Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
Lincoln
I slapped Michael on the back, pulling him into a tight hug. His once short chestnut hair had grown shaggy and now brushed the collar of his navy suit. We were seated at Savoureax, a trendy spot owned by chef Sawyer Walsh, but tonight, the culinary delights were secondary. I was here to reconnect with my brother after an absence that felt like an eternity.
“It’s so good to see you,” I said, releasing him from the embrace.
“Likewise,” Michael replied, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I can hardly wrap my head around the past week.”
The hostess led us to our table, a secluded spot in the back that promised a quieter experience despite the restaurant’s lively atmosphere. As we settled into the brown leather chairs, I noticed Michael had lost some weight. Yet, under his jacket, his back felt firm, the lean muscles a testament to the trials he’d endured.
Our drinks arrived: a scotch on the rocks for me, and a glass of red wine for Michael. I studied him carefully, searching for any trace of the man who had been missing for so long.
“No hard stuff for you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Michael shook his head. “I didn’t drink much after...”
I cut him off. “I still can’t believe you’re back. I thought you were dead.”
Michael’s face twisted with regret. “I’m sorry I put everyone through so much.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s her fault,” I said, my voice laced with bitterness.
“Don’t say that,” he snapped back, his eyes darkening. “I still love her.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “There’s no chance with Morgan. She’s getting married in three months.”
Michael’s face fell. “Don’t remind me.”
As the waiter placed our drinks on the black linen tablecloth and took our dinner orders, we signaled for more time. I wasn’t in the mood for food, not with the weight of our conversation.
“You need to move on,” I said, taking a sip of my scotch. “Erika told me Morgan’s in love with Slade now.”
Michael’s eyes hardened. “She’s still in love with me.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I asked, disbelief coloring my tone.
“Because I saw her,” Michael said quietly. “I stopped by her apartment.”
I nearly choked on my drink. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I love her too. The entire time I was away, I knew something was missing. Morgan was missing. Just thinking about her makes my heart ache.”
“I sort of know how you feel,” I admitted.
Michael leaned forward, his interest piqued. “How did you get involved with Erika? She’s a little spitfire.”
I chuckled, a grin spreading across my face. “She is. I met her over the phone during a negotiation, but I didn’t know who she was. We met in person at Surge.”
“And?” Michael pressed.
“And what?” I countered, a teasing edge in my voice.
“Are you finally thinking of settling down?”
“She’s got me,” I said, my voice softening. “I think I love her.”
Michael laughed. “I told you it would happen eventually. Maybe all the Elliott boys fall hard.”
“I thought I was different until I met Erika,” I said. “I even brought up marriage with her.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “She bit you?”
I grimaced, trying to hide my discomfort. “You don’t know the half of it,” I mumbled.
“Pardon?”
I shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to dive into the details of my intense relationship with Erika. The bite marks on my shoulder were a testament to the passionate nature of our connection, but I kept that part to myself.
“Nothing,” I said, picking up my menu. “I’m thinking of going with the pasta primavera. Not in the mood for meat.”
Dinner was a good conversation, but my heart weighed heavy for Michael. The thought of him yearning for a woman committed to another man was a painful reminder of how complicated love could be.
“Erika?” I called, frustration creeping into my voice as the call dropped. The taxi zipped through Fifth Avenue traffic, and I glared at my phone, willing it to reconnect. No bars. Perfect. I clenched the device, tempted to throw it out the window, but just as I was about to give up, it rang. Her name flashed across the screen.
“Where are you, Elliott?” Erika’s voice was calm, almost too calm, but I could detect the slight edge of playfulness beneath it.
“Almost to my apartment,” I replied, glancing out the window at the familiar streets. “Are you home?”
“Home and in the bathtub,” she said, a hint of a smile lacing her words.
“So, you’re naked and wet?” I couldn’t help but let a smirk form on my lips.
She let out a light laugh. “You make it sound so sordid.”
“It’s true,” I insisted, leaning back in my seat. “Which bubble bath?”
“Lavender,” she answered, her voice softening.
“Can I join you?”
There was a brief pause before she asked, “How will you get in?”
“Take a minute away and let me inside,” I said, already planning my next move. “I can be stripped and in the tub with you in no time.”
“Did you ever think I might want to bathe alone?” she teased, but there was no real conviction in her voice.
“Bullshit,” I murmured, lowering my voice so the driver wouldn’t overhear. “I know you want me.”
`“Fuck you, Elliott,” she shot back, but her tone was more playful than angry.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” I replied, grinning at her predictable response.
