Chapter 12 Angie
ANGIE
I’m cashing out my customers when I feel my phone vibrate in the back pocket of my black jean skirt. My heartbeat gallops at the knowledge that it’s Brandon waiting for me at my car.
Brandon: I’m here.
Me: Two minutes.
“Thank you. Enjoy your weekend,” I tell them and officially close them out. “Hey, Joe, I have to run out to my car. Are you good for a few minutes?”
“Yep. Tell lover boy I said hi,” he teases.
Tossing my rag at him, I grab my keys from my purse and head out from behind the bar and outside.
My steps have a lightness to them as I push out into the Philly sunshine and to the guy who’s been taking all of my cloudy days and adding sunshine.
I do my best from looking eager to see him, but when I see him resting against my car, my steps quicken, almost to a light jog.
“I should get a sign,” I say when I know I’m within earshot.
His eyes are covered by his sunglasses, but I don’t miss the way they light up or track up and down my body appreciatively, lighting me up in the process.
“What would it say?” he asks and pushes off.
“Brandon’s spot, obviously,” I respond and come to a stop right in front of him. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
My cheeks flush and I’ll very much blame it on the heat that’s beating down on us. “What was so important that you had to come over here?”
“Your golf outfit, Angel-face.”
“Right. So what’d you get me?” I ask, and my eyes follow him as he moves toward his trunk.
“I got you something you’d like. And something I’d like,” he says with a wink and those butterflies take flight in my stomach. “But no peeking until you get home.”
I unlock my car and zone in on the bags he transfers to my trunk. “How do you know I won’t look when you leave?”
“I’ll just have to trust you,” Brandon says, then leans against my car again.
I take in the pastel pink button-down shirt he’s wearing with the khakis and brown loafers—weird, but it really works for me.
“Thank you. For the outfit.”
“You’re welcome. Is your shift over soon?” He asks and takes my hand, pulling me closer to him so I’m standing between his legs.
My hands land on his biceps to steady myself and the firmness of them surprises me. “Yes.”
“What are your plans for after?” he asks, and it takes me a few minutes to comprehend his question when his fingers begin teasing the sliver of exposed skin between my skirt and tee.
“Um, probably playing piano,” I whisper, but all I can focus on is his lips. They’re not overly big or too small. They’re the right shape and plumpness. Judging by the way they’re curving upward, he knows where my mind is at.
“What are you thinking?”
I keep my eyes firmly on his lips. “That I need to head back inside.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yep.” I nod and lean forward, taking the leap and pressing my lips to his.
Brandon doesn’t hesitate and his hands on my hips flex, pulling me closer, and fusing our bodies.
We breathe each other in and drop into this moment.
Slowly, our lips move against each other, and Brandon elicits a moan out of me when he bites my lower lip and soothes the sting with his tongue.
My breath hitches when I feel his obvious erection at my hip and I slowly move my hips against him.
Brandon’s hand slides up my back and to the base of my skull, tangling his fingers in my hair, and the other hand rests on my lower back, holding me in place.
This moment with him is light, bliss, and total euphoria.
I’m not sure which one of us realizes we’re in public, but the kiss of a lifetime slows down to just pecks, and I rest my forehead on his chest. I can feel the beating of his heart and I place my hand there.
“I like you,” I tell him and slide my other hand around his waist.
He kisses the top of my head. “I like you too.”
We stay like this, wrapped around each other while resting against my car. It feels like we’ve done this dance before.
“Go finish the rest of your shift and I’ll see you tomorrow,” Brandon says with a kiss on the top of my head.
I always thought forehead kisses or kisses on the tip of my nose would cause the butterflies to take flight in my stomach. Turns out, a kiss on the top of my head from him does the trick.
Pushing off him, I back away. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Mm hmm. I’ll text you in the morning.”
Unable to resist, I move in for one final kiss and practically sprint back inside.
When I get home later that evening, my parents are not home again, so I don’t rush to bring my bags inside and hide them.
But when I do take everything out of the bags, I’m shocked.
I expected something simple—not two outfits, shoes, gloves, and a hat.
