by Nia Arthurs
“Great in the bedroom. Not so great in relationships.”
“Wow.”
There’s no judgment there.
Well, maybe just a little.
Kayla tries, but she doesn’t understand me. The restlessness I feel. The chaos in my head. No one got it. No one could quiet the noise.
Except…
I huff. Drum my fingers against the arm of the chair. My nails make a skittering sound against the fabric. I got them done yesterday. In pastel blue. Goes amazing against my cocoa-complexion. Balances the red in the undertones of my skin.
“What about that guy?”
“What guy?”
Kayla taps her silver nails on the desk. “The one you recruited years ago when you first joined the agency. The one who’s a famous painter now.”
My body stiffens.
My heart beats out of time.
“What’s his name?” Kayla murmurs. Tilts her head down. Dark hair flows to the shiny surface of her desk.
Troy.
“Troy.” She snaps her fingers. “You said he’s like a brother to you.”
Lies. He’s not my freaking brother.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“He’s already engaged,” I whisper. Spit the words out. They’re bitter against my tongue.
“Oh. Bummer.”
She has no idea.
I push up, out of the chair. “I’ll handle it myself.”
“Are you upset?”
“No.” I realize how brusque I sound and soften my voice. “Thanks for the tip.”
“If you need help, I can ask Brendon if any of his friends—”
“Save it. I’ll beat you on my own.”
“I’m rooting for you.” Kayla pumps her fist. Slants me a sincere, enthusiastic smile.
Yeah, she will.
Freaking sweetheart.
I slink back to my own office and lock the door behind me. Free from prying eyes, I let out a breath and wilt.
Troy.
Just thinking about him tears me up inside.
Those dark eyes. That brown hair. The rugged jaw. Those soft lips—
I’m not doing this.
Not today. Not ever.
I’m over him.
And, clearly, I wasn’t someone he needed to get over.
He up and moved halfway across the country after my eighteenth birthday and rarely spoke to me after that.
I saw him once, at Papi’s funeral.
And again, last year when he announced that he was engaged to some trust fund baby with an appreciation for the arts.
Yeah right.
I googled her. Stalked her Insta and YouTube channel. It was all Gucci this and Prada that and look at me I’m so beautiful.
She doesn’t have a sensitive bone in her body.
Appreciation for the arts my backside.
The only thing Vanessa Van-Strusser had appreciation for was Troy’s—
My phone buzzes.
It’s my brother.
EVAN: Ma said stop by the house.
ME: I’m busy.
EVAN: She said you tried that excuse last time.
ME: Not an excuse. It’s the truth.
I chew on a nail.
My chest feels like someone is sticking their hand in and churning through blood, vessels and arteries.
Troy does this to me.
I slap my chest.
The phone chirps.
EVAN: Your funeral.
I sigh loudly.
My brother’s annoying, but he’s not wrong.
No one gets summoned by Mom, ignores it and lives to tell the tale.
I haven’t seen my family in a while.
It’s not that I’m avoiding them.
Okay, so we live in the same city and I rarely point my Uber driver to the suburb where I grew up, but that’s not on purpose. I just…
Things are different now. Mom and I have never seen eye-to-eye, but it got worse when Papi died. My grandfather was the only adult who shot straight with me.
No matter what I did, he never jumped on the Venus is a Screw Up wagon.
After his funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to come around the house anymore. It hurt too much. I missed him.
Still do.
EVAN: Why haven’t you been answering my calls?
I trot around to my desk and fold myself into the chair.
My phone buzzes again.
EVAN: I’ve got news.
Since I’m not in the mood to work, I humor him and dial up his number.
Evan answers on the first ring. “She’s alive.”
“Very funny, Evander.”
My brother groans.
I grin triumphantly. Mom studied ancient history and mythology growing up. She chose Venus—after the goddess and Evan, short for Evander—the hero of the Trojan war.
Growing up, Evan hated his full name. It got so bad, he printed letters every year to remind his teachers what he preferred to be called.
I think the animosity towards his name is stupid. ‘Evander’ is cool, but it comes in handy when I’m on ‘annoying little sister’ duty. Helps me put him in his place without much effort.
“Keep talking smack and I won’t tell you the news.”
“What news?” I plant my palm on the desk and swing my chair around.
Make it Marriage is located in an old business district. Mom-and-pop shops flood the streets. Skyscrapers pepper the sky in the distance, but colorful fabric awnings hover nearby like a warm blanket.
“It’s about Troy.”
I freeze.
The air gets hot. Heavy. Smothering.
The phone almost slips from my fingers.
Why is this man’s name popping up everywhere today?
I clear my throat. Hope my voice doesn’t give my feelings away when I say, “What about Troy?”
