Reading Between the Lines
Page 16
To: brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
From: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
Subject: How are you doing?
Message: Just got your text, sorry. Hope you’re doing okay. Are you in pain? When you say you need to see me, do you mean me the team or me, Brooklyn?
While I waited for his response, I texted Dave back, feeling a bit like what I imagined Chelly must feel like, communicating with a bunch of guys at once. Sorry about that. Brother made me come back with Chelly.
He sent back: But are we good? Didn’t mean 2 scare you off.
Yeah well. We’re good. I took a deep breath before I typed, Can I see you for your birthday? Maybe you come here?
It’s our night to plan the Santa Hop anyway.
Perfect, I typed back.
But will only come if there will b cake.
I smiled. I hadn’t thought about it, but I was sure I could at least get a cupcake from the snack counter if not an actual cake. Maybe Celia could pull some strings in the kitchen. Of course, I sent.
Awesome. See u Thursday. 7?
Yes, see you then.
I glanced up to see a new e-mail from Brady.
To: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
From:brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
Subject: Re: How are you doing?
Message: You, Brooklyn. Tomorrow.
To: brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
From: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
Subject: Re: Re: How are you doing?
Message: I can’t. I have no way of getting to Westwood.
To: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
From:brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: How are you doing?
Message: I am staying at my mother’s cottage. She will be out tomorrow from 2pm. Come see me.
You have got to be kidding me, I thought. Go to the dean’s private cottage? I don’t think so. Before I had a chance to even type back my two letter protest (no), I got another e-mail.
To: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
From:brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: How are you doing?
Message: Please.
I laughed, imagining him realizing he was being a bit bossy and that manners were necessary. He probably even ran his hand through his hair when he’d realized he needed a little more finesse when sending me notes.
To: brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
From: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
Subject: not a chance
Message: you’re nuts.
To: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
From:brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
Subject: Re: not a chance
Message: Please. Come to the side door at 2, no one will see you.
To: brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
From: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
Subject: Re: Re not a chance
Message: why?
To: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
From:brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: How are you doing?
Message: We need to talk. Just say yes so I can take a big pain pill and go to bed.
Something in my chest twisted as I thought about him being in pain.
To: brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
From: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
Subject: fine
Message: 2pm. If I get busted, it’s on your head.
To: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com
From:brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com
Subject: Re: fine
Message: deal. Good night.
I sent him a good night message back, but he didn’t respond, so maybe he wasn’t kidding about the pain pill thing. Or maybe his mother had returned from her office to tuck him in. I shivered at the thought. Then I thought about seeing him and that whole kissing him plan and how I would also be seeing Dave on Thursday and I shivered again for a very different reason.
The Cottage
It felt like the longest morning ever. Usually on Sundays I had equestrian practice, but today that obviously wasn’t happening. I slept in and then caught up on some homework before I wandered down to the stables to say hi to Charlie, mostly to get away from my friends who were driving me nuts talking about my meeting with Brady. Like I wasn’t already nervous enough? I spent some time hanging out with the horses and even cleaned some tack that didn’t really need cleaning, just for something to do.
At one-thirty, I wandered out the back of the stables and covertly watched the dean’s cottage waiting for her to leave as Brady had promised she would.
Sure enough, at one-thirty-two, she left the cottage and got into her car, driving toward the campus front gate. I wondered where she was going, but only for a moment, my attention drawn back to the cottage.
He said to come at two. Did that mean wait until two or was he just building in a safe buffer of time? My jangling nerves were about ready to spontaneously combust, so I glanced around and then darted over toward the cabin’s side door. I gave a decisive three knocks and then stood close to the door, waiting and praying no one saw me. Of course I could pretend I was coming to see the dean about something, but still, best to avoid all questions.
Suddenly, I heard a loud bang and then a string of curses from inside the house. Then there was silence. That wasn’t good. I tried the knob and it was unlocked, so I pushed the door open a bit.
I found myself at the bottom of four stairs in front of me, and there was also a set of steps to the right going down to what I figured was a basement. “Brady?” I whispered as loudly as I could.
More cursing and then, “Brooklyn? Are you inside?”
“Yeah.”
“Up the stairs; I need some help,” he said in a tone that told me he was not happy about having to ask for assistance.
“Are you hurt?”
“That, too.”
What does that mean?
My heart started pounding in my chest as I took the few steps up and was suddenly faced with a very interesting picture in the cottage’s little living room. And by interesting, I mean: oh my God Brady is sprawled naked face-down on the floor.
Naked.
Brady.
Did I mention naked? Well, except for the cast on his right leg, of course.
“What the...?” was all I could manage as I averted my eyes away from Brady’s bare butt that was about a thousand percent hotter than even my wildest fantasies had conjured up. And I’d had a few.
