Chapter 37
Brandon
One week. It’s almost been a week since I’ve seen Evie or spoken to her. For some reason, she won’t answer my calls or texts. Not only is her silence confusing me, but it’s hard not to take it personally—especially after our heart-to-heart on Christmas Eve.
I glance down at the jewelry box clutched in my hand as I wait for Yolanda to answer the door, rubbing my thumb over the surface.
Inside is the black diamond necklace I bought Evie three Christmases ago.
I found it on the side of the road a few days after .
. . that night. While there was a part of me that wanted to believe I hadn’t clasped it properly, the reality is that the chain was broken.
I had to have it repaired, meaning Evie must have—
I still can’t bring myself to imagine her ripping it from her neck.
My fist closes around the box before I slide it back into my pocket. I was going to give it to Evie as a Christmas gift, but I never got the chance after the chaos of Maggie’s fall.
Which is why I’m here, hoping Evie will be in attendance tonight.
I’m about to ring the doorbell again when the door flies open.
Yolanda squeals and holds her champagne flute away from her body as she waves me inside.
“Brandon! I’m so glad you’re here. Apparently, Jamie and Rebecka aren’t able to make it tonight.
Hopefully that means they’re welcoming a newborn as we speak! ”
Surprised, I pull out my phone. No missed calls or texts. Weird. When Rebecka was in labor with Isabelle, Jamie called me at the first sign of a contraction. Hoping all is well, I shoot him a text as Yolanda takes my coat and disappears.
When she returns, she guides me through the busy foyer into the living room.
The place is packed. I can hardly hear Yolanda yapping over the sound of the holiday music as she introduces me to her friends.
I scan the room while I make small talk with them, searching for Evie.
Clusters of people are standing around cocktail tables flickering with votive candles, chatting with one another over beverages.
Not one of them is Evie.
In the corner of the room, a Christmas tree covered in fake snow reaches toward the white, vaulted ceiling like a finger; it must clear at least ten feet. Next to it is a mini bar. Eager to make my escape, I excuse myself from the circle of older women flocking around me and head in that direction.
I order a ginger ale and take a seat near the fireplace, settling into the leather recliner to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes—people watching.
One of the many reasons I became a psychiatrist is because I love people.
Talking to them. Hearing their stories. Observing them.
Helping them overcome their mental health struggles.
But ultimately, I love trying to understand how the mind works and why we all do the things we do. Human nature fascinates me.
One person in particular fascinates me the most, and I sit up when I spot her entering the house with Adam. My chest tightens with jealousy as Evie beams up at him, looking genuinely pleased to be here with him tonight.
My jaw almost hits the floor when Adam pulls her coat away, unveiling her outfit.
She looks . . . there are no words. She’s wearing the tiniest black suede dress that hugs every inch of her beautiful body.
Her toned, tan legs are completely bare, and she’s paired the look with a pair of killer strappy black heels.
Her dark silky hair is pin straight, hanging down her back so it brushes against her waist. And her makeup .
. . it’s dark and dramatic—just how I like it.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of her, then pinches into a flat line. Every man with a beating heart won’t be able to take his eyes off her tonight. I have half a mind to go grab her, throw her over my shoulder, and haul her out of the house.
When Adam slips his hand around her waist and pulls her close like he’s proud to show her off, I’ve had enough.
I’m feeling more than a little territorial right now.
I made my intentions with Evie perfectly clear the other night, and yet here she is, spending New Year’s Eve with another man—one who used to be her fiancé, no less.
And that’s after ignoring my calls and texts.
I down the last of my drink, drop the glass onto the table, and rise. I’m about to cross the room and stake my claim like a barbarian when a hand slides up my arm.
Confused, I glance down.
“Hey, handsome.”
I recognize the cloying, pungent scent of my former assistant’s perfume before I realize it’s her.
Piper’s hot pink fingernails curl around my bicep as her other hand slides up my chest. Stiffening, I lean away from her.
Not only does she smell like a cloud of cheap cotton candy, but her pupils are dilated and her breath smells like gin.
“Long time no see,” she purrs, grinning. She has lipstick on her front tooth. “How are you doing? I bet the practice is falling apart without me.” The hand resting against my chest curls around my tie. She gives it a small tug, pulling me closer.
