coming from the library, so I veer that way.
I pause at the sight of Baldo seated at the table. He looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine, but what’s new? Just seeing him calms me.
When we dance around each other in this house, it’s easy to avoid looking at him. Lit only by the dim light of the desk lamp, his face looks relaxed.
His features, usually set in granite, are softer. Which is at odds with the sleek, metallic sheen of the gun he’s cleaning.
The image is oddly captivating. I’ve written scenes like this countless times, but witnessing it in reality sends a shiver of intrigue down my spine. Especially when the main protagonist is Baldo.
“What are you doing?”
We’ve barely spoken since our wedding, and this is what I ask? Way to go, Brook.
His eyes lift to look at me. It’s eerie as his whole body barely moves. “Cleaning my gun.” He returns his focus to his activity.
I cross the large library, my feet sinking into the soft carpet, and stop across from him.
“What’s that, a Glock 19?” My curiosity is piqued.
Baldo looks up, his eyebrows raising. “Yes, it is. I didn’t take you for a gun enthusiast.”
I shrug, moving closer to get a better look. “Just interested.”
He chuckles, laying out the disassembled parts neatly on the cloth. “Know much about Glocks?”
“Favored for their reliability, they are lightweight, compact, with a good magazine capacity. It’s the preferred choice for many law enforcement agencies.” I recite the facts as if reading from a research folder.
“Correct.”
I move around and watch him clean the barrel over his shoulder. “It’s striker-fired, which is part of its reliability. No hammer to worry about.”
He smirks and assembles the gun. Picking up the barrel, he holds it toward me. “Ever held one?”
I shake my head.
His tone is teasing, but his eyes are serious. “Feel the weight.”
He stands up, that distinct musk of him invading all my senses. I don’t look at the gun between us, I stare into his eyes.
If I’m honest, I’m desperately seeking any sign that he’s as affected by me as I am by him.
But he maintains a perfect poker face, bar the smirk challenging me to hold the gun. Like it’s some sort of test. Or a metaphor. Here I am overthinking again.
Though it’s hard to scramble a decent thought together when all my energy is consumed by his closeness. By my ragged breathing. By my pounding heartbeat. By my need to squeeze my thighs together.
“Why do you own a gun?” The words come out broken, struggling to get past the lump in my throat.
Why am I this affected by him? Why isn’t he affected at all? I guess I really am only a sibling to him.
“Why do you know so much about guns?”
It feels like a challenge, like he’s daring me to share a part of me. Am I ready to tell him about my secret career? It’s the easiest of my secrets to unravel.
I want to tell the boy I used to love, but I don’t want to share with the man who calls me sis. The rest of my family doesn’t know.
Avoiding the question, I take the Glock from him. It’s heavier than I expected.
“Are you sure you trust me with a gun around you?” I know it isn’t loaded, but the weight of it in my hands gives me a weird sense of power.
He licks his lip, and now I’m thinking about kissing him.
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he smirks. “When it comes to trusting you, Brook, the jury is still out.”
He traces the outline of my jaw with his hand and I lean into his palm, starved for his touch. My whole body comes alive under his caress.
Goosebumps spread across my skin. Heat burns in my lower belly. I’m having a really hard time breathing.
He looks at me with hunger and something akin to adoration, but I’m sure that’s just wishful thinking.
Regardless, my body thrums with the need to be held. To be loved. To be owned by this man.
With a primal need for the second chance we never got. Perhaps it’s just a need for closure, but it’s visceral and relentless.
A whimper or a sigh escapes me, my lungs crying for oxygen.
The room is too hot. The gun is too heavy. The man is too dangerous.
But he’s going to kiss me, and I part my lips to invite him.
Instead, Baldo lowers his lips to my ear. He puts his hand on my hip, like he senses I might need the support because my knees are giving in.
“It’s not an empty gun you’d hurt me with.”
I shudder. At his words. At the unrequited desire. At the loss of… I don’t even know what. I jerk away from him.
He is right. About our mutual lack of trust, and about our ability to hurt each other.
His words already hurt worse than a gunshot.