“He’s coming back.”
“Back?” I slam my heels into the ground just as my heart slams against my ribs.
“Back home.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“Why?”
“That—I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
My eyes squeeze closed. “Is he… already married?”
“No.” A pause. “I really shouldn’t be doing this.” Evan sucks in a deep breath.
My knee jitters. “What? Evander? Just freaking tell me.”
“Evan.”
“Evan.”
“Now say ‘Evan is my hero’.”
“I’m not saying that.”
The phone rustles.
“Tell me.”
“She broke off the engagement.”
The floor falls away beneath my feet.
Evan sighs. “Troy’s wedding is cancelled.”
Chapter 3
Troy
I tug my shirt over my head. Drop it to the ground. Vanessa used to hate that. Used to yell at me—‘why can’t you put your damn clothes in the hamper like a normal human being?’
But Vanessa’s not here.
So I drop my shirt on the floor like a freaking animal.
It feels good.
Feels way too good.
To the point I’m wondering what I was doing with her for so long. What I was doing proposing to her. What I was doing getting married to her.
I knew we weren’t that compatible, but she was freaking gorgeous and the sex…
Lust clouded my judgment.
My bare feet pull against the warm, hardwood floors.
Another thing Vanessa would have complained about.
She liked tiles. Marble. Glass. Granite.
No hardwood.
It was too… warm.
Too… earthy.
She preferred cold and uncomfortable furniture. Stiff couches. White rugs. Pretty to look at, not so satisfying to touch.
I toss my bag on the couch. The rest of my stuff will be here later, but I’ve got enough essentials to take a shower.
I need one.
I’ve been sweating all day. Moving. Making calls.
Starting over is a lot more hectic than I thought it would be.
But in some ways, it’s easier.
Or maybe it’s where I’m starting over.
Back home.
People that I love all around.
Venus’s face comes to mind.
I shake my head. Push it off. It’s been eight years.
Things have changed.
I’ve changed.
Whatever obsession I had with her back then is gone now, tamed by my maturity and life experience.
I hop in the shower. The water’s warm.
I tilt my head. Let the stream gently massage my neck and shoulders. Close my eyes.
There’s a picture on the back of my eyelids. Vanessa under some guy on the bed—our bed. The pure Egyptian cotton sheets pulled to her chest. Sky-blue eyes sliding to the ground.
She got caught.
Bareback.
Red-handed.
Embarrassing.
For me.
I’d known she was acting shady, but I shrugged the feelings off. I believed her when she said he was just a friend. When the texts rolled in at three a.m. and she swore it was spam.
I’m an idiot.
At least I got out before we got married.
That would have been a disaster.
Chained to her in the eyes of the law. A messy divorce. A public laughing stock.
I shudder to think of it.
Grab the soap to get my mind off it.
After my shower, I wrap a towel around my waist. Cinch it firm. Head outside with a hand fluffing my hair and the other browsing my cell for a text from Evan.
He said he’d stop by after work.
Hope he gets here soon.
I’m in the mood for a drink.
Catching up with my best friend is long over-due. We’ve kept in touch, but the visits cross-country weren’t as often as either of us would like.
I take another step.
Stop short when I hear a soft, feminine gasp.
My eyes barrel up.
Right into a pair of deep brown irises.
My heart jumps to my throat.
Venus.
She looks different in person.
Not that the pictures on her social that I happened to peek at weren’t gorgeous.
But up close…
Some things haven’t changed. Same warm brown skin. Same mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Same lips. Cupid’s bow—thick at the top, full at the bottom.
Damn, those lips.
I lick my own, a desperate attempt to calm down.
Her reddish-brown hair looks softer. Longer.
My fingers twitch. The old urge to run my fingers through her curls is still there, still alive and kicking.
Venus tilts her head. Her lips inch upward as the awkwardness of the moment tinges with something else. “You work out?”
“What?”
She juts her chin forward. “You’re jacked. You didn’t used to…” She stops. Shakes her head. “Wow.”
I stare at her.
My heart’s beating like crazy.
Blood’s rushing south fast.
I scramble to make sense of Venus. Here. In my house.
While I’m naked.
I shuffle back. “What are you doing here?”
Brown eyes slam into me. “Heard you got dumped.”
“What?” My eyebrows hike.
“Evan told me the wedding’s off.”
My eyebrows scrunch. I told Evan the wedding was canceled, not who called it off. The bastard assumed.
Not that I’ll be correcting her assumption.
Vanessa begged me to keep her cheating a secret. Claimed it would ‘ruin her image’.
And I know she’s all about appearances.
I shake my head. Focus on Venus. “How’d you get in?”
