Last: A Copperslane Romance Novel

by Garnet Christie

  I dart my eyes to Brett. There’s nothing. His head stays down more than normal, but I can’t make anything out. I look back to Cora and Lizzie. “Do you guys believe her?”

  Cora shrugs, plopping her shoulders back into her seat.

  Lizzie’s eyes tighten and she brushes back a hair that I can’t see. “It’s hard to say. The guy she accused gave an account for everything that happened, but he also didn’t live here.” Her slender hands wrap around the mug. “Monica’s husband almost went to jail because he got in a fight with him and forced him to leave town.”

  Damn. I shake my head, and Brett finally meets my gaze. I’ve never thought his eyes could be so down-turned, and his usually hardened features are twisted and broken looking. A frown tugs down his mouth as Lizzie carries on.

  “I guess I can’t invite her anymore. Regardless of what happened that summer, it’s disgusting she doesn’t even care about her family. Same goes for those guys she’s with. Shame on all of them.” She gives her focus to Brett, and an embarrassed-looking wince pulls at her lips. “I’m sorry you had to hear all of this. It’s definitely not appropriate for table talk.” Her face sours and she directs it to Cora.

  All Brett does is dismiss it all by shaking his head—but I see something working in his eyes.

  Embarrassment. Betrayal. That’s what I sense as he shifts in his chair while rubbing at his nape. He doesn’t speak another word until the bell chimes, announcing another guest.

  Brett shifts his weight, waves, and pulls to his feet when the person he was waiting on shows. He leaves our table without a glance back or even a goodbye.

  Time drags on, but I can’t keep my eyes from watching him, and I can’t shake his reaction. The longer I think about it all, the more my shoulders deflate. They sink even lower when his words ring in my head.

  Used.

  He said he felt used. Not to mention he was threatened, and if my senses are right, she’s done this before.

  I can’t take pleasure in Brett’s circumstances, and now sympathy is beginning a slow brew at the bottom of my stomach. I mean, who knows? Maybe he was really excited when he met Monica and she hurt or disappointed him. Either way, she’s blackmailing him, and he’s keeping his mouth shut probably praying he can get his business taken care of and then leave. Honestly, that sounds miserable.

  Damn. I take a sip of tea, not fully listening to Cora and Lizzie‘s conversation, guilt knotting up my insides.

  After a while, I look over and air sucks into my lungs. He’s looking straight at me, and something about the sad tightness ripping across his gaze makes me pause. It makes me pause long enough to feel him . . . to see him. To make me realize that he’s human too, and human enough to get hurt and feel things. Like everyone—like me.

  My eyes snap away, but I can feel his staying on me, and the longer I sense him, the more his gaze scrapes at my preconceived notions of his true motives. When I think of being in his arms, and how he held me in all the right ways, and even lied to Cora for me, I wonder if maybe we’ve been the victims of a terrible start. Maybe we could start fresh like he suggested at the restaurant. Maybe he’s not as bad as I made him out to be. Maybe he’s a halfway decent guy, and I kind of like him a little.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 14

  A shiver is ripping down my body and drenched clothes cling to my skin like a thin blanket that’s been dunked in ice water. Fuck my life. I’d say the curse out loud, but a chatter steals the words away. Safe to say, tonight hasn’t been a highlight for me as I stand out here in the light drizzle.

  It’s early evening. A damp breeze nips at my skin while it works under my sopped shirt. I’m in a bit of a jam. My old jalopy of a car has decided to die on the 285—a highway lined with an evergreen forest. It exudes postcard vibes on most days. Today, it’s a road trap of nightmares. Making the situation all the better is how my driver’s side window decided to fail while I was inside during the worst part of the downpour. I can’t even be mad about it. Honestly, the situation is my damn fault. Cora always told me this car would die at the most inconvenient time and she was right.

  So now I’m standing on the side of the road since it’s drier out here and waiting for a ride. I’ve called Jensen, the guy from poker night, since Cora and Lizzie are both not available.

  Cora’s at a workshop of some sort. Lizzie? I think she’s here in town, but laying low for whatever reason. Either way, I’m at the hands of someone else’s mercy and even though it sucks, at least Jensen is nice enough to come help. Although, I did bribe him with a steak dinner.

  At last an engine purrs, heading this way. My head bounces up and a sleek black and red sports car drives by. Spoiler alert, this is not Jensen.

  “Shit.” I already know the owner. It’s Brett. I’ve seen his vehicle here and there. It’s hard to miss and even harder to forget. Lovely.

