“Minus the kissing me breathless part, count me in. I think I’ve had my fill.”
Within seconds, I’m flipped onto my back, and Dylan’s large frame is pressed against my skin. “Excuse me?” he questions, nose rubbing across mine. “You’ve had your fill?”
I nod, fighting my smile, but the smile is quickly replaced by a near moan when full lips press kisses along my jaw line, cleverly moving down my neck. One strong hand holds my arms above my head, while the other slides underneath the cotton material covering my skin. The shirt is lifted, exposing my body.
Dylan’s lips whisper across aching skin. My nipples are hard, painfully so, and he barely pays them attention, seemingly kissing and licking and sucking everywhere else.
I’m panting by the time he sucks one pert nipple into his mouth. His clever tongue swirls and flicks at the sensitive skin. He pulls back, admiring his handiwork.
“More,” I say, desperate for his mouth and skilled hands.
He smirks, devilish and angelic. “Such a greedy girl. How am I going to keep you satisfied when you’re a thousand miles away?”
My back goes stiff in response.
“We’ve got two more days, right?”
I nod, too uncomfortable to mutter a reply.
Dylan senses my mood change, searching my eyes. “When are you going to let us talk about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” He looks irritated.
“No, I guess I don’t know exactly what you mean,” I spit his words back, venom tinting their syllables. I start to move out from underneath him, but he holds me tightly against his body.
“Bloody hell, Brooke. You can just run away from everything.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t just run away from everything,” he repeats.
“What, you’ve known me for all of two fucking minutes, and now, you’re an expert on the way I operate? The way I handle things? Let me up.” I shove at his chest, but it’s useless.
He sighs heavily. “No, I’m not letting you up.” His fingers grip my chin, forcing my eyes to his. He kisses me long and deep, leaving me panting when he pulls away.
“You can’t distract me with sex, Dylan.”
He lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re preaching to the choir, love. That’s been your MO since this whole thing started between us.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry you had to deal with all of that.” My tone is pissy. “Poor Dylan having to fuck the pathetic American girl who never faces anything.” I’m being irrational. I know I am, but for some reason the wrong words keep leaving my mouth. And why can’t I just be honest with him? Why can’t I just tell him we can’t be anything but a fling?
Because he’s so much more than that . . .
Dylan’s eyes narrow. “Why don’t you tell me what you want to fight about so I can give you the fight you’re hell-bent on having?”
I want to fight about the fact that you made me fall in love with you! I want to fight about the fact that I have to walk away and I don’t want to! I want to fight about the fact that I’m starting to feel resentment towards Jamie because I’m going to have to give you up to keep my promise to him!
My heart isn’t clinging to Paris. My heart is clinging to Dylan. I want to cry. I literally want to curl into the fetal position and weep. I can’t do this with him. I can’t give him hope where there isn’t any hope. The timing is all wrong for us right now.
“I’m sorry, Dylan. I think I need to stay at my hotel tonight. I think I need to . . .”
His expression turns panicked. For only knowing me for a month, I think he might know me better than anyone. He grips me tightly, understanding that I’m a flight risk. “No, no, no. Stay right here, Brooke. Forget I said it. Forget I asked you those questions. Don’t pull away. Stay right here. We can talk about it another day. We still have time for that conversation.”
But we don’t have time.
We don’t have time because I’ve decided I’m going to leave tomorrow.
Once you fall asleep, I’m leaving without saying goodbye.
I have things I need to sort out back home.
Jamie needs me.
And I can’t tell you any of this because I’m in love with you.
I’m so in love with you that I already think of you as home.
And that’s when I know it’s settled. I’ve already made the decision. We don’t have time because I’m leaving in a few hours. I’m already planning to call Jamie’s dad and see if he’ll let me fly back with him to L.A.
Tears fill my eyes, spilling onto my cheeks as I kiss Dylan with everything I have. It’s a bruising kind of kiss. Tongues and teeth clash. Breaths come out in hard pants. I’m crazed over the idea that this may be the last time I feel his full lips or taste his sweet tongue. This may be the last time I feel the hard press of his body against mine or the strength in his arms as he holds himself above me.
This may be the last time that I see those green eyes staring down at me like I’m his world. Like I’m the reason he wakes up in the morning. I may never see his playful grin or sexy smile or hear him switch back-and-forth from English to French during an argument because he’s mad.
Home isn’t Paris or L.A.
And it’s not city lights or gorgeous parks or winding cobblestones.
Home is green eyes, strong arms, and a thousand smiles. Full lips, a gorgeous voice, and a playful laugh. Home is right here with Dylan.
It’s the only place I want to be, but the one place I can’t stay.
“Brooke, look at me. Please, look at me.”
I meet his gaze. His is steady and determined, but I’m the opposite. I can feel the uncertainty and fear seeping from my lids.
“I can’t read your mind, Brooke, but I know you feel this . . . Brooke, I lo—”
I place my fingers over his lips. “Don’t say it. My heart can’t bear it. But yes, I’m with you. I feel it too.”
