7. Brook
Lo
I’m married.
Paris
Congrats. We’re getting hitched tomorrow. If I can still walk.
Syd
What’s wrong with your legs?
Paris
Swollen. Brook?
My legs are not swollen.
Paris
(Eye-roll emoji)
Lo
Syd, Brook, stay on topic here. Married yet?
Syd
Hunter is whisking me away to Vegas this weekend (multiple heart emojis)
Paris
Oh, that’s so romantic.
Lo
And unnecessary. Brook?
In ten minutes.
Paris
Still a bit weird you’re marrying your brother.
Lo
Stepbrother.
Syd
I’m going to Vegas.
Of course he’s late.
I pace in front of the Bronx supreme court building, sweat trickling down my spine.
I opted for a simple black T-shirt and jeans, but the late April day decided to grace us with unreasonably high temperatures.
I should have worn shorts. Or maybe I’m uncomfortable because I’m about to marry the man who broke my heart. One who doesn’t even care enough to show up on time.
Maybe he changed his mind.
In which case, I can’t be mad at him. Because not going through with this would be the right thing to do.
But in some ways, it feels like déjà vu. Though I guess from his perspective, it was me who didn’t show up last time.
I stop and consider that angle of events. I’ve been so wrapped in my disillusion of him not coming back for me that night, I never thought… I’m not going there.
The thought already sends a shock wave of regret down my body. And I worked hard to not feel regret.
I’m quite certain my therapist bought several cars and properties from the hours we worked on resolving the regret and self-loathing I harbored after that night.
All the memories rushing at me speeds up my pulse. I put my hands over my frantic heart and start counting my breaths.
I haven’t had a panic attack in years. What was it I learned about overcoming them? How does box breathing work? Fuck if I know.
So instead I chant in my head. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.
“Are you okay?” The raspy baritone snaps me back to reality.
For a beat, I’m pretty sure it calmed me. It’s like his voice has the ability to reach into my soul and caress it.
Bullshit.
I take him in, sorting through the fog of memories, pulling my head back to the present. And fuck. My. Life.
The man is wearing a bespoke—no way an off-the-rack would fit this well—suit. Okay, not even the whole suit. Due to the current weather, he shed the jacket.
It’s hot after all.
Like really, really hot.
Like a heatwave just changed my trickle of sweat into a river pouring down my spine. And my face… I hope it doesn’t look as red as it feels.
So now all six feet five inches of muscles and planes of his perfect body stand in front of me in a crisp white shirt, chocolate vest and pants.
To add to his overwhelming presence, he’s wearing sunglasses. Along with the five o’clock shadow on his square jaw, it gives him the air of a bad guy.
What does that song say? Good boys go to heaven, but bad boys bring heaven to you?
With the sun shining from behind him, he might be just some heavenly creature. Or a well-disguised devil, probably.
And for the love of God, his hair is cut. It’s buzzed on the sides and longer, perfectly mussed on top.
What the whole image does to my ovaries is concerning. I swallow, remind myself of the need to breathe and open my mouth. Not to say anything—I’m speechless—just to salivate.
“Brook?” He cocks his head.
“You cut your hair,” I croak. My voice doesn’t sound healthy.
“Of course I did.” He shrugs.
Because of course he did? Because I told him I didn’t like it? Or he’d grown his hair all this time and then just this morning decided to change his image?
He should have kept the man bun. It was easier to dislike him.
Electricity zaps through me when he extends his hand, rubbing my arm like I need consoling. I do, I guess. Jesus.
“You’re crying.”
Oh shit. I wipe my cheeks quickly. My little moment of panic before he showed up. I forgot about that in the influx of physical sensations his arrival incited.
“You’re late,” I snap to cover my meltdown.
“Oh, you worried I stood you up?” He puts his hands into his pockets and, fuck, I hate how gorgeous he looks.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He flinches. “That’s rich coming from you.”
How dare he? Memories try to take over, but I can’t go there. Not now. And hopefully not ever.
This will be a long year as it stands already.
I wish I could see his eyes. Stupid shades.
“You could have come earlier. We better go.”
“I’m not late. We still have ten minutes. Were you so anxious to marry me you got the time wrong, sweetheart?”
Asshole.
I check my watch and swallow. I truly was early. Maybe for the first time in my life.
I showed up early for my fake wedding. I don’t even want to think about the wicked ways of my subconscious.
I turn, but he doesn’t follow.
“Is this what you’re wearing?” He assesses me like I’m dressed in a trash bag.
