by A. S. Teague
“Grace?” he asks, his voice tense.
“What’s wrong, Riley?” I squeak.
“Thank goodness.” He breathes. “I’ve been calling you for days. Why the hell haven’t you answered?”
My breath leaves my lungs on a whoosh. “Everything’s okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know, you tell me,” he snaps.
Even though I know he’s just been concerned, his attitude strikes a nerve. “I’m fine. Just busy.”
His voice softens, the irritation disappearing. “I’m sure you have been. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was just freaked when you weren’t answering. You’re alone in a new town, I thought something had happened.”
I stalk through the tiny house to my bedroom, the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder, trying my best not to lose my patience. I’m lucky to have someone that worries about me, I remind myself.
“I appreciate that, I really do. But, Riley, I’m not a child. Also, I’m not all alone,” I tell him hesitantly.
I’m not sure I want to discuss my relationship with Bronn right now, or if what we have going could even be classified that way, but I also can’t stand the constant check-ins that Riley keeps insisting on.
“What do you mean you’re not all alone?” he asks, his voice full of suspicion.
“I mean I’ve met some people.”
He scoffs. “You’ve been there a few weeks.”
My teeth clench and I have to physically force my jaw to open. “Yes, and that’s plenty of time to meet people.”
Pulling my scrubs off, I don’t even bother putting pajamas on before I flop into bed. “Listen, I’ve got to get a few hours of sleep before I drive back to see Nana. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Want to grab dinner after your visit? I know some of the guys are going to the club.”
I can almost see the optimism on his face, and I feel bad about being the one to always cause his disappointment.
A mere month ago, I would have jumped at the chance to hang out at the club with my friends. But now, I am more interested in sitting at a bar, sipping on a water, and watching Bronn sling drinks all night.
Sighing heavily, I tell him, “Sure. Dinner sounds good.”
It doesn’t sound good. It sounds like torture, sitting around with our stuffy friends while secretly pining for a man a hundred and fifty miles away.
Enthusiastically, he replies, “Great.”
“Goodbye, Riley,” I grumble, then disconnect the call and toss my phone on the nightstand a mere second before drifting off to sleep.
I hadn’t been able to get away from my friends after I’d arrived at the country club. Every time I made a move to leave, they’d cry and beg me to stay just a while longer and I’d cave, not wanting to skip out on them.
When they’d finally decided to call it a night, it was after midnight. I was exhausted, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep, my body more tired than it had ever been.
But damn if I let it stop me from getting in my car and driving home. I’d said my goodbyes, ignored Riley’s pleas to stay the night, and grabbed a coffee before hopping on the road. It was nearly three a.m. when I pulled up to the bar, the street deserted, the inside dark.
Dammit!
I knew that the chances of Bronn still being there were slim, but the glimmer of hope that he would be had fueled me all the way here.
Fishing my phone out of my purse, I pull up our message thread.
Me: I’m outside your bar.
Sitting in my car, I silently will him to respond. After an agonizingly long few seconds, my phone chimes with an incoming message. In my haste to read it, I drop the phone and have to scramble to find it.
Bronn: That’s because it’s three a.m.
Me: I know, I got tied up.
Bronn: It’s fine. Talk to you tomorrow.
My heart sinks. I don’t want to talk to him tomorrow. I want to see him. Tonight. I take a deep breath in and type out a message.
I shouldn’t.
Second-guessing myself, I delete the words and stare at my phone.
Why the hell not?
I write it again, but hesitate, not hitting send.
Oh, screw it.
I press send and bite my lip, my mind racing with all the reasons that I should just tell him never mind and go home.
Me: Give me your address.
Bronn: You sendin’ me flowers?
I let out a groan. He’s pissed with me, and I can’t blame him. I told him I’d come by the bar and then flaked. But I am home now, and I don’t want to have to wait until tomorrow to see him.
Me: I really want to see you.
I’m clutching the phone, my heart beating hard in my chest, praying that he won’t tell me no. I should have called him earlier, sent him a message explaining myself, something to let him know that I wasn’t just blowing him off.
But I hadn’t, and now I feared that I’d screwed up.
Finally, a message comes through.
Bronn: You know where the marina is?
I let out a squeal and look up, the marina is right at the end of the street.
Me: I’m looking at it now.
Bronn: Park in the lot, I’ll meet you there.
I have no idea why he’s at the marina in the middle of the night, but I drive over there anyway.
He’s leaning against the railing, his hands stuffed in the pockets of a pair of well-worn jeans, a t-shirt stretched across his muscular chest.
My heart gallops as my mouth waters at the sight.
As I approach him, I call out, “You planning to murder me and throw me in the water?”
He doesn’t laugh, his face solemn. “Nah, I live here.”
I look around, confused. There’s nothing but boats on the water.
I get within arm’s reach of him, but he doesn’t pull me in for a hug. He doesn’t reach for my hand. He gives me a nod and then turns on his heel. “This way.”
