Chapter 2
ONE YEAR LATER
Tess
The little fucker just arrived in the Village.
It’s the day of my husband’s memorial—it’s been one year since my beloved Brett died. And instead of spending my day alone, mourning, I’ll spend it annoyed to be escorted by Rockland.
Today he’s standing in front of a brand-new red Mercedes, leaning against it like he hasn’t got a care in the freaking world. Still with the same bad boy look. The beard tightly trimmed, the dark glasses covering those liquid pools of gold that so love to shoot venom at me.
He hasn’t aged over this past year. If anything, he’s even tanner and more muscular than before—if that’s possible. He stands with that smug, self-satisfied look pasted across his chiseled face. Wanting to get this day over with as quickly as possible, as do I.
Again, like at the burial, I know I need him. And it makes me hate him all the more. I brush past him, my white dress hanging from me, loose after all the weight I’ve lost in the past year. I’ve had no appetite whatsoever.
I get into his car. Allow him to close my door for me. Wait for him to take his seat before I unleash my wrath. He’s starting the engine when the words begin flowing from my mouth.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? I haven’t seen you in a year and you can’t even manage to mutter a greeting to me? I don’t know how you do things on that deserted island of yours, but here in the Village, we have manners. We actually—”
“Tess?”
“What?”
He turns to me, jaw clenched. “Don’t allow your grief to become misplaced anger.”
His words only serve to make me absolutely livid.
Because he’s right.
I cross my arms over my chest and spit the words at him. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you have a barrier reef to mow or something?”
When he speaks, the words come out deep and low, laced with the very same gut-wrenching grief I’m feeling. “He was my brother.”
Shit.
I say, “I’m being a total ass. I… I’m—sorry.”
“Thanks.” He gives me a nod. A slight turn-up of the corner of his mouth.
We spend the rest of the ride in silence. Me feeling equal parts guilty for not thinking of Rockland’s grief, mixed with disgust at having to spend the day with him.
I say, “So, how have you been?”
“Well. And you?”
“Pretty good. Considering.”
He turns the car down Seventh Street and just when I think things are going well—that we’ve made a truce and the two of us will be able to get through this day in peace—the asshole murmurs under his breath, “You’d be doing better if you had your ass slapped a couple times.
Remind you that you aren’t the center of the universe. ”
His words light a fire of fury within me. I’m seething. This man brings out the worst in me.
I take the high road, ignore his comment. Sit and watch the trees pass as we reach the back of the Village.
As we drive, I tell myself I can behave. I can contain my temper even if provoked. It’s only one day, right? Then he’ll be gone again, and I’ll have three hundred sixty-four days before he makes his next appearance.
If only it was that easy.
Is it true what they say about redheads? All those stereotypes about our hair making our temperament fiery. I don’t know but I do know that no matter how hard I try to be good, my temper gets the best of me.
I can already tell today is going to be one of those days. I sigh, slouch down in my leather seat, and stare out the window. Brooding over his comment.
You know what? Forget about being good. I’m going to give him hell. Then send him on his way. He wouldn’t dare touch me—I get a free pass as a grieving widow. Everyone understands how fresh the pain still is for me.
His words spin in my mind as we near the meadow. Don’t allow your grief to become misplaced anger.
You know, I think that’s just what I’ll do. It’s been a hard year. The hardest of my life. I could use an outlet for my grief.
I sneak a peek at Rockland. Beneath his beard, his jaw is so tight it looks as if it’s made of stone. He stares straight ahead, fingers clutched tightly around the steering wheel.
It must be killing him to have to ride in the same car as me.
A little smile plays at my lips. Today I’m going to torment him.
This is going to be fun.
He parks the car beside the meadow. Most of the family is already gathered, wearing their best whites.
He exits the car, slamming his door just a touch.
Strides with that panther-like slink around the front of the car to my side.
He opens my door. He offers me his hand, I accept.
As I exit the car, I misstep, the chunky heel of my shoe planting and digging into the toe of his shoe.
Hard.
He lets out a groan. A grimace covers his face.
I hold in a smile. “Oops. Didn’t see you there.”
He gives me an ominous stare, then links arms with mine and leads me to refreshment table set up at the meadow. Paige and Sasha are serving hot drinks on this chilly day. Sasha gives me a tight hug. Hands me a coffee with cream and sugar—just like I like it—and for Rockland, a black one.