She scoffed. “I bet you’re already hard.”
I stifled a chuckle, leaning forward to speak to the driver. “Change of plans—take me to a different address, I’ll pay you extra.”
I cupped my hand over the receiver and gave the him Erika’s apartment address.
“And you would be correct,” I murmured into the phone, my excitement growing.
“I’m not in the mood,” she said, her voice wavering just slightly, enough for me to catch.
“I don’t believe you,” I countered, already feeling the rush of adrenaline. “I’m almost there. Get out of the tub.”
“I think not,” she said, though I could hear the faint rustle of water. “I just got in here a few minutes ago.”
“Don’t test me,” I warned, my tone dropping.
“You’re so full of yourself,” she challenged, but I could sense the anticipation in her voice.
The car slowed to a stop outside her building. I quickly reached into my jacket pocket, pulling out a tip for the driver before stepping out. “I’m here. You have forty-five seconds to answer the door,” I said as I pressed the elevator button, feeling the thrill of the chase. The doors slid open, and I stepped inside, already yanking at my tie and unbuttoning my shirt with quick, practiced motions.
I heard the sound of water sloshing on the other end of the line and grinned. She was following my instructions, just as I knew she would. By the time I knocked on her door, my jacket was off, my shirt hanging open, and my tie stuffed into my pocket.
The door swung open barely a second later. Erika stood there, her hair twisted into a messy bun, her skin still glistening with beads of water. The towel she’d loosely wrapped around herself clung to her curves, barely covering her. My eyes roamed over her, and I had to bite back a groan as I slipped inside, closing the door behind me.
Erika didn’t say a word, just turned on her heel and walked briskly back toward the bathroom, the sway of her hips impossible to ignore. I followed her into the bedroom, quickly shedding the rest of my clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the padded bench at the foot of her bed.
When I entered the bathroom, she was already in the tub, submerged beneath a mountain of lavender-scented bubbles. Her eyes met mine, a mix of defiance and anticipation swirling in their depths. I grinned, stepping forward with a hungry look in my eyes, ready to close the distance between us.
"Mmm, Elliott, nice view," Erika teased, her gaze lingering on me as I approached the tub.
"Move over," I commanded, my tone laced with playful authority.
"Always ordering me around," she cautioned, raising an eyebrow at me.
"As much as you protest, I think you like it," I shot back, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"Fuck you," she spat, her teeth gritted, but I could see the spark in her eyes.
"I plan on it. Now scooch forward."
With a resigned sigh, Erika slid forward, making space for me. I lowered myself into the tub, the warm water lapping at my skin. The tub wasn't as large as mine, but it would have to do. I pulled her back against my chest, spreading my legs so she could settle between them. The intimacy of the moment sent a shiver of contentment down my spine.
"How was your dinner?" she asked, her voice soft as she leaned her head back against my shoulder.
"Enlightening," I replied, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her wet skin. I filled her in on my brother's situation, the story tumbling out of me. "Michael is still in love with Morgan."
Erika hesitated before speaking, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You're not to say anything with what I'm about to tell you. Promise me."
"What is it?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.
"Morgan still loves Michael."
It was like a punch to the gut. My brother had told me several times how devastated he was that Morgan wouldn’t end her engagement.
"She does?" I leaned in, the surprise evident in my voice.
"Yes, but there's nothing she can do about it. She's marrying Slade."
"But she can break it off," I insisted, the thought of my brother losing Morgan gnawing at me.
"Don't be ridiculous. The wedding is in less than three months," she said, her tone firm but laced with sadness.
"So? She can end it," I argued, the idea of my brother being denied his happiness feeling unjust.
"She can't, and I don't want this to be a wedge between us." Erika's voice softened as she spoke, the weight of her words settling over us.
I bent down and pressed a kiss to her exposed neck, murmuring against her skin, "It won't be."
"You can't hate her," she warned, her tone serious.
"I don't hate her," I assured her, trailing my lips up to her ear. "It just saddens me that my brother can't have her."
I slid my hands over her soapy skin and felt her shudder against me. I liked that I could do this to her.
"It's just the way it is," she whispered, her breath hitching as I nibbled gently at the sensitive skin near her earlobe. "Sometimes you can't have what you want."
"Does that go for me too?" I asked, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"Why would you think that?" she countered, turning slightly to face me.
"You're playing hard to get."
"You have me," she said softly. "Am I dating anyone else?"
"I certainly hope not," I murmured, moving my mouth to her diamond-studded earlobe, my lips closing around it as I nibbled at the tender skin.