My face had to be crimson and his, at least the left side of it that I could see, wasn’t far off.
“You’re early,” he said in a strangled voice, not moving. My eyes traced down his shoulders to the muscles in his back, down the ridge of his spine to the twin dimples in his lower back, making me dizzy. Do not look at his butt, I told myself, skipping that part of his anatomy, but unable to help it as my eyes drifted to his very muscular thighs.
Perfection.
“Brooklyn?” he barked, pulling me out of my perusal of his body.
Crap. “Yeah?”
“Are you staring at my ass?” He asked, almost sounding amused. Almost.
“No!” I protested, my face on fire.
“Because you can look all you want after you help me get up.”
That’s when I noticed the towel on the floor beside him—probably just out of his reach—and his crutches lying haphazardly—one on the floor and the other against the coffee table. His hair was wet and I suddenly realized he must have been getting out of the shower when I’d knocked on the door and in his rush, he must have tripped. Ugh. This was all my fault. “I’m so sorry,” I said as I rushed over to him and knelt down, determined to not look at...well...him.
“What do you need me to do?”
I did and assumed he’d put it over himself, but instead, he lifted up onto his elbows and dabbed at his forehead with it. It came away red.
I started to feel a bit woozy. “Oh God, you’re bleeding.”
He glanced over at me. “I hit the corner of the table on the way down. You’re not going to pass out, are you?”
I shook my head, determined to keep it together. “Let me look at it.”
He twisted his neck toward me so I could see the gash. It didn’t look particularly deep. I took the towel from his hand and dabbed at it. “Does it hurt?”
“A bit,” he said, but as I glanced from the cut down to his eyes, his were trained on my lips.
I thought about how easy it would be to lean in just a little bit closer and kiss him. But that he was naked made it feel way more intimate than an experimental kiss to see if I really wanted to be with him. And anyway, I told myself honestly, I didn’t need to kiss him (again) to know that I would really like kissing him. But kissing a naked guy who’d already said he wanted to be with me was like playing with matches around a powder keg.
“Do you have some peroxide or something?” I asked, my voice reedy as I tried to focus on his injury.
“In the bathroom; I need to get up.”
I held out the towel and turned away, secretly wishing there was a mirror on the wall somewhere. Although that might just make things a thousand times worse if...
“Thanks,” he said as he tugged the towel from my fingers, his voice low and way too sexy.
After a moment of some heavy breathing and a grunt he said, “Okay, I’m covered. Can you pick up the crutches and then get in here and help me?”
I grabbed the crutches and held them with one hand as I crouched down and offered him my other hand to help him rise. He hopped a little on his good foot, blowing out a few sharp breaths as he steadied himself with my hand around his biceps. Once he was upright and stable, he held his hands out for the crutches.
“Thanks,” he said, his breathing labored from the effort, which said a lot about what kind of pain he must have been in since he was probably the fittest guy I knew. “I’ll just go put some clothes on and then we can...”
“Brady?” I said, causing him to look up at me.
“Why don’t you tell me why I’m here? You should be in bed resting anyway.” A drop of blood had formed on the cut on his head and threatened to break free. I glanced around and grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table that he’d obviously fallen on and held it up to his skin, dabbing gently.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said once I was done, staring into my eyes.
“About what?”
Bending at the neck to keep a hold of his crutch with his elbow, he ran a hand through his damp hair, causing his biceps to bunch and his chest to expand. “Can I please put pants on? I can’t talk to you in a towel.”
I swallowed and nodded, unable to fight the urge to sweep my eyes down his body, taking in the incredibly sexy indents at his hips and that line of hair that ran down to his...
I snapped my eyes up to his. “You’d better put a shirt on, too,” I said, my voice strained.
He gave me one long lingering stare before he nodded and hobbled out of the room.
I dropped onto the couch with a sigh, waiting for whatever was coming next.
~ ♥ ~
“Sorry about that,” Brady said seven minutes later when he emerged from the hallway in a pair of sweats and a Rosewood t-shirt, his feet still bare, except for that cast, of course. He’d put a Band-Aid on his cut, which almost disappointed me—for whatever reason, I thought he’d let me clean and dress his wound. Which was stupid, but whatever, that’s where my brain went.
As I registered him apologizing, I wasn’t really sure what he was apologizing for: the nakedness, the having to help him up, the blood, the wait for him to put clothes on. It really didn’t matter. All I cared about was finding out what he wanted to say to me.
As he hobbled around the table, his face a mask of concentration, I fought the urge to get up and help him, knowing he’d hate that. Still, my heart raced, afraid of him falling again. “Are you okay?” I asked as a concession to my sudden urge to take care of him without emasculating him.