Riley had tried to convince me to stay, but I’d refused, imagining the moment when I’d see Bronn. My fantasies didn’t include the jut of a chin and a simple “this way.”
Even though my stomach is churning, I follow him down the dock. After passing boats that all look identical in the dark, he stops in front of a large but run-down boat, and with a sweeping gesture says, “Home sweet home.”
“You, you live on a boat?” I look around, my eyes wide.
His shoulders stiffen.
I’ve offended him.
Shit.
“I’m sorry, I’m just…surprised.”
He still doesn’t relax, his voice as tight as his body. “Yeah, it’s not much, but I don’t need much.”
I nod and smile wide, hoping to put him at ease. “Give me the tour then.”
He jumps onto the edge of the boat and turns, extending his hand for mine. I take what he’s offering, my fingers tingling at the contact, and climb aboard. Once my feet are planted firmly on the deck, he drops my hand.
Pivoting on his heel, he makes his way for the door to the cabin.
“Bronn?” I call out, my voice sounding shaky. I clear my throat, and even though he pauses, he doesn’t turn around. “I’m sorry about tonight. You didn’t wait for me, did you?”
His back still to me, he shakes his head. “Nah. Don’t worry about it.”
“Then why are you being an ass?” I snap, tired of his shit.
I know that I should have called him earlier. I know that he was looking forward to seeing me because I was looking forward to seeing him, but I’m here now and I’ve apologized. I don’t deserve the bullshit he’s dishing out.
With a heavy sigh, he pushes a hand through his hair, making it stick up, and looks back at me over his shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see you.”
His hand no longer on the doorknob, he finally faces me and leans against the wooden frame. His arms cross over his chest, the muscles straining under the white t-shirt, and his jaw tics.
The silence between us is awkward and I want to fill it, but I can’t think of anything to say. Instead, I stand here, uncomfortably shifting my weight from one foot to the next. The longer his broody stare scrutinizes me the more I feel like the child I used to be, standing in front of Nana while waiting for her to dole out her harsh punishments.
When I can no longer take the silent treatment, I throw my arms out. “Just tell me what the hell the problem is, Bronnson.”
His eyes widen briefly before returning to the closed-off stare. He uncrosses an arm and waves it in my direction. “I lied.”
Frustrated, I march across the small deck until I’m directly in his face. “About what?”
“I spent my entire fucking day waiting for you. Checking my goddamn phone obsessively, my stomach falling each time there was no word from you.”
I knew it.
“I’m sorry.”
He laughs bitterly. “Whatever.”
“No, not ‘whatever’,” I whisper, placing my hand on his bicep. “I should have texted or called you.”
His eyes dart to where my hand rests on his arm as if he’s contemplating shaking it off. When he doesn’t, I tell him, “I got tied up, and then when I finally got away my mind was so jumbled with the drama of the day, I just didn’t think about it.” Finishing with a fierce whisper, I reiterate, “I should have fucking called.”
“Yeah, you should have,” he whispers harshly.
My heart is pounding.
Is this it?
Fuck, no it isn’t.
“Listen, I don’t know what else I can say to you to prove that I feel bad about not calling you!” I shout, pushing my hands through my hair. He doesn’t move, his eyes shooting daggers at me. “So, are you going to accept my damn apology and show me around your house or are we gonna just sit here and glare at each other all night?”
A rumble of laughter erupts from somewhere deep in his gut. “You are a fucking firecracker,” he says as he makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arm. “Come on in before you burn the place down with your sass.”
My shoulders drop, relief washing over me.
Thank God.
I take the two steps to him and push up on my toes, planting a kiss on his lips. He wraps an arm around my waist and my stomach flips as he pulls me flush with his body.
He licks along my lips and they part, allowing his tongue to sweep into my mouth. The kiss is hard, his tongue warring with my own.
“Apology accepted,” he rumbles.
I sigh and step back. “About damn time.”
With my hand in his, he pulls me into the living space, announcing, “Well, here we have the entryway. The flooring is an exotic, hard to find wood called pine.”
I giggle and follow him as he ducks through the doorway.
He was right when he said it wasn’t much. I look around the tiny area, taking in the unmade bed and messy galley kitchen. There’s a sink that’s not much bigger than a mop bucket, and it’s filled with dishes.
Beyond the bed is another door that I can only hope is the bathroom.
Bronn points to the bed. “The master bedroom is directly in front of you, the restaurant-grade kitchen to your right. The en-suite bathroom is through that door, and to your left is the living area.”
I look to the “living area” that he’s referring to and see a single bar stool in the corner.
He turns to face me. “And that concludes the tour of Chateau de Williams.”
“It looks…cozy.”
He barks with laughter. “Yeah, you could call it that. You could also call it cramped, unconventional, and pathetic. But, we’ll go with cozy.”
I lean into him, my hand resting on his chest, and place a kiss on his cheek, whispering, “I like it.”
“Suuuuure,” he drawls.