“Piper,” I warn, plucking her fingers from my tie one by one and stepping back. “It’s good to see you. But I was just about to say hello to someone, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”
She pouts. “Oh, come on. Stay and chat for a minute.”
Frowning, I give her a once-over. This woman almost ruined my professional reputation by spreading a rumor that we’d slept together. “No, thanks.”
She presses a hand to her heart. “Ouch, Dr. Wright. That hurts.”
“Look, Piper, it was great seeing you, but if you’ll excuse me—”
The soft conversational jazz music abruptly changes to “Last Christmas” by Wham. Piper grabs my hand and gives it a violent tug, attempting to guide me toward a raised stage where several people have gathered to dance. “Dance with me!”
Horrified, I recoil from her, bumping into the coffee table as I stumble back. Fortunately, some other sucker has grabbed her attention. Relieved, I retreat to the bar.
I’m nursing a drink and wishing I was anywhere but here when someone jostles my shoulder affectionately. I turn around to discover it’s Yolanda’s husband, Cramer. “Brandon. I’m glad you made it tonight. How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know,” I say, lifting my whiskey tumbler.
But Cramer’s attention has already diverted to someone standing behind me.
“Angela—this is the single doctor I was telling you about. Brandon, Angela. Angela, Brandon.” Cramer gestures for Angela to take the seat next to me.
She does, smiling as Cramer winks then slips away.
Great.
Her dark blue eyes are dauntless as they fixate on mine.
In a past life, I’d eat that right up. “A doctor, huh?” she muses, just before the bartender appears.
She orders a dirty martini. I don’t miss the way she glances at my left hand when she thinks I’m not looking, searching for a ring she won’t find.
There might as well be a ring on my finger, though. I’m bound to Evie in irrevocable ways.
“What kind of doctor?”
“A psychiatrist,” I say, scanning the room absentmindedly.
“Nice. I bet you’re a great communicator.” She bumps my arm with her elbow. “Every woman’s fantasy.”
Ha. The irony of that.
“Hardly,” I admit. She bats her thick false lashes a little too hard in response, her grin widening. Admittedly, she’s pretty, and she would have been my type with her blonde hair, warm skin, and flirty eyes. But when I look at her, I feel nothing. No attraction. No interest. No intrigue.
I haven’t wanted anyone else from the moment I saw Evie in her wedding gown.
“I’m an accountant,” Alison adds. Or was it Angela?
“Oh, yeah?” I say, taking another swig of my drink. “That’s interesting.”
“Oh, now I know you’re not interested.”
I laugh and give her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . .” I glance around the room again. Still no sign of Evie.
Alison’s eyes sweep the place. “Is she here tonight?”
“Who?”
“The girl you’re interested in?” She offers a knowing smile as she leans toward me. “You haven’t stopped searching for her since you got here.”
Surprised, I turn to her. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, unrepentant as she leans back and gives me an appreciative look. “I clocked you as soon as I walked in. I asked Cramer to introduce me.”
I laugh. Yeah, she would have been my type. Bold. Outgoing. Witty.
“So, are you together?”
“As in a couple? No. It’s . . . complicated.”
“Is she an ex?”
I study the bottom of my empty glass. “Kind of.”
“Aw,” she croons, resting her hand on top of mine.
I pull away immediately, more disgusted by her simple, friendly touch than what’s probably appropriate.
I just don’t need any more drama in my life right now.
“Do you need me to help you make her jealous? See what she’s missing? ” She wags her brows.
I smirk despite myself. “Best not. She’d chop my head off if she saw me flirting with another woman.”
“So, she’s feisty, is she? Is that your type?” She drops her chin into her hand and flutters her eyelashes again. “I know I’m only an accountant, but I can be feisty, too. Just say the word.”
I roll my eyes. “Evie is . . .” I look around again. “Yes, she’s feisty. But she’s sweet, too.” When you treat her right . . . “She’s the love of my life.”
Alison’s brows lift. “Oh. Wow. Far be it from me to be the other woman.” She lifts her hands in surrender. “I am gracefully bowing out.”
I give her a dubious look, and she winks. “But just say the word, friend, and I’m happy to help.”
“No, thanks,” I say firmly, glancing over her shoulder again.
