22. Look After You #4
He’s not just the guy who loves to workout, who travels the world and works too much, who wears designer suits and looks like he breaks hearts for fun.
He’s warm. Steady. Protective without needing to prove it. Kind in a way that’s quiet.
The kind of man who volunteers at soup kitchens even though he’s worth billions—who could write a check and be done with it—but instead shows up, sleeves rolled, putting in the time.
Above all things he’s humble. It’s endearing.
His sister adores him and the way he looks at his mom—like she’s the whole damn world—unspools something tight in my chest.
After the plates are cleared, Marie brings out the pie. Apple. Golden and perfect, vanilla ice cream already melting into the edges.
Broderick hands me a fork like it’s a sacred tradition. “She only makes this for people she likes.”
Marie snorts. “I made it because apples were on sale.”
“Way to cut his grass Ma,” Georgia quips, trying to stifle a giggle.
“Just keeping it real, as you kids say,” she says.
Broderick chuckles and shakes his head.
I take a bite. Still warm. Cinnamon sharp and sweet, crust buttery and falling apart under the fork.
“Okay, this is so much better than whatever Philippa would have ordered from that overpriced bakery,” I mutter.
Broderick grins. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’ll blacklist you from SORA dinners.”
I shake my head, chewing slowly, trying to place the feeling blooming beneath my skin.
It’s not just comfort.
It’s the quiet understanding that I’m safe here with him.
Wanted.
And the terrifying realization that maybe—just maybe—Broderick isn’t the placeholder I thought he was.
He catches me staring.
“What?” he asks, mouth full of pie.
“Nothing,” I say brushing a crumb off the edge of his mouth.
He smiles, goofy and silly.
But I’m not sure if it is nothing. Not anymore.
We say goodbye to Georgia and Marie—after she packs us leftovers in old yogurt containers and kisses my cheek like she’s known me my whole life, after Georgia pulls me into a polite hug—Broderick drives me home.
We don’t talk much on the way. We don’t need to.
It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t press or pull and lets you think without drowning.
Which I am.
My father. Alex. Broderick. Georgia and Marie.
All of it spinning inside me—’round and ‘round.
He parks out front and leaves the engine running, headlights spilling across the curb. The air between us thickens. Familiar now. But still charged.
I stare out the windshield, then glance at him. His hand rests on the wheel, thumb tapping once. He seems to be lost in his own thoughts.
“Thank you for today,” I whisper.
I rest my hand on his thigh, the moment I do every thought goes quiet.
He turns to me, brow creasing slightly.
“You needed a soft landing.”
The simplicity of it pulls again at the broken pieces. The way he sees straight through without picking at the pieces, even when I don’t deserve it.
“You’re kind of wonderful—you know that?” I say before I can stop myself.
He grins, slow and crooked. “El, I already knew that.”
I laugh—short, under my breath—eyes dropping to my lap.
“And so humble.”
His smile lingers—not cocky. Just a little bashful. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the tenderness between us either.
Something has changed tonight. Naturally. The way you shift from asleep to awake. I’m not ready for it. I can’t even admit it, not even to myself.
“Do you want to come up?” I’m desperate to cling to the peace he brings to my mind when I unravel under his touch.
It slips out softer than I mean it to. No performance. Just need.
He holds my gaze, his eyes dark, unreadable.
“Not tonight, baby,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says it—restrained, but aching.
It hits me unexpectedly.
And that aches more than it should.
I pull my hand away from his knee, snapping the moment like a thread.
He waits for me to get inside before pulling away from the curb. I hesitate on the steps, just long enough to hope he’ll change his mind. That he’ll rush up behind me, sweep me into his arms, and fuck my brains out.
To pretend like today didn’t matter as much as it did.
His kindness today—being there when I was falling apart. After the fallout with Alex. At Pacific and today, after my father. Every other time, too. It clings to me like a second skin. I don’t want to admit it. I won’t.
We agreed.
Friends.
No strings. No expectations.
Just sex.
But why does it feel like Broderick’s weaving strings of his own.
I text him anyway, desperate to reclaim the upper hand. Desperate to keep our rules intact.
Elena
Still horny. What can I do?
I shower, scrubbing the night away, but it doesn’t clear the thoughts in my head.
My phone buzzes.
Broderick
I’m on my period lol
I snort. Shake my head. Of course he’d say that.
Still, I stare at the screen a little longer than I should. My thumb hovering over the reply, then drops. But underneath the laugh—there’s disappointment.
He’s unknowingly tipping the arrangement in his favor, stolen moments pushing us closer to the edge of bliss or disaster.
And I’m not the one steering anymore.
One thing I know for certain—one thing he made painfully clear tonight—I need him.