by Lisa Suzanne
“I know I can. I’m over her, okay? I love you. I want to be with you.” He glances over at me.
Even though I’m pretty sure I feel it in my heart, I still don’t say it back. I don’t want the first time I tell Brian I love him to be part of some argument. “Then why can’t you tell me what happened?”
“You first.”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me what happened with your last relationship, and then I’ll tell you what happened with mine.”
I don’t know whether to consider Mark my last relationship. Does a one-night stand qualify? Probably not. I go with Justin instead.
“I dated Justin for over two years. We got engaged. I planned to marry him. And then we broke up.”
“Why?”
“He decided he didn’t want to get married.”
“I’m sorry, Reese,” Brian says, the sincerity back in his voice. “When was that?”
“Seven or eight months ago.” I realize only now that I can’t even remember the exact date anymore. It used to be a daily count in my head. One day gone, one day further from what we had.
“Are you over him?”
“Yes.”
“And there hasn’t been anyone else since then?”
My heart races. Should I tell him? He’s giving me an opening. “Well,” I start as I think of how to word it. I don’t have to tell him who it was. I can keep it vague, can’t I? “There was a one night thing.”
“There was?” he asks, finally turning to face me and sitting up on his elbow.
“You said if I told you about my ex, you’d tell me about yours.”
“Tell me about the one night first.” His eyes light up with excitement, like he had no idea I had it in me. To be honest, I didn’t know I had it in me, either.
I shake my head. “Nope. Your turn.”
His phone starts buzzing on the nightstand. “Shit,” he mutters when he picks it up and looks at the screen. “Fox,” he answers.
I glance at the clock. It’s a little after one in the morning. I was just about to gain some insight into Brian’s last relationship. Instead, it sounds like Brian has some business to tend to.
I hear a voice through the other end, but I can’t make out the words. “Book me on the next flight out. I think it’s just after six.” There’s a pause as he listens. “Yes, book for both. Just one way for now, plus hotel.” Another pause. “I’ll do it. Thanks.”
He hangs up and looks over at me, annoyance in his eyes. “That was the call for Houston. I have to go.”
“Why are they calling you at one in the morning?” I ask.
He gets up from the bed and heads to the closet. He pulls out a suitcase and starts filling it with clothes, and then he pulls out a garment bag and sets several suits inside. “We just got word from our partners in Germany. They’re sending some associates over tomorrow, and I need to get there before they do.”
I give him a sad face, and he gives me a sad smile back. “I’m sorry. I’ll take you home.”
“My car’s here,” I remind him.
“Fine. Stay here tonight. I don’t want you driving home after all that wine.”
“Okay,” I say, thinking of his brother.
Why couldn’t Mark be in town tonight? It would be our first chance to talk without Brian around, but instead who knows where he is and who’s keeping his bed warm?
Not that it matters. It’s not my business.
But it still sort of feels like my business. Or maybe I want it to be my business.
When he finishes packing, he sits on the edge of the bed. “I have to go to the office to get some things before I head to the airport. Will you be okay here?”
“Of course.”
He leans in for a soft kiss. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”
He chuckles. “Thanks. Have a good few days. Hopefully I’ll be back mid-week.”
“Think about me lots.”
“Always.”
He kisses me once more, not a searing hot, panty-melting kiss, but one of those kisses exchanged between two people who have been together a while, an automatic, sweet kiss that tells me he loves me without the words.
I wonder if I should say it. I wonder if I should tell him how I feel about him as he leaves, tell him I love him right before he’ll be spending day in and day out with his pretty secretary.
He slips out the door before I get the chance, and I’m glad. I want to say it when I feel it, when I’m positive it’s true—not as part of some manipulation to make sure I’m on his mind while he’s spending time with another woman.
*
I sleep in, luxuriating in Brian’s bed. It’s the same sort of mattress as Mark’s bedroom, I realize. I scroll my phone lazily, checking the texts from Brian letting me know he landed hours ago and writing back about how much I miss him even though it’s not how I feel. He’s only been gone a few hours—hardly long enough to miss him yet.
I finally pull myself out of bed a little before eleven. I make the bed and head to the bathroom to clean myself up. I’d figured I’d be spending the night, so I slipped a change of clothes, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and some makeup in my huge purse so I’d at least be presentable enough to get my car from valet.
I wouldn’t say I look good—that’ll take a shower for sure—but at least I don’t look like I just rolled out of bed. I scrap my hair back into a messy ponytail and change into the sweatpants and t-shirt I stuck in my bag. As I pull on the shirt, I realize it’s the Vail shirt I wore the night I met Mark—the one I bought at the concert that night. I even washed it in an effort to get over him, so the sandalwood Mark scent is long gone from it. I thought I’d grabbed a different one, but I guess this will have to do since it’s the only shirt I have with me.
It’s almost noon by the time I emerge from Brian’s bedroom, and the place has been transformed. There’s no trace left of the business dinner that took place here last night. The round tables are gone, the couches are back, the food has been cleared, the temporary bar has been disassembled and removed. It’s spotless in here, and I can only imagine Hazel has been through with her magic wand.
