CHAPTER ELEVEN Brandon
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brandon
“CATCHING FEELINGS” — brYCE SAVAGE
Six Years Ago
I’m not sure what I expected when I asked Johanna if she wanted to run errands with me.
I definitely didn’t expect her to say yes.
After this morning, I’d expected maybe fuck off or make sure you go play in traffic while you’re out.
Definitely not yes.
I wonder if she knows. If she can tell there are no errands—that all I really needed was an excuse to get out of the house. Even better, an excuse to get both of us out of the house.
Now she’s back in the passenger seat of my Bronco, one leg tucked up underneath her, staring out the window like she’s trying to decide if being alone with me was a mistake.
Join the club.
This is part of my plan, though—or whatever loose, half-formed idea I’ve convinced myself counts as one.
My super well-thought-out plan to be her friend.
To get to know her without it turning into something more.
To prove to myself I can handle her presence without completely unraveling.
She’d looked so… lonely out by the pool, sitting there with her headphones on, pretending not to feel anything. Because apparently I just love to punish myself, that was enough to send me spiraling into lying about errands and inviting her along to something that doesn’t even exist.
“Where are you taking me, anyway?” she asks, pulling me out of my daze. “Maybe I should’ve asked for the itinerary before agreeing to this.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Relax, Hurricane. I’m not planning to sell you on the black market. It’s just errands.”
I’ve got to come up with somewhere to go with her, and fast.
“Vague and ominous,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Lovely.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye, careful to not get too drawn in and distract myself from the road. It’s difficult, though, because… well, because she looks like that.
Even with minimal makeup and her dark hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head, she’s so fucking beautiful. She’s trying so hard to look unfazed, unaffected—but she’s never looked more dangerous than she does right now.
Stop it, Brandon. We’re not going there, remember?
“Where are you taking me?” she asks again, doing nothing to hide the impatience lining her voice.
I have to say something, so I tell her the first thing that comes to mind.
“Target.”
She twists towards me so fast, the seatbelt jerks. I think it’s the most excited I’ve seen her since we met. “You’re taking me to Target? Seriously?”
I pretend it’s no big deal, but her reaction?
It is a big deal.
A bigger one than I expected.
“Tony keeps stealing my shampoo,” I say. “Plus, we’re out of coffee, which is a problem based on how much you drank this morning. I’m basically on a humanitarian mission if you think about it.”
She studies me for a moment with her eyebrow lifted like she’s missing something. “So, not only do you cook for all the idiots at the house, but you shop for them, too?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Damn, Tony’s right,” she says with a smirk. “You are Daddy.”
Oh, she has no idea.
I swallow what I want to say—what I’d love to say—and try to ignore the twitch in my palm as I pull into the parking lot.
The last thing I need is to let that bratty mouth of hers set me off.
Friends don’t react like that.
“I can’t believe you willingly go to Target,” she continues as I slip the Bronco into a spot near the entrance.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Grayson would never,” she mutters. “He’d rather eat glass than go to Target—by himself, but especially with me.”
I know.
That’s kind of the point.
We climb out of the Bronco and I swear, the second Johanna’s sandals hit the asphalt and we start making our way to the entrance, she transforms.
The hard edge she carries like a piece of armor?
Gone.
Her shoulders loosen and her eyes go bright in a way I’ve never seen on her before.
If I’d known all it would take to make her light up like this was a trip to Target, I would’ve taken her here straight from the airport.
As the automatic doors slide open, she inhales deeply as a blast of recycled AC hits us.
“I love it here,” she says with a small smile. “My wallet doesn’t love it here—but I do.”
I try—really try—not to smile, too. “Well, where do you usually start when you go to Target back home?”
She looks at me, her eyes widening a little at the fact that I’m asking what she wants to do.
“I usually start by getting a drink from Starbucks,” she says. “But this is your errand run. We’re not here for me.”
I chuckle a bit and shake my head—I can’t help it—because I’ve never met someone so oblivious to the effect they have on others.
“Hate to break it to you,” I say, placing my hand on the small of her back and leading her towards the Starbucks counter. “But we’re not just here for me. If Starbucks is step one, that’s what we’re doing.”
She stiffens just slightly at the contact, then instinctively looks up at me as we walk, caught off guard in a way she’d never admit. “Why?”
She really doesn’t get it.
Because you’re smiling at me, and I’m addicted to it even though I shouldn’t be.
Because I’m the one who’s gotten you to open up, and who you are without the armor is intoxicating.
Because I want to make you happy, even at the expense of destroying myself.
“Just order your drink, Hurricane,” I tell her.
For once, she does as she’s told and steps up to the counter. She orders an iced vanilla sweet cream cold brew and turns to me, eyebrows raised. Normally, I’d just get regular black coffee and call it a day. I’m not into all the frou-frou shit—but it’s summer in LA, so it’s fucking hot.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say to the barista.
“That’ll be ten dollars and seventy-two cents.”
Johanna immediately reaches into her oversized purse for her wallet, but like hell if she’s paying for anything today. I catch her by the forearm—firmly, instinctively, enough that she freezes mid-motion.
“Not a chance,” I murmur beside her ear.
She shivers—actually fucking shivers.
“I’m perfectly capable of buying my own coffee, Brandon,” she says.
Her voice is sharp, but her body gives her away by leaning towards me. Her pulse jumps against my fingertips.
“I know you are,” I reply. “You just don’t have to.”
The barista clears her throat loudly, desperate to get between us. I hand her my card without ever taking my eyes off of Johanna. The second the barista retreats to make our drinks, Johanna snatches her arm back as if she’s suddenly remembered she should stay away from me.
“I’m not your charity case,” she says, but her voice has lost the bite from earlier. It’s softer now. Uncertain. “Grayson shoved me off on you, and that was… shitty of him. You don’t owe me anything, okay? I can take care of myself.”
She looks away from me, jaw tight, and something about the way she says it hits me like a kick in the ribs. That stubborn independence she clings to like it’s all she has makes something hot and violent punch through my chest.
Not because of her.
Never because of her.
Because of the fact that she thinks she has to do everything alone.
I take a slow breath, forcing the frustration down.
“Johanna,” I murmur, lifting my hand and sliding a finger under her chin, guiding her gaze back to me. “Look at me.”
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, but then she does.
Reluctantly—but she does.
“It’s just coffee,” I say softly. “I’m not saving your life. I’m not spending my life savings. It’s coffee. That’s all.”
Her lashes lower for a split second—just enough to give her away. Her eyes flick down to my lips, then back up with a sharpness that wasn’t there before.
“Just coffee,” she repeats, but it sounds like a lie in her mouth.
It’s a soft, shaky lie neither of us is willing to correct.
“Order for Brandon!” the barista calls.
I let my hand fall from its place under her chin and grab our drinks from the counter.
I hand Johanna hers, and our fingers brush ever so slightly as the cup passes between us.
It’s nothing—just a half-second of contact—but the jolt of electricity it sends through me is instantaneous.
Her breath catches at the same time mine does.
I pretend it didn’t, and she pretends she doesn’t notice.
I take a step back, creating some space between us again that neither of us really wants, and give a nod towards the aisles of the store.
“Ready?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath, steadying herself.
“Yeah,” she says. “Lead the way.”
She doesn’t move until I do, and when she falls in step next to me, drink in one hand, our shoulders brush with every other step.
I may not be ready to fully admit it, but there’s a part of me that is certain—whatever this is?
It’s already more than just coffee. It’s more than just friends.
It feels a hell of a lot more like crossing a line than running an errand ever should, and because of that, I know—I’m so fucked.