"I like that," she whispered, her voice tinged with pleasure.
I trailed my kisses down her neck to her shoulder, my lips grazing her damp skin as I whispered the words I'd been holding back. "I love you."
Erika tensed beneath my touch, her body going rigid. "Dammit, Elliott, you can’t."
"I do," I insisted, pulling back slightly to look at her. "I'm sorry if that scares you, but it scares the shit out of me too. All my playing around the past few years without a connection, and now this…"
"Why did you have to say it?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Because I couldn’t hold it in any longer."
"I wish you did," she said, pulling herself up, her movements jerky and full of tension.
But I wasn’t about to let her slip away so easily. I wrapped my arms around her waist, holding her close, refusing to let her retreat. "No. We should talk about this. Why does it bother you so much?"
"You don’t know much about my life growing up," she began, her voice thick with emotion. "My parents had a horrible, vicious divorce, and before that, our home life was hell. They were always arguing."
"That won’t happen to us," I said, trying to reassure her, my hands rubbing soothing circles on her back.
"How do you know? Do you have a crystal ball?" she snapped, her voice filled with bitterness.
"Because it won’t. I won’t let it," I promised, my voice firm.
"My parents were happy and in love once, now they hate each other," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It fucked up my head. I don’t have a very good example of marriage."
I held her tighter, feeling the weight of her fear and pain. "We’ll make our own example," I whispered against her skin, hoping she could hear the conviction in my voice. "I love you, Erika. And I’m not going anywhere. You said Morgan’s parents are still married, what about them?”
"I don’t see them enough to know," she replied, her voice distant.
"So that’s it? You never want to get married or be in a committed relationship?" I asked, frustration creeping into my tone.
"I thought we were committed," Erika shot back, her eyes narrowing.
"Are we?" I challenged, searching her face for any sign of reassurance.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she slipped out of my arms, the warmth of her body suddenly gone. Climbing over the side of the tub, she grabbed her pink terry robe and slipped it on, her movements quick and deliberate. Without another word, she walked out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering scent of lavender.
"Erika!" I bellowed, scrambling from the tub. I grabbed a white terry towel from the bar and wrapped it around my waist, bubbles dripping down my chest and shoulders as I followed her into the bedroom.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the area rug beneath her feet, her shoulders slumped.
"Talk to me," I begged, desperation leaking into my voice.
"I think you should go," she murmured, her words like a punch to the gut.
"This is stupid. I told you I loved you," I insisted, trying to break through the wall she was putting up between us.
"I didn’t ask you to," she said quietly, finally looking up at me. "Go home, Lincoln."
The use of my first name felt like a slap in the face, a clear sign that she was serious. Erika stood up from the bed and walked back into the bathroom, the soft click of the lock echoing in the silent room.
I stood there for a moment, the sting of rejection settling deep in my chest. There was nothing more I could do. Forcing her to talk wasn’t an option. We’d have to work this out eventually, but not tonight. With a heavy heart, I dried off, got dressed, and left her apartment. I had an open house the next day, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t afford to lose focus on my work right now.
I didn’t sleep well that night. Erika’s face, filled with pain as she talked about her parents’ marriage, haunted me. By morning, I was exhausted, but I had an eight-million-dollar property to show, and there was no time to wallow in my thoughts. I needed to prepare for the agents’ showing later that morning.
My assistant took care of the food and spec sheets, while I busied myself making sure everything in the apartment was immaculate. I hated when owners left their homes in disarray, so I didn’t hesitate to dust, vacuum, and even clean toilets if necessary.
By 11 a.m., the place was looking perfect—trays of finger foods and drinks were laid out on the sleek, obsidian-black granite counter. By 11:30, the apartment was buzzing with agents, their footsteps echoing as they explored the two-floor space, peppering me with questions while they filled up on the refreshments. I was in the zone—until Erika walked in with her assistant, Colvin.
They looked too comfortable together, and my jealousy surged. When I saw Erika feed one of the canapés to Colvin, I nearly lost it. The gesture was too intimate for mere colleagues. Barely excusing myself, I made my way over and placed a firm hand on her elbow.
"Can I talk to you, Miss Bramwell?" I asked, my voice tight.
She glanced up at me, her expression cool. "I’m busy right now. Let’s chat in a little while."
I could feel Colvin's eyes on me, and the slight smirk on his face made my blood boil. It was like he was challenging me, and I couldn’t stand it. I leaned in closer to Erika, lowering my voice.
"How about now?" I ground out. "I think you can spare a few minutes."