It’s quiet, and I realize for the first time that I’m alone in Mark Ashton’s penthouse suite. I wonder what I should do. Part of me wants to snoop. I thought about it when I was in Brian’s room, but I refrained.
I set my purse down on the kitchen counter and wander over toward the windows. It’s different in the daylight. Vegas loses a bit of its magic when the bright light of the sun shines down on the Strip. Crowds of people mill the sidewalk below, tiny little ants from this distance. Cars rush to get somewhere, and while traffic isn’t anything like it is at night, it’s still a constant and steady stream of movement. Life goes on as usual as I stand at the window and look down upon it, feeling strangely like a goddess up here in the clouds gazing down at the subjects below.
My fingers rest on the glass. I shouldn’t touch it, shouldn’t mar the clear, clean surface, but I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s cold against my fingertips, a strange sensation since I know it’s near a hundred degrees on the other side of the window.
I’m lost in thought, still torn. Brian loves me. We have a good thing going. Telling him about my night with Mark would only tear us apart, but guilt eats away at me every time I look him in the eyes and don’t tell him. How do I keep up the charade? How do I live with the guilt?
And Mark. God, Mark. How can I possibly form a long-term commitment to his brother, knowing I’ll inevitably see him again? How can I get serious about a future with Brian if Mark will always be part of the background? How will I ever bury the intense feelings I can’t seem to let go of when they keep rising to the surface unbidden?
I have no idea how long I’ve been standing there, staring down at the movement of the ants, the little toy cars darting in and out of traffic when I hear the click of a key in the door.
; I turn around just as the door swings open, and my eyes meet the eyes of a man who seems very surprised to see me standing alone in his penthouse.
twenty-two
“Reese,” Mark says, his husky voice a decibel above a whisper. He says the single word with so much pent-up emotion that it physically hurts to hear it.
He stands frozen just inside his doorway as the door slams shut behind him. He wears a plain, gray t-shirt with jeans and black Nikes. His stubble is more grown in than usual, like he didn’t shave yesterday or the few days before. His dark hair is an unruly mess, and his usually vibrant eyes are shadowed with dark circles. His eyes dart down to my shirt before they move back to my face, but his expression is unreadable.
“Hi,” I say, the picture of awkwardness as I lift my hand in a little wave.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh, Brian…” I trail off, and he looks pained at the mention of his brother’s name. “He invited me to a dinner party last night but then he was called away on business in the middle of the night. He said you were out of town.”
“I was.” He drops the overnight bag I didn’t notice he was carrying until just now onto the floor. “And now I’m back.”
Where were you? Were you with another woman?
They aren’t my questions to ask, but I want them to be.
“I’m sorry,” I say, moving away from the windows and toward the kitchen counter where I set my purse. “I’ll be on my way.”
He steps toward me. I’m almost to the counter, but I stop short. He closes the gap between us and sets his hand on my arm. My skin burns where he touches me, and my eyes go to his hands—those talented hands, hands that play guitar and grip microphones and slide up my thigh in my memory.
“Don’t be sorry. And don’t go.” His voice pleads, and a rush of emotion flitters through my stomach. It’s not just that he’s gorgeous. It’s not just that he’s my favorite singer in my favorite band. It’s not just that he’s deeper than I realized, that he knows how to fuck like a pro, that he can please me the way no one else ever has.
It’s more.
I fell for him that night, and standing here with his skin touching mine, I’m more sure of that than ever. It took one night. I was half in love with him before I even met him, but that wasn’t real. The night we spent together was, though.
I don’t know what to do. I’m torn between doing right by Brian and doing right by myself.
I gaze at his hand for a second as it still rests on my arm. His fingers press gently into my flesh, triggering my mind to replay every second of our one night together. The memories flood me, a torrent of lust and passion and pleasure and powerful feelings that I’ll never let go.
He drops his hand from my arm, but only to take another step closer to me. We’re inches away from each other, eye to eye. His green ones remind me so much of his brother’s, but his are somehow even more penetrating. There’s pain in the depths, things I don’t understand about him, things he hasn’t told me, things I might never know…but somehow I also see hope and desire and heat there, and all of it is aimed directly at me.
My breathing increases as my heart pounds harder. I take a step back out of his grasp. It’s too intense here.
“Stay for breakfast,” he says softly. “There’s no reason a guy can’t have breakfast with his brother’s girl.” His eyes shadow on his last few words.
I clear my throat. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t…well, apart from the fact that I want him to kiss me. “Okay,” I find myself saying against my better judgment.
“What are you making me?” he asks.
I furrow my brows in surprise. “Excuse me?”
He laughs and walks over to his refrigerator. “I’m just kidding.” He takes a peek through the contents inside the fridge. “Scrambled eggs okay?”
“Sounds good. Can I do anything?”
“You get the orange juice. I’ll get the eggs.”
