CHAPTER ONE
ALEXANDRA
The thing about grief nobody tells you is that it doesn't always come with a reason.
I've been grieving for a year for someone that the world doesn’t remember. Someone who, for all accounts, never existed or mattered. Nobody else has this Bee-shaped hole in their lives or heart, just me.
Somehow that hurts even more. To have my best friend in the entire world erased is wrong. I can’t talk with anyone about it because they’d never understand.
Some days I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that my best friend walked into a magical realm with a hot leprechaun and isn't coming back. She's alive and happy and completely unreachable.
Most days I'm fine with that. Bee is happy, and that's what matters.
Most days.
Other days, I’m not fine. Not by a long shot.
I push harder into my run, my sneakers hitting the path in a familiar rhythm, as the park spreads out around me in the softness of early morning.
This is my time. Before work, before emails, before the exhaustion of life.
Just me and the path and my lungs working hard enough so that I can't think about anything else except putting one foot in front of the other.
A man steps directly into my path from the grass to my left. One minute he isn’t there and the next I’m hitting him at full speed.
It’s like running into a brick wall. A brick wall that smells amazing, but a wall, nonetheless.
Staggering, I bounce back and windmill my arms as I try to catch my balance and not fall on my ass. Once I’m steady on my feet again, I open my mouth to give this jerk a piece of my mind when I get my first real look at him and everything in me freezes.
He's tall, tall enough that I have to tilt my chin up, which doesn't happen often since I’m a tall girl. Incredibly long and wavy brown hair with blond sun streaks hangs loose well past broad shoulders. He’s wearing a worn leather jacket over a dark shirt and a pair of jeans, all perfectly normal and average clothes until my gaze hits his feet, which are bare.
Not in sandals or even socks, nope, perfectly bare.
In a public park in the morning. Guy apparently likes to live dangerously.
This park is clean enough, but you never know what may be lying around.
My stunned gaze works its way back up and lands on his face and stays there.
His firm jaw is shadowed with scruff, and he has deep green eyes that are ringed with thick black lashes.
It’s those eyes that hold me captive as I gawk at what has to be the most impossibly gorgeous man that I’ve ever seen in person.
And one of the rudest.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap.
Tilting his head, long strands of his shiny hair spill over his shoulders, and for some reason, all that amazing hair ticks me off even more.
Maybe because my hair has never looked that good despite all the money I’ve spent on it.
Those green eyes, which are the most vivid shade of green I’ve ever seen, blink as he stares at me.
“I didn't see you,” he rumbles in a clear and deep voice that immediately has my body perking up as my dang hormones start yelling about our eggs wasting away and at forty I need to jump this man stat.
Not one to be ruled by my hormones, especially since they’ve led me astray far more often than they’ve been right, I ignore them.
“That's the problem! You stepped right into my path.” I gesture at the clearly marked running path beneath our feet. “This is a running path. People run on it. You look before you step onto it, and you don’t step onto it when people are running at you.”
He glances down at the path, then those incredible eyes come back to me. “You're right. I apologize.”
I wasn’t expecting him to actually apologize. That wipes away most of my anger and I’m left sputtering for something else to say.
I pull in a breath and glance at his feet again. “You're barefoot.”
“Yes.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “In a public park.”
“The grass,” he gestures at it. “I needed to feel it.”
I stare at him for a moment. He stares back, unhurried and utterly unbothered, the slight breeze lifting the ends of his hair. Smooth and silky hair with not a single split end in sight. My mouth tightens with irrational irritation.
“Well, here's a bit of advice.” I don't know this guy, nor do I want to despite my haywire hormones, so I’m over him and this conversation. “Don't walk into the path of a person who's jogging.”
Turning, I take off in the opposite direction.
I make it only a few paces before I hear him shouting behind me.
“Wait!”
I don't wait. Because, yeah, fuck that. I go faster. My shoes hitting the path in quick, hard strikes. Determinedly, I keep my eyes forward and do not look back.
His footsteps come anyway. Long strides, easy and unhurried, closing the distance without any apparent effort.
I chance a look back and see him just behind me, those green eyes connecting with mine. “Oh, I don’t think so,” I whisper, and push myself to go faster.
He pulls even with me.
I'm a good runner. I've been running this park three mornings a week for four years. I know every curve of this path, every uneven patch of concrete, every shortcut. I use all of them now.
He stays with me.
I realize two things in rapid succession. The first is that I cannot outrun him. The second is that a barefoot man with no apparent reason to chase me has been chasing me for the better part of a quarter of a mile and shows no signs of stopping.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I stop suddenly and shove my hand into my jacket pocket, feeling the small canister that I always carry with me.
