“For a while, yeah.” Until I dropped out. Shame bubbles inside me. Still possibly my biggest regret is walking down the steps of my high school that last day, knowing I wouldn’t be back. “It’s hard to get into college with a GED, though.” I keep my eyes on my sketchbook and silently pray that he doesn’t judge me too harshly for that.
I feel Brett’s gaze flicker to me. “He was your art teacher, wasn’t he?”
I nod.
“And that’s why you stopped drawing for all those years?”
Another nod.
Brett slowly flips through the pages, pausing on the small den that I’ve filled with little tables, adorned with tiny English teacups and white porcelain plates. “Breakfast room?” He reads the title.
“It faces east.”
“The morning sun.” His finger draws over the yellow-tinged rays that pour through the window.
“It’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”
He keeps flipping, stalling over the conservatory off the back that I’ve sketched, filled with lush green plants and a seating area for reading in the afternoon.
“I added that in.”
“And this?”
“There’s a two-bedroom in-law suite on the left-hand side. That’s where Brenna and I would live.” I flip over the page to show the husky sitting in its doghouse. “With Stella, of course.”
“Of course.” Brett smiles as he keeps going through page after page, of bedrooms and front foyers, and parlors that I’ve spent hours designing, nothing but intrigue displayed on his face.
“This one’s my favorite.”
He stops on the two-page sketch of the room on the third floor.
“I love all the slanted ceilings, and there’s this giant skylight here. And you can see the lake from the window. I don’t know if I’d actually want to rent that part. I think I’d keep it for Brenna and me. There’s a separate staircase at the back of the house that takes you all the way up.”
He slides his finger over all the built-in bookcases I’ve drawn. “So, when were you thinking of buying this place?”
I laugh. “I doubt the new owners have any plans for selling it.” Last I heard, a wealthy older couple with a large family from the city bought it.
He reaches the last page, closing the cover gently before setting it back down on the coffee table. “It’s good to have dreams. Without dreams, we wouldn’t have goals. And without goals . . . what’s the point of living?” His head falls back, and it stays there, as he stares at my ceiling, his thoughts clearly somewhere far away. There’s an air of melancholy hanging over him that I wish I could dissolve for him.
I turn and rest my head next to him, admiring the sharp curve of his throat and the sculpt of his lips for a long moment. Every inch of him is perfect. “I was a high school dropout, sleeping on a couch in my friend’s apartment with no job, when I found out I was pregnant. I thought my life was over. I regret a lot of things, but I can’t imagine my life without Brenna. She’s the good that came from all of it.” As much as I love his hand exactly where it is on my thigh, now I lift it to my mouth, pressing my lips against the back of it. Desperate to console him in any way that I can. “Things have a way of working out. They will work out for you, Brett. Even if the doctor is right, and you can’t play anymore. Something good will come from the bad. It always does. That’s how life balances itself out. That’s how people keep going.”
“You came from it.” His head rolls to the side, to face me, his glazed eyes drifting over my features, his mouth so close that with just a slight lean, his lips would be grazing mine. “My feelings have never been just about you saving my life. Not since the moment I met you.” The words are a beat deep within my chest, his voice having dropped so low. “When I’m looking for a way to say thank you, I send flowers, I give a hug. I don’t drive myself crazy thinking about—” His words cut off with a sharp inhale, his hand within mine tensing slightly. Closing his eyes, he slowly breathes out. Finally, he meets my gaze again, his eyes raw and heated, his breaths ragged. “This has never been about gratitude, Catherine.”
I’m having a hard time breathing.
“Tell me you believe me.”
“I believe—”
He steals my last word with his mouth. My brain struggles to process what’s happening. There’s no mistaking it for simple friendly affection this time. Brett Madden is kissing me. Or trying to kiss me, because I’m frozen.
And when the shock finally wears off, I accept that I want this—and Brett—more than I’ve ever wanted anyone before.
He begins to pull away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
I press forward, stealing his words as swiftly as he took mine, my fingers reaching for his cheek, the lightest coating of stubble tickling my skin. And just as I was frozen a moment ago, he now is, too. For a fleeting second I’m afraid I’ve missed my chance, I’ve screwed things up.
And then he moves in quickly, his hand grasping the back of my head, his tongue slipping along my lips, coaxing my mouth open. Darting in to lick me with expert strokes, the flavor of beer teasing my taste buds. I sense an urgency in him, as if he needs this. And maybe he does after the sobering news he received today. That he thought to come here, that he needed to come here . . .
I silently allow myself to accept that this man truly wants me, for however long that may be.
I’ve lost my grip on my blanket, now pooling half on the floor, my ratty nightshirt climbing high on my hip as I press against Brett’s warm body. That body that I’ve been dying to touch. My hand begins to drift and explore, shyly at first, from his cheek to his neck, my fingers trailing along his hard curves as he kisses me deeply and with complete abandon. His breath hitches as I reach his chest, pressing my palm against where his heart now beats frantically.
I remember the feel of high school boys, their skin still soft, their bodies still developing.
I remember Scott Philips’, a man’s body, with definition and a coating of hair over his chest.
Brett feels altogether different, unreal. A sculpture of honed muscle and hard work flexing beneath my fingertips.
He breaks free just long enough to give me that look . . . that heated gaze that sends a thrill through my body and wipes all thoughts clear from my head. I don’t actually say the word “okay,” but he must be able to sense it because in one surprisingly quick movement, Brett has hooked a hand under my knee and is hoisting me with little effort onto his lap to straddle him.
“Your leg,” I whisper against his mouth, afraid I’ll hurt him.
“Fuck my leg,” he growls, pulling me close against him, stretching my thighs wide, until my chest is flush against his and his arms are wound around me, and I can feel him hard against me. God, it’s been so long since I felt that.
And every day of every year of being without has been worth it, for this very moment with Brett.