“Front door was unlocked.” She steps closer. The scent of her—something light and flowery—messes with my head. Makes my stomach tighten. Makes my heart flutter.
It’s still happening.
She still gets me light-headed.
Damn.
I take another step back.
There’s only a towel between her and what my body wants to do.
More space.
I need…
“Welcome home, Troy,” she says.
I stop and stare at her.
She blinks thick eyelashes. Watches me with a small, uncertain smile. “I missed you.”
Damn. That look. Those eyes.
Nothing’s changed.
Nothing’s freaking changed for me.
But there’s no way in hell I’m entertaining thoughts of sleeping with Venus Miller.
She may be gorgeous. Dark eyes. Long legs. And—
Not helping.
Clothes. I need to take her clothes off… no, put mine on.
I need clothes on.
Talking to her naked isn’t helping.
Lord, I hope her eyes stay chest up.
If she sees what’s going on under this towel…
I’m like a teenager again.
Can’t even control myself.
It’s freaking pathetic.
I’m thirty-three years old. I built a graphic design business from scratch. I’m an acclaimed painter with work showing in galleries all over the country. I’ve fallen in love. Proposed. Gotten cheated on.
Life’s slapped me in the face more times than I can count.
I’m old enough to know better.
I’m not giving into the spell of the little girl who used to put make-up on me.
“I’ll, uh…” I swallow. Clear my throat. “Give me a minute.”
“Wait.” She surges forward. Touches my arm.
It’s a slight graze, but it sends warning bells stampeding through my body.
Five times five is twenty-five.
Damn. Do I really need to resort to this again?
Venus slants a lock of curly hair behind her ear. “Can I get a hug?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
No. The answer is hell to the no.
For obvious reasons.
I’m naked.
She’s hot.
Eight years and I’m still mind-blisteringly attracted to her.
She’s my best friend’s treasured sister.
“I…” My body cuts in. Yes. Hold her. Take her clothes off. See what’s under that sexy little mini-skirt.
Lord no.
“I’m wet.”
“I don’t care.” She waits for some other objection.
I have none. Too busy wrangling the swirling thoughts in my head.
Venus takes that as a sign of consent. Surges forward. Wraps her arms around me. Her hands slip against my side. Gather together at my back. Pull me closer.
So close I’m sure she can tell that I’m not impervious to her presence.
And I’m not.
Not now.
Not eight years ago.
She feels so freaking perfect. So soft against me. Or maybe that’s because my body’s so hard.
Blood pumps faster in my veins.
This is wrong.
So wrong.
She’s…
I fist my hands at my side to keep them from sliding up her skirt. She’s doing this because she trusts me. She trusts me not to fling her against a wall, pin her there with my hip and thrust her panties to her ankles.
Even buck-naked, she trusts me not to touch her.
To treat her like a little sister.
To respect her.
Even when the thoughts veering through my head are doused in so much filth they’d be blurred if filmed on screen.
So I hold still.
I don’t touch her because if I do…
Yeah, I don’t touch her.
But I’m aware of every inch of her body. Her chest scraping against mine. Her toes straining on the tips as she rises to reach me. The strain it must be
causing on her calves.
My body throbs.
It’s too much.
She’s… too…
I want her.
So I push her gently away and check the front door to make sure the coast is clear. If Venus snuck in, Evan can too and if my best friend finds me embracing his kid sister like this, staring at her like this…
Venus’s arms return to her side. Her body shuffles away from mine.
I’m still buzzing everywhere.
My body’s still tuned to her, still rushing from every place she brushed.
It was a hug, not a freaking orgy.
Even if I’m naked, it’s not that big a deal.
I’ve done worse.
Much worse.
With more women.
Why am I so breathless?
“You smell good.” She chuckles hesitantly. Backs away a step. “You look good. From what Evan tells me, your business is doing good.”
I don’t know what to say. Her tone has moved from admiring to thoughtful. Like this has become an inspection. The way she’s looking at me, I feel like a cow at the meat market.
Resisting the urge to cover my chest, I lift my chin. “What?”
Brown eyes flit up. “You still want marriage?”
“Huh?”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. A wife. A family—one that’s way less jacked up than mine—it’s what I’ve wanted since… forever.
She jabs her chin down like she just came to some grand conclusion. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
She lets out a deep breath. Meets my eyes. “I need a favor.”
I tilt my head anything.
Years ago, there was nothing Venus asked that I didn’t deliver. She had me wrapped around her little finger way before she had me panting for her touch.
“Meet me for coffee tomorrow.” She steps back.
“Why?”
“Because,” she turns and stops at the door, “I’m going to find you a wife.”
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