  I fold my arms, hoping he can’t see me shivering. Maybe he’s not here for me. I’m praying that as he rolls past.

  However, it’s just wishful thinking. There’s a screech of tires on asphalt and his vehicle whips around, doubling back, stopping when it’s exactly across from me on the opposite side of the road.

  “Great.” Looks like he’ll be seeing me at my worst yet again. It’s impossible to be enthusiastic about this knowledge. I slouch against the car, resting my shoulder blades on cold, semi-ruined metal and paint. My pulse staccatos in unsteady beats when Brett climbs out. Of course he looks hot—hot enough to make me forget the chill in the air for a flash.

  He’s in a light blue denim button-up, ass-hugging black dress slacks, and aviators. It’s enough to make me want to drool. When he cinches his thick arms across his bulging chest and smirks, my tongue wants to poke out and wet my mouth.

  Asshole. Him looking this good is just wrong. I should be fighting the Brett effects harder as he still doesn’t deserve my reactions, but for some reason, I’m less prone to fighting them this week. I allow some of the attraction coursing through me to settle in my chest and nod his way, raising my voice so it reaches across the road. “Make service calls, do you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I called Jensen.” There’s a deadness in my voice, but it lacks the go-to harshness.

  “And he sent me.”

  I tilt my head. “Did he?”

  “Of course. I was standing right next to him when you called.” He chuckles and slides off his glasses, hooking the earpiece on his shirt front. “I was going to drive by and splash you, but . . .” There’s more brown swirling in his gaze while he examines me. “You look pretty pathetic.”

  “Mmm.” I feel the displeased lines crease my forehead. He’s probably teasing, but it manages to make me feel weak. I hate that and possess zero guilt about letting that dislike swirl inside me. “How gallant of you.”

  “Isn’t it though?” He cringes looking at my jalopy. “Not sure I can help that, but undo the hood, book writer. Let’s see what we got.”

  Book writer. That’s always been used as an insult, but tonight there’s no snide attached in the way he says it. An odd wave of satisfaction rolls up my spine, and I hide my face so he can’t spot the warmth living in my cheeks.

  Damn it. Get it together. One week and I’ve gone from not wanting to look at him, to him being the only sight I want my eyes to drink in. The closer he gets to me, the more frantic my blood pumps, and while I want to feign staring up at the sky, I can’t. Like all the times before our battles, he commands me. Swaggering across the road, his movements are liquid meth to my senses. One view and I’m hooked.

  Stifling a squirm, I turn around, ducking my frame inside the car to open the hood. I stay there. Conversing with Brett wasn’t in my plans tonight, and I have to look like a drowned sewer rat, so I’m going to avoid him.

  His dress shoes stroll through the uneven mossy terrain, crunching through a mixture of loose rocks and dirt. I expect to hear a squeak from my hood, but there’s nothing . . . for longer than I expect.

/>   “If you’re wanting to get on your knees for something, Bianca, you’re in the wrong place. I’m over here.”

  I grunt. Irritation twists up my nerves, forcing me to stand. “Really? Not funny after the position I caught you in.”

  “Precisely why I made a joke about it. If we can’t laugh about it to each other, then who with?” A wry smile draws up his mouth. “Come join me.”

  I walk around hugging my arms around my middle and coolly keeping my eyes on the hood, driving away the butterflies lifting off in my stomach.

  His large hand feels underneath the lip, then a rusted squeal breaks out as he forces the top upward. Out the side of my vision, I see his eyes widen once he gets a view of the engine.

  “Jesus, Bianca. You ever heard of a tune-up?”

  I pucker my mouth out and arch a brow. “What’s that?”

  Large shoulders shake with a silent laugh. It vanishes quickly. “How is this thing still going?” His finger brushes over a collection of black tubes snaking around and under each other. “Even without maintenance . . .” He motions for me to back up and lets the hood fall. It lands with a resounding slam, and he swivels his frame to face me. “You need a new car.”

  “No.” My heart sinks. “But it’s paid off.”

  “Pff. I’d hope so.”

  Prick. I swat at his arm. “How dare you—”

  “You can take it in, but if someone offers to fix it, I’ll strangle them myself because that dick is ripping you off.”

  I release a sigh and my shoulders deflate. All this is the news I don’t want to hear. The idea of looking for a new car and picking up an extra payment sounds like a huge inconvenience. “That bad?”

  “Hopeless. I’m not even going to try and jump this.” His voice is flat while he unpockets his phone. “I’ll call you a tow truck and take you home, so you can cook me that steak dinner.”