I march back to him and make the mistake of underestimating the distance. Now I’m almost pressed against him. Not good.
But at least I maintain a level voice. “I don’t see why I would dress up for a farce of a wedding.”
“To keep up appearances.” He smiles at me with patience. Fuck him. “For all we know, your great uncle might require wedding photos.”
When I called Rupert to inform him about my upcoming nuptials, he raised his concerns about the validity of it. Especially since I’m marrying my stepbrother.
I fabricated a story about how we’ve been dating for a while and we’re just tying the knot like Roberta wanted. Since we’ve both been living in Europe, we might get away with the dating lie.
Just barely though. Because unlike London who is legitimately living with Dom and running several charitable endeavors with him, or Paris who is very pregnant with Finn’s baby, and Sydney who has been co-parenting Hunter’s little girl for almost two years, Baldo and I don’t have one picture together to corroborate the ruse.
And then there is the issue of Roberta supposedly keeping tabs on us.
He’s right. We need to pretend harder.
I sigh.
“Wait here,” he orders.
“Yes sir,” I mock him, but I realize my mistake.
Because he raises his glasses, and if I’ve ever seen hunger in a man’s eyes… Oh my. He licks his lips, but then he shakes his head and enters the building.
I remain rooted and let out a long breath, trying to calm my nerves. Why am I nervous? And so fucking turned on?
In the minutes I stand there waiting for him—and where the hell did he go?—I find my breathing, level up my mindset and remember why I’m doing this.
Baldo returns and I try not to look at him to maintain that tenuous mindset.
“Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and leads me toward a car that’s just pulled to the curb.
I want to ask where we are going but I’m dealing with the contact of my hand in his. It feels so effortless, so natural, so us. And there goes my freshly adjusted mindset.
We’re already seated in the car when I recover. “Where are we going? We’ll miss our appointment.”
I turn to glare at him, but he raises his finger to silence me. He’s on the phone. How much did I miss while I was recovering from… well, from him?
A long year ahead of me, for sure.
“Thank you. We’ll be there in half an hour.” He hangs up and gives directions to the driver.
Turning to me, he flashes me a smile. “You were saying?”
“Where the hell are you taking me?”
He narrows his eyes, like he really doesn’t understand my question. “To get changed.”
I blink and look outside as if that could explain his behavior better. But at least it gives me a comeback. “This is not the way to the house.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Where. Are. We. Going?”
How I wish I could claw his eyes out. There would be blood and it would be messy. Smothering would be the way to go, but he’s much bigger than me.
His response reaches the fantasy playing in my distracted mind, but I miss the meaning. What was his answer? No way I’m asking again.
He watches the traffic, his head turned slightly. So composed. So well put together. So arrogant.
And then I notice his index finger fluttering, tapping against his thigh. That slight fidgeting makes my lips curl up. It makes him more human.
Or it makes me feel more human. It brings the distracted me peace to realize there is a bit of chaos in him as well.
“So we’re missing the ceremony because of a dress?”
“We’re not missing anything.”
I check my watch. “Our appointment was five minutes ago.”
“I rescheduled it.”
“Why?”
“Jesus, Brook, keep up. To get you a dress. We have two hours to get back.” The exasperation in his voice feels like a slap.
“I’m sorry I’m not a mind reader. You manhandled me into your car. Maybe next time explain yourself first.” I fold my arms and turn to watch the traffic.
We continue in silence until the car stops on a swanky street with designer boutiques.
Baldo gets out of the car and comes round behind it to open my door. I ignore the hand he offers and push myself out.
Now he’s a gentleman? Screw him.
“This way.” He puts his hand on the small of my back and an unwarranted, involuntary shudder rakes through me.
If I continue having these shivering reactions to his every touch, I might go mad by the time this marriage is over. And it hasn’t even started.
He steers me toward a luxurious store. There are no clothes displayed in the windows. In fact, there are no windows at all.
The front is all glossy black with golden accents. It’s over the top and yet tasteful.
“It looks closed.”
“They are waiting for us.”
“What? We didn’t know we were coming half an hour ago.” I snort.
“It only took me five minutes to have it organized.”
My heartbeat spikes again. I might need to see a cardiologist after this. As we approach the entrance, the door opens and a tall woman greets us.
Before I move, I look at Baldo. “This wasn’t necessary.”
He leans in, his breath like a touch of silk on my skin, his scent an aphrodisiac. “Anything for my bride.”