“You know,” she says, flipping off the radio, “Brady wouldn’t want you moping around. He’d want you to live your life and be happy.”
“He does want that,” I correct, trying not to cringe. “He does. Because he’s alive.”
“Of course he is.”
I can’t help the fear that pierces me that the reverse might be true. Or at least possible.
Although Presley is my best friend now, Brady and I have always been extremely close. We changed schools three times growing up and were always seen as outsiders. So we learned to hang out together, playing chess and video games, fishing, reading books. My world wouldn’t be the same without him, and the weeks since getting the message that he was taken by Nekuti, an African terror organization, have been the worst of my entire life. I just wish he’d have listened to me.
“Don’t go,” I begged, looking into the eyes that are a mirror image of mine. “Brady, you can’t. It’s not worth the risk.”
“I have to. I feel like it’s exactly what I need to do.”
“Why Zimbabwe? Why go there? With Grant, of all people! Someone that you specifically told me to try to distance myself from!”
“It’s different.”
“How?” I stare at him over our mugs of steaming coffee. “You told me not to take him back. You’re the one that told me something was going on with him and that ending our relationship was the best solution. So why are you still friends with him? Even more, if what you say is true, why are you following him across the world? For once in your life, Brady Stewart Calloway, you make no sense.”
“He’s not a threat to me, Brynne. I’ve been friends with him for almost ten years. He’s the same guy to me. But like I told you, something’s off with him. You’re my little sister and were his girlfriend. You were in a much different position to be hurt.”
“Like how?”
“Like if he was cheating on you, which he was.” His eyes darken. “If he was involved in something he shouldn’t be.”
A chill tears through me. “Like what?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It might just be that he’s seen things overseas that have changed him. You know as well as I do that he’s not the nice, easygoing guy he once was. He’s on edge constantly, calculating, broody. You can do better, and I say that from the position of being his friend.”
“And you think it’s a good idea for you to go to a place that he’s been and you think may have changed him?”
“I’m not going as a security contractor. I’m going as a doctor and it’s where my heart says to go. It’s my calling, Brynne.”
I tried to understand. I openly supported his insane idea, even though I felt like it was a huge mistake. I helped him with his paperwork and even helped pack his gear before he left. The excitement in his voice, the sparkle in his eye when he talked about the difference he may make to the people of Zimbabwe in his six months overseas was undeniable.
I frown as we pull into the busy parking lot of Angel’s Market and I don’t see anyone standing around with a phone in their hand. Presley throws the car in park and we climb out, heading towards the main entrance.
“What do we know about this mystery man besides the fact he sounds like cashmere?” I raise my brows and watch Pres slide her sunglasses over her eyes.
“His name is Fenton and he’ll be waiting by the bananas.”
I follow a few steps behind her, a sudden rush of memories skirting through my brain. “Bananas! That’s where I set it down,” I exclaim. “Now I remember! The pineapple poked a hole in my coffee right there and I had to get it to the trash! Yes! That’s where it is, I bet.”
“No bets about it,” she says as the doors automatically open and we step inside the store. “That’s where he said it was.”
“I’m so damn . . .”
A soft gasp replaces the rest of my sentence.
I know it’s him. Because whatever a cashmere voice sounds like, this man looks like he’s the one to own it. He’s tall, probably six-three, with jet black hair and rich olive-y skin. He’s dressed in black pants and a tight black t-shirt that hugs his muscled arms and wide chest. He stands at the bananas, working on a white cell phone and I’m instantly relieved it isn’t mine.
“My Lord,” Pres mutters under her breath as we near him.
He glances up, first looking at Presley and then instantly past her. To me.
His gaze slams into mine, almost physically knocking me off my feet. I stumble, my steps faltering under the heaviness of his stare. It feels like his eyes should be blue, but as I peer into them, I realize they’re grey. A steely color that’s not warm or cool, just intense.
I don’t know what to make of him and I certainly can’t process it because he’s too beautiful. Too male. Too intoxicating as we get close enough to smell the expensive musk of his cologne.