I stand awkwardly in the kitchen as he saunters to the bed and flops down. He pats the spot beside him. “Don’t have a couch.”
My mouth goes dry at the thought of sitting next to him in his bed. It was the very thing I’d been daydreaming about this morning.
I begin to make my way over to him when he pulls his t-shirt over his head. I nearly stumble over my own feet when his perfect abs come into view.
My heart thundering in my chest, I gingerly sit beside him, trying and failing not to stare at his body.
He grabs my thigh with his hand and slides me across the bed, settling me into his side, and wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
“How was your day?” he asks casually, like we aren’t lying in his bed together for the first time.
I suck in a deep breath through my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. “It was…hard,” I admit. “Seeing my Nana, who was a force to be reckoned with, barely able to get out of bed unassisted…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“You spend the entire day and night there?” he questions.
I shake my head. “No. I wasn’t there long before she started getting tired. At least, that’s what her nurse says.”
The truth was, our visits never lasted more than an hour before Nana started getting mean. She’d start by cursing at me—the first time she did it I’d nearly passed out from shock. Then she’d move on to telling me what a horrible man my father had been, how he’d ruined my mother’s life. I’d made the mistake of listening to her one time and had spent the following week devastated by her hateful words. It had only taken that one time for me to learn that once that started there was no stopping her, and I would leave.
“You always want to be a nurse?” he asks, bringing me back to my current situation.
I’m lying in bed with a shirtless, sexy man, thinking about my mean-spirited grandmother.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Bronn rubs circles on my arm with his fingertips. I watch as his chest rises and falls evenly with each breath he takes, and I place my hand over his heart, the strong beating under my fingertips matching the rhythm of my own.
I clear my throat. “When my dad died, it was really…traumatic. I couldn’t stand the sight of blood for a long time. Growing up, I always thought I would be a teacher. Then my mom got sick.”
He engulfs my hand with his and places it back on his chest. “Your mom okay now?”
I nod. “Yeah, I guess you could say she is.” I tilt my head back, looking into his warm eyes. “She died twenty-two days after she was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. By the time they found it, it was everywhere.” I let my gaze drift away, the pity in his eyes too much to bear. “She was in so much pain it was terrible. She spent her final days in hospice, at home, with us by her side.”
Bronn continues to rub my arm with one hand while holding my hand in place with the other. The simple motion of his arm more therapeutic than the years I spent talking about my feelings to my therapist. He doesn’t speak, just waits patiently while I gather my thoughts.
“The hospice nurses were amazing. The most caring people I’ve ever encountered. When she took her last breath, one of the nurses held me and we cried together. You know, she was the only person to hug me, to tell me that everything would be okay, to allow me to grieve. I was twelve. And Nana just went on about her day like it was business as usual. I don’t know if she even shed a tear when her only child died.”
My chest burns, the pain as fresh as the day it had happened. I had lost my mother after losing my father, and my only living relatives, the only people I had left, hadn’t even asked me if I was okay.
Bronn clears his throat. “I was ten when I found my dad dead. I was crying, a fucking mess. You know what my mother said to me?”
My stomach falls, the sadness overwhelming me. I don’t want to know the horrible things his mother said, but I shake my head anyway
“She said, ‘People die, Bronnson. Stop whining before you end up like your worthless daddy.’”
My blood begins to boil thinking about the heartless way his own mother had treated him.
/> When my father died, my mother lost herself. She shut down, unable to find her way out of her grief. She wasn’t there for me the way she should have been, but she couldn’t help it. She was grieving and didn’t know how to deal with her pain.
I press up on an elbow and look into his face. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my heart aching for him, for me, for the children that suffered such tragedy.
His eyes are intense, but the anger is gone, in its place desire.
Desire that mirrors my own.
I nod, answering a question he hasn’t even asked. He doesn’t need to though. I know what he wants because I want it, too.
I was pissed.
I’d spent the entire day looking forward to seeing her, and then she’d just blown me off. No call, no text, nothing.
So when she’d texted that she was outside the bar at three a.m., I‘d fought the urge to tell her to take a hike.
I didn’t need to spend my entire day waiting on a phone call.
I didn’t need to hear her voice.
I didn’t need to see her face, hear her laugh, smell her hair.
At least, that was what I was telling myself.
But, it was all lies.
Even after she’d shown up and apologized, I’d continued to tell myself that I didn’t need her, that she didn’t have any effect on me. I’d tried to be cold and distant, not letting her know just how fucking pathetic I’d been tonight. But she wouldn’t stop pushing, apologizing, asking me what was wrong. And the words had flown out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Here I was, pining over a woman, worrying that something had happened to her, or worse, that she had finally decided to cut her losses and move on, like the smart woman I knew she was.
In the matter of mere weeks, I’d gone from the consummate bachelor, destined to be married to my work, to being so wrapped up in a woman that it was a wonder that I could breathe without her.
Though the funny thing was, now, with her nestled beside me in my bed telling me about the not so pleasant parts of her life, I didn’t want to breathe without her.