He glanced up at me. “Fine.”
“Okay. Can I get you anything? Water, Advil?”
“I’m fine. I just took a pain pill.”
Finally, he angled around between the coffee table and the couch across from me, dropping heavily into the cushions. He leaned the crutches against the side of the sofa and propped his injured foot on the table before blowing out a loud breath, turning to me and giving me a weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It killed me that he was hurting.
“Hey,” he said.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, sweeping my arm around the room. “I didn’t even think that you might not be ready. I saw the dean leave and I...”
He lifted his palm, cutting me off. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I said, my eyes darting to the bandage on his forehead. “You got hurt.”
“This,” he said, pointing at his forehead. “Is the least of my worries.”
I looked down at his foot on the table. “Right.”
“Not that, either.” He said, his eyes suddenly smoldering.
My heart knew that look and responded accordingly. “What?” I breathed.
“I don’t know how you’re going to respect me as your coach, now that you’ve seen me naked.” There wasn’t even the whisper of a smile about his lips and I had no idea if he was being serious or not.
The flush of heat started in my chest and radiated out from there. “Not completely,” I said, surprised I could speak at all.
“I suppose that’s true,” he said, his eyes still holding mine. It was like he was daring me to say something. Or maybe he wanted to know if I’d liked what I saw. Like anyone could not like his sculpted muscles and total maleness. Not to mention how his skin had felt and smelled when I’d helped him up off the floor: smooth and clean from his shower. Being that close to him, knowing that all there was between me and his nakedness was a scrap of cotton was enough to almost destroy what little self-control I had. And now he was challenging me?
I swallowed. “What are you doing to me?” I asked, my breath barely a whisper.
“Maybe half of what you do to me.”
I had no response for that.
This is torture, I thought.
But then he said, “Yes it is,” and after a confused second, I realized must have said it out loud. “But I didn’t plan to expose myself to you. Believe me, if I wanted you to see me naked, I wouldn’t have thrown myself on the floor and cut open my head to do it. There are much easier ways to skin a cat.” He sounded amused but tense at the same time, raking his hand through his almost dry hair again.
I swallowed and looked away from him. “Why am I here?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your training.”
I almost laughed out loud. Instead, I just looked at him and said, “Really.” It wasn’t even a question.
He nodded.
I looked pointedly around the room.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Looking for the rest of the team. Because if you want to talk to me about training, shouldn’t they be here, too?” I didn’t know where it came from, but maybe I was tired of the constant push-pull between us. It was too hard. Too much. And he kept just making it worse, ratcheting up the tension. I mean, it would seem fine for a few practices and then something would happen—like a kiss at a dance—and we’d be back to this place where we were just torturing ourselves and each other. And the worst part was that it almost seemed like he enjoyed it.
“Brooklyn...”
I looked at him, eyebrows raised as I waited for him to continue.
“Fine,” he said, dragging his fingers through the hair again. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to know wha
t’s going on with you and what you were doing in that hospital yesterday.”
“Chelly was pretty thorough in her explanation, wasn’t she?”
He gave me a look before he said, “She said you kissed Dave. I thought you were dating Abe. Isn’t Dave Emmie’s boyfriend?”
I forgot that Brady wasn’t really in the loop at Westwood, even though he was a part-time student there.
I gave him the abridged version as I looked down at my hands in my lap. “Jared and I broke up. Dave and Emmie broke up. Dave and I...” I sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“As complicated as you and me?” he asked, dipping his head to try to catch my eyes.
“Nothing is as complicated as you and me.”
“Do you like him?”
“Brady...I...”
“Do you?”
I paused for a long time, but if he was asking, there was no reason to lie. “I think so.”
“As much as you like me?”
Finally, I looked up at him. “Does it matter? Can you and I be together? Will you tell the dean you want to be with me and you can train me at the same time? Will you tell your trainer that you aren’t focused on your own training because you have a girlfriend?”
He pointed at the cast. “I’m not exactly training right now.”
“That’s going to change, Brady. You’re going to go back to it and then you’ll have to work even harder to catch up. What then? Are you going to dump me then? Because I don’t think I could handle that. I don’t want to be your sick leave girlfriend.”
“Do you like him as much as you like me? You didn’t answer.”
“Because it doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“It’s the same result, Brady. Please don’t do this. You know I like you, but this makes it so much harder. Unless you’re willing to be with me, to risk everything and say it doesn’t matter, that we’ll figure out a way to make it work, we can’t keep doing this.”
“I can’t stop thinking about that kiss,” he said as though he hadn’t heard a word out of my mouth. “Do you know that? I can’t get you out of my head, Brooklyn. I’ve tried, believe me, but I can’t.”