“Thank you,” I tell her, holding the mug between my two hands.
Paige says, “Take your seats, I think Brauny is ready to start the service.”
Brauny. I’ll never get used to Paige using that nickname for our fearless leader, Bronson.
But I’ll forgive her—after all, it’s Paige.
Curvy, cute as pie little Paige with her dark, blunt-cut hair perfectly placed and designer couture.
The massive rare blue diamond sparkling on her finger.
The one who gave us Bachman women the nickname, Bachman Beauties.
The only one in the whole family who can make our Bronson smile.
She was also the only one as broke as me when she married into this family of billionaires.
We’ve often shared stories about our messed-up childhoods.
I give her a nod and follow Rockland to our seats.
Where I clumsily stumble over the perfectly manicured grass.
I trip. Catch myself just before I fall.
But in my disruption, I’ve managed to spill my coffee all over the white linen lap of my escort.
Sucking in air between his teeth, he mutters something so far under his breath I can’t tell whether he’s just emitted a string of curse words at his brother’s memorial.
I almost laugh—so inappropriate—but when he looks up and meets my eyes, the laughter catches in my throat.
My stomach tightens and I almost feel bad for what I’ve done.
I sit beside him, watch him dabbing at his pants with the same handkerchief he gave me at the funeral and has brought to the first memorial.
I whisper, “I’m so sorry. It was an accident. ”
“Forget it,” he hisses, taking a napkin from Paige.
She shoots me a curious stare as she makes her way back to the table.
He dabs, absorbing the beverage from his trousers as he says, “I’m sure you have a lot on your mind today.
As do I. As does the rest of the Village who are also mourning their loss, princess.
But you seem to have forgotten that anyone else exists or has feelings.
So help me God, in my brother’s honor, I would take your selfish ass over my knee right here, right now… ”
I sit back in my seat, the guilt ebbing because of his sharp words, and I enjoy his discomfort. I shrug. “I’ve always been a bit clumsy.”
Sasha teeters over on her sky-high heels, offering club soda and a white towel for his trousers.
As she does, her lips purse at me in disapproval.
The Beauties all love Rockland. Apparently, I’m the only one immune to his charms, his good looks.
The only one who sees how infuriating the man is.
He gratefully accepts the club soda from her then turns to me, his gaze piercing mine, and replies, “Clumsiness is only one of your many character flaws.”
An ice-cold hatred creeps into my chest. “Excuse me?”
“You are clumsy. And spoiled, and short-tempered—”
I hiss, “How dare you insult a widow at her husband’s memorial service.”
Mary, the unofficial mother of the Beauties, turns to me, her blush pink manicured fingernail over her matching pink lips and shushes me. A flush creeps up into my cheeks at her reprimand.
What am I doing?
He’s not wrong. I am acting like a child. A selfish one.
Then the rock begins to rise from the center of the meadow. The monument that holds Brett’s remains. The familiar feeling rises from the pit of my stomach. And I remember why I’m acting this way.
I’m crazy with grief. And I’m still angry he’s gone. And I’m taking it out on the next man closest to Brett—his brother.
But despite my shenanigans, Rockland’s here for me.
As much of a brat as I’ve been to him, he’s holding up his end of the hierarchy.
Seeing me through a day that is just as difficult for him as it is for me.
I whisper the words, “I’m sorry.” And I mean it.
I can tell by the look in his eyes he believes me.
He gives me a look that tells me he forgives me. That he understands. Then he wraps his strong arm around my shoulders. Gives me a slight squeeze. Pulls me against him. I snuggle into his side, the two of us facing this thing together.
Incidentally, he smells heavenly. Damn.
Bronson begins the service. Much like the celebration of life, the memorial is a time to share stories of our beloved Brett.
Only the members of the Village are invited to the first two years.
The third we host off-site and invite family members.
I’m surrounded by my Village on this day and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But when I find myself trying to conjure up Brett’s face, I’m drawing a blank.
And when I expect myself to once again lose my shit, as I did at the funeral, the deep sorrow doesn’t come.
Although I’m sad, grief’s sharp edges have dulled over the past year.
I am able to enjoy the memories with my family without falling apart.