And there she is.
Adam guides Evie toward the bar, where he lifts his hand to grab the bartender’s attention. Alison notices my preoccupation and glances over her shoulder. She whips back around and jabs her thumb in Evie’s direction. “Is that her?” she mouths.
I nod tersely.
Alison stands, and I go rigid when she wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Play along,” she whispers in my ear. “Trust me.”
I lean away from her and lower my voice. “Stop.”
She giggles like I’ve said something especially flirtatious. “Women are simple creatures,” she says, tracing her finger down my cheek. I grimace, pulling her hand away and placing it back at her side. “She’ll respond if she thinks I’m sniffing around her territory.”
But Evie doesn’t respond. She’s pretending I don’t even exist. Why?
“Oh, Brandon,” Alison says, louder now, laughing as she brushes her hand down my chest. I am so uncomfortable right now that I contemplate bolting like the coward I am.
“Alison, stop.”
Alison stills. “Did you just call me Alison?”
I hesitate. “Isn’t that your name?”
She grimaces and drops her arm from my shoulder. “Are you serious right now? It’s Angela, you jerk!” At first, I think she’s genuinely upset, but then she winks, slaps my cheek, and storms off.
My eyes close as the sting of her slap settles into my skin. She struck me so hard my face moved to the side. I open my eyes and gaze dejectedly at my reflection in the mirror hanging above the bar, wondering how I found myself in this situation. It’s almost comical.
I doubt Evie finds it funny.
I brave a look at her. She’s staring at me now, her expression bemused. But I do spot a little bit of humor buried deep, deep within those gorgeous brown eyes.
“Yikes,” Adam says, chuckling as he watches Angela storm off. “Having a rough night, Brandon?”
I smile caustically, locking eyes with Evie. “It just got a little better.”
Her face pinches in distaste. In her childish bid to ignore me, she spins toward Adam, but an old friend from high school is pulling him aside to catch up.
Frowning, she faces forward again. A painful minute of strained silence passes between us while Adam reminisces with his buddy about their time on the football team together. The glory days . . .
When Adam’s conversation continues to drag on, Evie yawns theatrically and taps her mouth twice. “Hey, Adam?” she shouts over their conversation, twisting in her chair. “I hate to do this, but I’m so tired, and my back is killing me in these shoes.”
My eyes scan the length of her bare legs before settling on her high heels. Good grief, she looks good in those.
Adam frowns. “You don’t want to stay until the ball drops?”
She forces another yawn. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I took these antihistamines earlier because my whole body was itching all over.
I think it was because I switched soaps recently, which was a dumb thing to do, considering I have very sensitive skin.
” She drones on for another minute about her hives, intentionally dragging out this bore of an excuse to leave early.
I can see Adam losing interest by the second, which was undoubtedly Evie’s intention.
It’s a relief to know she doesn’t actually want to be here tonight.
Suddenly, Evie spins in her stool, spreads her legs, and points to the inside of her thigh in a less than attractive manner.
It takes all of my self-control not to laugh at the disturbed expression on Adam’s face.
“Do you want to see? I keep wanting to itch them. Like so bad. I mean, the rash has gone down significantly after taking that antihistamine, but there’s still some blood—”
Adam pales and lifts a hand. “No, no. That’s okay. I believe you.”
She shrugs, grabs her clutch from the bar, and hops off the seat. She shimmies her dress down on her thighs, then pops her clutch and fishes around inside. “Okay. I’m gonna call a cab so I can go home and itch in peace.”
Adam’s friend stifles a laugh, patting him on the shoulder. “How about we catch up later, yeah?”
“Okay, man.” Adam scratches his neck, staring at Evie as his friend disappears. “Can I at least help you get home safely?” he asks, ever the gentleman.
“No need,” I interject, sliding off my stool. “I’ll take her.”
Evie glances at my empty glass. “You’ve been drinking.”
“I’ve only had one.”
She purses her lips, then shakes her head. “No. I’m calling a cab.” She glances at Adam. “Which one was the coat room again?”
He looks between us helplessly, and I suddenly feel terrible that he’s caught in Evie’s and my crossfire yet again. “Down the hall, the first bedroom on the right.”
“Thanks.” She strides off, and I stalk her like a shadow.