Evie （Chapter）
Evie
What is wrong with me? Brandon literally went on a date with another woman and all but friendzoned me less than a week ago, but, apparently, I have no willpower—or sense of self-respect—when it comes to him. How did this happen?
After he went on that double date, I stopped answering his calls and texts.
I just couldn’t face him. I even took on some extra evening shifts at work and made sure to leave the house early when Grandma was expecting him for breakfast. But I have never met someone as doggedly persistent as Brandon.
Whenever my car was in Grandma’s driveway, you could be sure he was puttering around the house doing goodness knows what.
First, Grandma’s driveway needed salting.
Then he wanted to ensure we had extra logs in the fireplace basket in case there was an unexpected power outage.
And just yesterday, he was fixing a leaky pipe in the bathroom . . .
Then, this evening, I was in the basement, folding laundry when he made yet another surprise appearance. I had my wireless earbuds in, so I didn’t hear him sneak up behind me. I screamed when he pulled my left earbud out. Whirling around, my chest heaving, I found him looming behind me.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he accused, taking the other earbud out and pocketing it.
“Actually, I’ve been working,” I griped, grabbing his belt loop and yanking him forward. Shoving my hand deep into his pocket, I retrieved my stolen earbuds and turned back around, popping them back into my ears.
He removed them again, insisting we needed to talk.
Facing him impatiently, I crossed my arms and waited for him to get on with it.
He said he missed me—as if that was all he needed to say to get me to start fawning over him again.
When I didn’t reply, he reached out to caress my cheek with this tender, repentant look on his face that took my breath away.
I studied the familiar details of him up close.
His strong jaw. His fair skin. His midnight hair and straight dark brows set over a pair of soulful, vivid, electric-blue eyes.
They remind me of arctic glaciers and crisp winter skies—minus the frigidness.
Brandon exudes warmth and gentleness and sunshine. Always has.
Even if he’s an egotistical jerk.
It took all of my willpower to turn away from the vortex of his gaze.
I jumped when his hands slid around my waist from behind, then stiffened as he cradled me close and dropped his lips to my ear.
“I know you’re upset with me, Spitfire. Please forgive me.
I told you that date meant nothing.” He swayed us slowly, and I nearly died and went to heaven when he blew gently beneath my ear, then kissed my neck.
Stunned, I just stood there, surrounded by his warmth and strength. I think I was suffering from emotional whiplash. Before, he wouldn’t even acknowledge we’d kissed. But all of a sudden, he was hugging me. Kissing my neck. Telling me his date meant nothing. It made no sense.
But it felt good.
Dangerously good.
I wilted with pleasure when he kissed my neck again, right on the soft, sensitive flesh below my ear.
He peppered a trail of warm, reverent kisses down my throat while I contemplated whether I wanted to forgive him or not.
I’m a fighter by nature. Attempting to push him away, I insisted I didn’t know what he was talking about.
He held me tighter and nipped at my pulse, and it jumped in response. Then he says, “We kissed. And then I went on a date with another woman. You’re upset.”
Grimacing, I folded a tea towel and carefully set it down, trying my best to ignore the sting of betrayal his words elicited. I insisted it was just a kiss, telling him “not to read too much into it.”
I was trying to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me.
Taking me by the shoulders, he spun me around so I was facing him again.
Tipping my chin up, he chastened me with a simple look.
He told me not to pretend our kiss didn’t mean anything—that he knows he hurt me, and that he was sorry.
When I looked down, embarrassed by my petulant behavior, he gently kissed one eyelid, then the other.
“I love you,” he whispered. “You know that.”
All the fight I had left died right then and there.
Then he said, “For the record, it meant something to me, too.”
“Then why act like it never happened?” I questioned, searching his eyes. “Do you regret it?”
Cradling my cheeks, he pushed his forehead against mine and gazed deep into my eyes. My stomach flipped. “I could never regret you, Genevieve.”
And then he kissed me.
We kissed for so long that, eventually, Grandma started calling out for me down the steps, wondering where I was.
I made Brandon sneak out the back door, but our lips didn’t break apart until he stepped out of the house.
And then he texted me and invited me over, claiming he wanted to watch a movie.
We did no such thing. We kissed from the doorway to the couch.
His hands and lips were everywhere, all over me, his touch gentle and respectful but still confident and explorative at the same time.
For the first time, I wasn’t shy with him.
I surrendered to the experience, and it was .
. . wonderful. We ended up doing pretty much everything but the deed itself.
It’s not that I didn’t want to have sex.
Far from it. But I never have before, and we aren’t in a committed relationship.
Not yet, anyway. It’s not like I’m waiting for marriage or anything, but I’d like to know he’s committed to me before giving myself to him in that way.
He was considerate of my decision not to have sex, of course.
He’s Brandon. Considerate is practically his middle name.
A small part of me knows he must have been disappointed, too.
He’s a man, after all.
But because everything happened so unexpectedly, I wasn’t prepared to explain the scars. When Brandon peeled my sweater off, he paused, stricken by the gashes covering the length of my arms, obviously horrified by what he was seeing.
I wanted to disappear into nothing at that moment.
“What are those?” he gasped, as if he’d never seen anything like it.
“It’s nothing,” I lied, turning my forearms down to conceal the evidence of my self hatred.
He grabbed my wrist and twisted it close to his face to examine the scars—almost like he was trying to determine the age of them, like counting rings on a tree trunk.
I winced when the desire for me drained from his expression and morphed into what I could only describe as clinical concern.
Those mesmerizing eyes lifted to mine, and I knew he yearned to ask me a million questions.
I can see when he’s burning with curiosity about something.
He gets this look . . . He’s curious about everything, all the time, but let’s be real: I’m one of his favorite subjects.
He’d study me like a textbook if he could—if I was willing to share all my most shameful secrets.
But some things are best kept to oneself . . .
Especially when your new lover is a psychiatrist.
Sensing I wasn’t going to open up, he sighed and kissed the inside of my wrist, resigned. But an ominous warning darkened his light blue eyes. He’s going to try and get me to talk about it eventually.
Hopefully “eventually” never comes.
I still don’t know how to feel about tonight, but I think I’m happy—even if our relationship status remains ambiguous. Things felt normal between us again, which I’m thankful for, even when it could have gotten really awkward, like when he helped me get dressed and walked me to the door afterward.
That walk felt a little . . . uncomfortable, if I’m being honest. Or maybe shameful is the right word? I wished he’d let me stay the night.
But yes, I think I’m happy. This is what I wanted, after all—him.
So why does it feel like he’s given me everything and nothing at the same time?