I contemplate whether to text him to thank him or scold him, but I figure I’ll thank him tomorrow.
My parents had a healthy marriage as far as I’m concerned.
They raised Liam and me with the knowledge that money can get you far.
And for as long as I can remember, we had to work for what we wanted and were told that nothing in life was free.
But along the way, their tune started to change.
I think it happened around the time when Liam was in his third year of college.
My dad would always boast to anyone who would listen that his son was the major league’s next best thing.
Then they started talking about all the travel they would do when he got drafted, and they were taking elaborate pre-drafted trips, hoping that they’d pay off.
Unfortunately, when Liam graduated with no agent and no call from a team—I think my parents felt silly.
Weirdly, they had so much riding on him to make them famous adjacent.
Like all the time spent taking him to practices and games would finally pay off.
But in the years before Liam passed, my parents got carried away with their purchases, with the hope that when he got called up, they could pay it off.
It was selfish, actually. Putting all their monetary hopes and dreams on him.
Yet, when my brother never got the call and had moved out, I was stuck listening to their muted arguments behind closed doors about late credit card bills or wondering how they’d pay the mortgage with dwindling savings.
I don’t know how close we came to the bank taking back the house.
But when Liam died, it’s like all the fight over money and baseball stopped existing.
Eventually, they had to give up their dream of a lavish lifestyle, and slowly, the arguments stopped.
I won’t lie when I say I miss their arguing.
Or the noise in general. Because for the last two years, this house has been quiet.
Without texting Brandon, I take a quick shower to wash off the workday, then pull on black sweatpants and an oversized shirt that swallows my body.
Snagging my phone from the charger, I head back downstairs to fix something to eat and then head into the front room with the intention to play the piano.
But something, or should I say someone, parked on the street catches my attention.
I make my way to the front door and motion for him to come in.
I watch him get out of his car and pocket his keys, leaving his hands firmly pushed into the pockets of the jeans I didn’t think he owned as he makes his way up the driveway quickly.
Seeing him in something other than khakis and a button-down shirt is refreshing.
As he walks closer, I swallow my tongue as I note the way the worn dark denim hugs his thighs, and the white shirt with the olive green button-down that’s left open makes him look much younger than his thirty-one years.
“Are you stalking me, Mr. Hayes?” I ask with a tilt to my head as he hops up the porch steps.
“It’s only stalking if I follow you,” he greets and pushes me inside with his arms around my waist, kicking the front door closed with his foot.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble and drop my hands to his chest. Our steps mirror each other as we walk back into the front room where my piano rests. “So how did you know I was home?”
“Um…I was in the neighborhood?”
I tap him on the nose like he’s my own Pinocchio. “Nice try, stalker. Really, what are you doing here? You do know I still live with my parents and that they could have been home.”
“I guess you could say I’ve been getting lucky.”
I shake my head and revel in the feel of him being here. However, the emptiness in my stomach is a reminder of what I was about to do. “Did you eat? I was about to make something, but I can double it.”
He nods. “I did eat. I went home before deciding to venture out this way. So just make enough for you.”
Nodding, I have him guide us toward the kitchen so I can make my dinner. “Tell me about your day.”
Brandon tells me all about the process of designing his game, where the idea stemmed from, and where he sees it going. It’s a long process, and the steps he tells me blow my mind. But I like seeing him so passionate about creating a game.
When I’m done eating, I clean up and come over to stand next to where he’s seated at the bar. With him seated here, we’re almost at eye-level. I’m not short by any means, but any chance I get to look into those hazel eyes is a view I won’t refuse.
“Were you about to play?” he asks and pushes a lock of hair off my shoulder.
Swallowing, I nod. I’m not shy about playing in front of people.
Hell, I’d make my family sit while I performed one-woman shows when I was little.
And performing at recitals in front of hundreds of people never frightened me.
In fact, I thrived off that attention. But playing in front of Brandon is something new.
It’s…intimate. I mean, I always assumed I would play in front of the person I’m seeing, but Brandon makes me feel all sorts of things—nervous being one of them.
And that’s something I never associated with when it came to playing the piano.