Dylan’s mouth coaxes deep, addicting kisses from my lips. His hands grasp my breasts, sliding across my belly, and then clutching my thighs.
My fingers trace his back, gripping and scratching my mark into his skin.
I’m lost in his touch, his kiss, and the feel of him sliding inside of me.
My eyes fall closed. Colors dance behind my eyes. Vivid shades of green eyes and pink cheeks and red lips and white sheets. And breathtaking sensations of desperate lips, trembling hands, and racing hearts brand themselves into my brain.
“Come with me, Brooke,” he groans, circling his hips, and holding himself deep. “Let go with me.”
His eyes are the spark for the perfect song.
His lips and tongue trace the lyrics against my mouth.
His fingers tap out the beat against my skin.
And with our bodies, his and mine, we play our song.
QUIETLY, I TOSS ON my clothes, and shoot Jamie a quick text.
‘What time is your dad leaving London this morning?’
Dylan is sprawled out under the covers, fast asleep. His hand rests in the empty spot I just vacated. I can’t take my eyes off him. I watch his chest rise and fall in smooth, even breaths. I stare at his face, memorizing every detail—his strong jaw, his thick lashes, and soft lips.
Like a freight train, it hits me at once. This might be the last time I get to see him like this.
I may never again feel his lips against mine or his fingers caressing my skin. I may never again feel his strong arms embracing me. Or count his thousand smiles and witness that perfect dimple indented into his right cheek.
I swallow back the choking sob bubbling up from my lungs.
My phone vibrates in my hand, pulling my eyes away from Dylan.
‘He’s leaving in an hour.’
‘You think he’d let me hitch a ride?’
‘Are you okay? Why are you leaving early?’
‘Yeah. I’m good. Just ready to be home.’
Instead of
worrying Jamie over why I’m leaving Paris two days early, I’ll call Alistair after leaving Dylan’s apartment. No doubt, Jamie would figure out something is up by the shaky tone in my voice.
I grab a piece of paper and pen off the small desk near Dylan’s photograph wall.
What in the hell should I write? How do you tell someone goodbye when you don’t want to say goodbye in the first place? I go with the simplest option, giving him as much truth as I can
You’re the only person who could ever make pink polka-dots beautiful.
This isn’t goodbye. It’s just, not right now.
I’m sorry. I know you deserve better than this.
But please, trust me. I only left this way because I had to.
I will never forget about you, about us, but it’s okay if you need to let us go. I’ll understand.
I’ll always feel it too,
Brooke
Once I’m on the plane sitting across from Alistair on his private jet, I pull Millie’s bucket list from my bag, staring down at number twenty. The only number left unmarked on the list.
18. Visit 9 Jazz Club. Graf a drink and enjoy the music.
19. Kiss a French man.
20. Fall in love. If it’s not with a man, then it will be with Paris. I promise, four weeks is enough time.
The flight attendant offers me a drink. I decline. Alistair asks me questions about Paris. I respond with noncommittal answers. I can’t stop looking at number twenty. I reach into my messenger bag, grabbing a pen and correct the list.
18. Visit 9 Jazz Club. Graf a drink and enjoy the music.
19. Kiss a French man.
20. Fall in love. If it’s not with a man, then it will be with Paris. I promise, four weeks is enough time.
The seatbelt sign flashes as the plane’s engines vibrate the cabin. I stare out of the window, watching the lights of the runway blur past. My heart lurches against my ribs as it tries to find an escape route back to Dylan’s flat, desperate to be with the one person it belongs to. I bite back the tears, shielding my eyes from Alistair and the two flight attendants on our flight.
I didn’t just fall in love. That makes it sound like I’ll be able to pick myself back up once I’ve hit the ground. There’s no picking myself up from this. I’m in love with Dylan. There is no coming back from that. I’m irrevocably changed because of him. He’s ingrained in me now—my heart, my soul, my body—he will always be a part of me. I will always crave him constantly, so deeply that it’s a physical ache.
And now, I have to face the aftermath of what I just left behind. I have to face the fact that even though, I know there will be a right time for us to be together, leaving the way I did has more than ruined our chance. He might never want to speak to me again. I may have replaced the love he felt for me with hate.
I think about him waking up to the note and the pain that’ll be in those green eyes of his as they scan over my words. God, I wish I could erase that pain. I think I would rather him forget my existence, than put him through the mess I’ve made. I guess that’s how you know you really love someone, when you’d rather they forget you altogether than deal with the pain.
I think I just ruined the best thing I ever had.
But it was inevitable. I made promises, and I intend to keep those promises.
This isn’t the end. This is just the beginning.
Brooke & Dylan’s story continues in Blur (Changing Colors, Part Two)
Turn the page for a sneak peek of Blur (Changing Colors, Part Two)
One Month After Paris
DISCOVERING NEW TALENT IS more of a challenge than you’d think. Since the day I got back from Paris, I’ve been on a mission to find my own band to sign, work with, and help produce an album. This is extremely ironic, considering the label has its own scouts, and I’m not one of those scouts. Compartmentalizing, party of one!