“Deal.” I step behind him and grab the juice out of the fridge. “Glasses?”
He points to a cabinet. “You want toast, too?”
“Sure.”
“It’s in the pantry.” He nods over toward a door, I walk that way and look blankly at the contents.
The shelves are mostly empty, but the top two shelves are completely filled with every sort of liquor imaginable. It’s like a store up there with the selections of spirits, beer, wine, and liqueur.
A box of cereal sits on another shelf with a handful of other boxed items. A loaf of bread hangs out on its own shelf all alone.
“You find it?” His voice is low and close to my ear, and I jump.
“Yeah,” I say, snapping out of it and grabbing the loaf. When I turn around, he’s blocking me from moving.
“You need any help?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I say, but my voice comes out much more like a squeak.
He chuckles but doesn’t say anything more. I get out of the way and he grabs the toaster from another shelf—I hadn’t even noticed it there. He plugs it in on the counter, and once he’s out of the way, I set two pieces of bread in it.
“So, Reese, you have any plans for the rest of the summer?” He hums a tune as he stirs the eggs as they sizzle in the pan. I try to recognize what he’s humming, but just the sound of his voice mixed with the sizzling eggs sets a soundtrack to our morning that I find soothing.
I feel like I have all these things I want to say to him, all these questions about our night, whether he felt it too, whether it’s just my imagination working overtime…yet here we stand, making small talk as we prepare breakfast.
“I’ll probably go visit my family at some point.”
“Where are they?”
“Phoenix.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yeah.” I watch the toaster heat the bread with its red coils. “I moved out here for college and stayed after graduation.”
Mark grabs some plates from the cabinet next to me, and I tear my eyes away from the bread long enough to pour the orange juice.
“Weather’s about the same, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Phoenix usually runs a few degrees warmer.” Am I really discussing the weather with Mark fucking Ashton?
“I prefer the weather in LA. It gets hot, but it usually sticks around the eighties in the summer. I try not to hang out here too much in the summer.”
“You don’t like feeling like you stuck your head in an oven?” I tease, and he laughs.
“Not my preference.”
“Have you ever played the summer tours out here or Phoenix?”
“Yeah, but we require indoor venues.”
“Smart. What’s your favorite venue?”
“To play?”
I nod.
“There’s a little place in Wrigleyville called Sevens that we always played before we signed with our label.”
“Where’s Wrigleyville?”
He chuckles. “Chicago.”
“Where you’re from?”
The toast pops up, startling me.
“Yeah. We could walk to it from the house where our parents raised us.” Us. He means his sister and his brother. “Just a little dive bar.”
“When was the last time you played there?”
He thinks for a minute as he divides the eggs in half and plates them. “Probably eight years ago.”
“Have you ever thought of just showing up and playing a set?”
He laughs. “No, I haven’t. But now I am.” He hands me a plate, and I stick a piece of toast on it. We head over to the table.
“What would they do?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. We owe them a lot, though. They put up with our shit when we were stupid kids without representation.”
“What does that mean?” I take a bite of my eggs and let out an mmm.
He shifts in his chair. “It means Ethan and I used to be stupid. We’d play drunk or sometimes high, break bottles, start fights.”
“High?”
“Weed, mostly, though Ethan will try anything. No one cared back then, but as soon as we signed with the label, we had to straighten out.”
“This is you straightened out?”
He laughs. “I found different vices.”
“Women?”
He shrugs, and the mood is suddenly uncomfortable as I hit the nail on the head. “It’s all an image created by my publicist. Sex sells and all that.”
“So you’re saying you don’t sleep with a different woman every night? Because from my recollection, I was one of them.”
He looks across the table at me with a touch of sadness in his eyes. “Not a different woman every night.” His voice is soft but a little defeated.
“Most nights?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Some. I’m not making a very strong case for myself.”
“What are you trying to argue?”
“I don’t always bam and scram.”
I raise a brow. “Bam and scram?”
“Fuck and truck.”
I drop my fork to the table with a clatter. “Um…what?”
“Screw and shoo.”
I cover my mouth to hide my laugh.
“I don’t want you to think that way about me.”
I want to ask why not, but I have a feeling it’ll only lead me to an answer I shouldn’t hear—not when I find myself pining for him—for that one lost night between us.
“So tell me more about the private Mark Ashton, then,” I say instead. “Something different from what your publicist projects.” I pick up my fork and take another bite and let out another mmm of satisfaction.
Mark readjusts in his chair. “Can you stop making that noise please?” He takes a bite of toast. “Nice job on the toast,” he says.
I hold in another giggle. “Thanks. The eggs are good, too.”
“There you go. I’m good at making eggs. That’s something they don’t print in the tabloids.”
I laugh. “They should. What else?”
“I love football.”
“Who doesn’t?”
He nods with approval at my comment, and there’s something so intrinsically sexy in the fact that he approves of something I like that a pang of intense desire darts through me.
I ignore it because I have to.