Before she could respond, the agent I’d unintentionally ignored earlier approached again, asking about the downstairs bathroom. I turned to answer her question, and when I looked back, Erika and Colvin were gone. Irritation flared, but I reasoned she couldn’t have gone far. I’d find her before the event was over—she wasn’t slipping away from me this time.
It took over half an hour before I could break away, leaving my assistant to handle the agents. Erika hadn’t reappeared, and it was clear she was avoiding me. Determined, I searched every room, finally discovering her upstairs in the master bedroom. She stood by the windows, gazing out at the city skyline, oblivious to my presence until she heard my footsteps.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, her voice cold.
“Tough shit,” I shot back, blocking her path as she tried to move around me. I grabbed her by the arms, my grip firm. “You’re going to hear what I have to say.”
Erika’s eyes flashed with anger and a flicker of fear. “You’re hurting me.”
I loosened my hold but didn’t let go. “I’m not your father.”
Her face twisted in confusion and rage. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I won’t turn into him. I would never hurt you the way he hurt your mother.”
“They hurt each other,” she spat, her voice trembling. “It was a bloodbath, and I don’t want any part of it.”
I pulled her against me, holding her tightly, my lips brushing the top of her head. “I’m not them, Erika. We’re not them.”
She remained stiff in my arms, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But she didn’t push me away. The fight in her seemed to ebb as she let out a long, shuddering sigh.
“I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I don’t want to end up like them.”
“We won’t,” I promised, my voice resolute. “I love you, and I’m not going to let fear ruin this.”
“I believe you,” she whispered, her voice softening. “But I can’t promise I won’t change my mind.”
“You just have to trust me,” I said, my tone firm but tender. “And stop trying to make me jealous with your assistant.”
“We’re close,” she replied, her eyes flickering with uncertainty.
“Close enough to feed him? Or was that just for my benefit?”
“A little of both,” she admitted, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
“You’re mine,” I said, my voice low and possessive. “I told you that before. I’ll fight for you.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“We need to work together, not against each other.” I pressed my lips to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar vanilla scent of her shampoo. There was no doubt in my mind—I was in love with Erika.
“Have dinner at my apartment tonight,” I suggested, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes.
“I’m involved in a negotiation,” she replied, her voice tinged with regret.
As if to emphasize her point, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She hesitated, then ignored it until it silenced. But a few seconds later, it buzzed again.
“Take it,” I said, releasing her from my hold. “I have agents to deal with. We can talk later. Find me before you leave.”
She nodded, fishing her phone out of her pocket as I unlocked the bedroom door. As she answered the call, I slipped out, leaving her to her work. My mind was already racing ahead, planning how to make things right between us.
Erika lingered in the apartment long after the other agents had left, her eyes glazed over with the exhaustion of a long day. She perched on the red contemporary sofa in the living room, her phone pressed to her ear as she negotiated with another agent. Meanwhile, I busied myself in the kitchen, cleaning up the remnants of the day. As I finished my final sweep, she ended her call and leaned back against the sofa, looking drained.
“Are you finished?” I asked, buttoning up my brown jacket.
“For now,” she sighed. “You know how this is. We agreed on a price, but now the fun starts.”
“Do you have anything else going on today?”
She shrugged. “Just paperwork. No showings until three.”
“Can I interest you in a snack?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of suspicion creeping into her voice. “What type of snack? The kind that requires us to remove clothing?”
I chuckled, sitting down beside her. “I’d love that, but I have an appointment in an hour with a client. We can revisit that idea tonight.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Then what kind of snack?”
“How about some ice cream?” I suggested. “Mr. Moo is a few blocks from here. I’ve got a craving for their Dutch chocolate with almonds.”
“Ice cream?” she echoed, as if the concept was foreign to her.
I gently ran my fingers over her cheek, smiling. “Yeah, you know, that cold stuff made with cream?”
“Shut up, Elliott, I know what ice cream is,” she said, a playful glint returning to her eyes. The use of my last name was a good sign—it meant she was feeling better. When she called me by my first name, I knew things were more serious.
“So, are we going?” I asked, standing and holding out my hand.
She smirked, slipping her hand into mine. “I’m not a dog, but I would like to later.”
“Make you come?” I teased, catching the double meaning.
“Maybe I should hold off on the ice cream and wait for a sweeter treat later.”
“You promised ice cream, so let’s go,” I replied, pulling her to her feet.
She laughed softly as we headed toward the door, the tension between us easing into something lighter, something that felt more like us.