Needless to say, I’ve immersed myself in work. If I’m not in the studio, I’m catching live shows or open mic nights at local bars and clubs. I even flew to New York last week to catch up with Lindsay and check out an indie band that sent me a demo a few months ago. Eternal Refuge was good, not great, but good. I think with another year under their belt, they’ll be ready. But right now is not the time for them to sign with a label. If it were up to Alistair Wallace, he would have pressured them into a contract, but luckily, I was on my own for that trip.
After the show, I sat down with the band and gave them their options, along with some of my own advice. They could sign a contract now, before they’ve really formed their own sound, and let a record label mold them into what they want them to be. Or they could wait, keep playing shows, find their voice, and sign when they know, without a doubt, that they’re ready.
They went with the latter. I gave them my contact info and told them to keep in touch. I know one day they’ll be great, and hopefully, when that time comes, Jamie and I will sign them to our label.
“I’ll take one latte and one coffee black, no sugar, no cream,” I tell the barista behind the counter at The Grind. Her nametag reads “Fiona.” She gives me an odd look behind the counter, but proceeds to write my name on both cups, and takes my credit card to swipe. Once Fiona hands me the receipt, I stand off to the side, eavesdropping on other customers’ orders while I wait for mine.
When I was at NYU, I worked as a barista at a mom and pop coffee shop not far from my apartment. Four years of watching hundreds of different faces order their coffee made me realize a person’s order can say a lot about their personality.
Black coffee drinkers (Jamie) tend to be straightforward, no-nonsense, and can be very resistant to change. Whereas double decaf, almond milk, soy, and extra-foamy folks tend to be more obsessive and controlling. The latte drinkers (that’s me) swing more towards the neurotic and people-pleaser side, while the instant coffee drinkers are usually the most laid-back people you’ll ever meet. They could make a career out of procrastination.
And finally, the men and women who order the sweet drinks topped with caramel and whip cream are generally overgrown kids who’ve kept the taste buds and sensibilities of a ten-year-old.
Obviously, these are all assumptions on my part, and we are no more defined by our drink choices than we are our astrological signs. It’s quite possible someone could be a controlling black coffee drinker or a neurotic decaf drinker. I know better than anyone else that we can’t be pigeonholed into one specific set of personality traits. I’m the queen of the pendulum personality.
“I’ll take a café au lait,” A thirty-something woman orders. She beams at the man beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. “We just got back from our honeymoon in Paris.”
“Oh wow, I bet it was amazing!” Fiona exclaims, handing off their cups to her male coworker.
The couple starts gushing about all of the gorgeous things they saw, while I indulge in my daily routine of thinking about Dylan.
I miss him. I miss him dreadfully.
Four weeks and the man had ingrained himself into my mind, my heart, and my soul. It seems every little thing brings him to mind—a song on the radio, a photograph inside a shop, a couple walking hand-in-hand along the street. In an instant, we’d had too much together, felt too much, and every one of those feelings has a memory. At first, I started blocking out any song or show or movie that would bring him to mind, but it was a fruitless effort. Memories of him are unavoidable. He had become such a huge part of me in such a short amount of time. Nearly everything brings him to mind—my favorite bands, songs, and TV shows.
You name it, and it reminds me of Dylan.
That’s probably why I’ve fallen back in to survival mode. My mind going to that blank, robotic-like place it did when pink polka-dots meant a different kind of pain. I’ve kept so busy with my job that I’ve given myself little time to dwell or pine or second-guess. I’m convincing myself that I’m strong enough to move past this terrible place. Strong enough to move on, even when huge chunks of myself are missing.
“Thanks,” I say, but what I really want to say is Yeah, sweetheart, the black coffee isn’t for me, but it should be. Black—just like my soul—would suit me better than my usual lightly sweetened latte. At least, I’m sure Dylan would agree.
I grab the cups, head to my car, and start the engine. My phone pings with a message from Jamie.
‘You headed our way? Meeting is at 10.’
‘I’ll be there. What’s this meeting for again?’
‘I swear you’ve been lost in the clouds since you got back from Paris, baby girl. New band my dad and Nigel are signing. It’s going to be a big opportunity for you, so put your happy face on.’
‘Like ‘I get to produce’ kind of opportunity?’
‘Something like that . . . ’
‘I haven’t even heard these guys (or girls). What if they suck ass?’
‘What if they’re really fucking brilliant?’
‘What’s this band’s name again?’
Nope, you don’t have time to search for their music on YouTube. Leave your sister’s shop, grab me a coffee on your way, and get your ass here.’
‘Their band name is Nope? This doesn’t sound promising . . . ’
‘Don’t be a smartass.’
‘I’m already in my car with your coffee in tow. Be there in 10.’
Before heading towards the label, I browse through my other text conversations. Ember letting me know she’s taking Teddy to the museum today. Lindsay’s picture message of the hot shoes she’s wearing at a photo shoot.
And then Dylan. It’s been two weeks since I’ve heard from him. The minute I got back to L.A. and turned my phone on, I had several missed calls and messages from him.
‘Where are you?’
Forget (Changing Colors Book 1) Page 28