He races past me and then turns when he realizes I’ve stopped. His eyes are wide, and I have half a second to see the brilliant smile on his face before I hit the nozzle and blast pepper spray directly into his handsome face.
Stumbling back, he lets out a wavering yowl as his hands go to his eyes. I step in and kick him solidly in the shin for good measure.
“You jerk!” My voice trembles, which makes me even madder. “Stop being a creep!”
Bent over, eyes red and streaming, he gasps, “I'm not a creep.”
I keep the pepper spray raised and take three steps back. My heart is pounding like mad in my chest, and I feel more alive than I have in a long time.
He straightens slowly and removes his hands from his face, exposing bloodshot eyes that steadily leak tears as he blinks rapidly. He doesn’t look angry; instead, he looks sad, and all at once I no longer feel like a butt-kicking heroine but like maybe I’m the one who’s the jerk.
“You chased me,” I say, needing to hear it out loud because my actions were definitely justified.
“I wanted to talk to you.” He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I wasn't trying to frighten you.”
Throwing up my hands, I snap, “Chasing a woman who is clearly running away from you is the definition of frightening.”
He nods miserably, strands of his beautiful hair sticking to his damp face. “I understand. I called out and should have stopped when you continued to run.”
I watch as more tears stream down his face as he continues to rapidly blink. His breaths come in short, shuddering pants that make me feel even worse.
Standing there, barefoot, red-eyed, and miserable, it’s obvious he isn't aggressive, just utterly clueless.
Blowing out a sigh, I dig into my other pocket and pull out the small water bottle I always carry. I hold it out to him. “Here, use it to rinse out your eyes.”
“Thank you.”
He takes it from me, and I can’t help noticing how positively tiny the bottle looks in his big hand.
Tilting his head back, that amazing hair ripples down his back, and he pours the water directly into his eyes.
“For the record, chasing a woman in a park is not how normal people introduce themselves. Naturally, I thought you were a jerk.”
He lowers the bottle. “I'm not a jerk. My name is Bran.”
Staring at him, my lips twitch.
His expression is completely serious as water runs down his face.
“Bran,” I repeat slowly.
“Yes.”
“Your parents must have hated you,” I say. “Naming you after a cereal.” I shake my head. “And bran flakes are the worst.”
“It's an old name,” he huffs with a frown.
I roll my eyes at that. “So is Gertrude. Doesn't make it a good one.” I hold out my hand for the water bottle. He gives it back. I cap it and tuck it away, not trusting him not to litter, and then look him over one more time.
He’s still barefoot and now has dirt caking his long toes.
That amazing hair is damp but still looks like it belongs in a shampoo commercial.
His jacket and clothes fit well and don’t look worn or dirty.
I take a long inhale. Yep, he smells like something fresh and faintly minty, so at least he’s bathed recently.
But I don’t see a phone, watch, or shoes anywhere in sight.
Even more, he has the shell-shocked expression of someone who doesn’t know quite what to do with themselves.
I know that look well. I’ve worn it myself since Bee left.
Groaning, I close my eyes briefly. When I open them, I glare at him. “I'm gonna regret this, but do you have anywhere to go? I mean there's a shelter somewhere around, I'm sure.”
Something flickers in his eyes as he draws himself up. “I'm not homeless.”
“Okay,” I say, humoring him.
“I have a place to go,” he says stubbornly, though his eyes will no longer meet mine.
Crossing my arms, I look at him steadily.
His jaw tightens. “I hadn't arranged it yet when I came to the park.”
“Uh huh.” Uncrossing my arms, I reach into my jacket and pull out my emergency cash and hold the two folded bills out to him. “Here, take these.”
He shakes his head. “I don't need money.”
I let out a frustrated huff. Men and their pride! “Take it anyway.”
“I don't want it.” His green eyes hold mine. “What I want is to see you again.”
That’s unexpected. As is the sudden flurry of warmth it brings to my cheeks. I tear my gaze from him and check my watch. Then I let my gaze wander around the area as if somehow the answer is in the park.
“I get off work at five,” I say against my better judgement. “I'll be back here at five thirty.” I tuck the bills back into my pocket. “Don't be late, I won’t wait around.”
Turning, I walk back the way I came and absolutely do not look back.
My fingers clench on the steering wheel as I drive home to shower and get ready for work, his words repeating in my head, I want to see you again.
At home I strip out of my running clothes, crank the shower temperature up, and while standing under it I think about all the very sensible reasons I shouldn’t show up at five thirty.
There’s definitely more reasons not to go than to go.
Yet I’m still going to go. I know myself well enough to understand that.