  “What?” My brows snap together, annoyance flaring at the base of my stomach, stemming from his quick assumptions and his lack of courtesy to even ask if he’s welcome in my home. “I’m not cooking for you.”

  “Like hell you’re not.” He widens his stance by spreading his feet apart and his voice snaps. “I didn’t come out here for nothing.”

  Presumptuous asshole. The flare explodes, dousing me in a quick burst of anger. My nails bite into my palms. “I’d rather walk home than cook you steak.”

  He smirks. “I highly doubt that. But hey . . .” He backs up a step or two. “I’ve been wrong before. If I am, then there’s the road.” Pointing to the yellow dotted line on the black asphalt, he shows me his back and starts his departure. “I’m sure you know the way back. Hopefully, you don’t live far because that’s the only way you’re getting out of making me that dinner.”

  I scrub over my face. Even with his hot as sin expressions and voice, he still manages to button smash the worst reactions out of me. “Stupid. Annoying. Idiotic—”

  “Hey, Blondie!” Brett’s voice reaches from across the street. “You coming or what?”

  Defeat sinks in, smoothing over the aggravated edges of my composure. “Yeah. Yeah.” I can’t be too upset. He’s exasperating, but he’s here and he’s helping. Kind of. I snatch my purse out the open window of my car and sling it over my shoulder.

  The whole time I’m ignoring the voice in the back of my head that dares me to give in and show him a smile and thank him. But I’m not ready for that yet.

  Especially when I reach the passenger door of his car. A gulp wedges in my throat when I think of us being together and him being in my home, seeing me where I’m most comfortable. My fingertips graze the handle of the door before I pull them away, almost like I’ve been shocked.

  I’m wondering if the walk home would be the better option when the window smoothly lowers. The black film disappears into the car, allowing me a full view of its impossibly awful, yet sexy, driver.

  He peers at me through the opening. “There a problem?”

  Rubbing at my arms, wet sleeves stick to my skin, bunching together with my upward stroke. “I’ll ruin your seats.” I’m still soaked and his car is all pristine leather and fresh smelling carpet. Also, this is probably an excuse to stay away, but I’m good with that.

  “Cool.” He stares ahead at the road, idling the engine harder. “Don’t care. Get in.”

  I give the handle a slow tug and open the door. Unlike my car, these doors don’t shriek.

  “I’ve got the seat heater on for you.”

  “Thanks.” The word sounds strained. No doubt because these are the nicest things we’ve spoken to each other since we met. With the door shut, I lean into it and away from him.

  One inhale tells me I’ve been tricked. I thought the car had that new car smell.

  It doesn’t.

  There’s a strong zest permeating the space. Last time I experienced it this strong, I was being held in his arms and carried. Being this close to it now has the moisture evaporating out my mouth. I take a dry swallow and wonder if he can hear it.

  “Okay.” He flicks the gear shift down. “Where do you live?”

  The question and nonchalant behavior tells me he doesn’t know how jumbled my mind is, and thank God for that. I wrap my arms around my soaked middle, still chilled and shivering, and try to smile. “House 28 on South Purdue.”

  His brows touch his hairline. “Fancy for a single gal. Don’t those places have three bedrooms?”

  I nod, and my thighs tighten when he chuckles. It’s deep and sexy. All the things it shouldn’t be.

  “All right. Sounds like I made the right call in picking you up then. Let’s see this fancy place, huh?”

  He peels out and takes me home—my home. With my fuzzy state, I don’t know if I like it or not. Since I can’t decide, I lean my head back and stare out my window.

  We drive to my house in silence, but I know that’s not going to last.

  Chapter 15

  My heart drums hard at the bottom of my throat as I enter my kitchen. I’ve dried and changed while Brett “hung out.” Me being naked while he was a few steps outside my bedroom door wasn’t awkward. No. No. Not at all.

  Being out here with him is a different game all together. Brett’s strong and authoritative stride follows close behind, and I still can’t believe he’s here. My awareness of him reaches the top of the pendulum as he passes through the entrance, joining me.

  I keep my back to him, not certain of what to say. We’ve never been “alone” alone and because of that, I’ve never been more in tune to the vibrations he lets off.

  Without looking, I’m sensing every adjustment he makes, hearing all his small inhales, burning underneath my clothes while I feel his eyes linger on me. Goosebumps prick on my skin and the annoyance from him finding me stranded on the road drains away.

  “So this is it, huh?” There’s an underlying current to his tone, almost like he’s impressed.

  Butterflies flutter at the deep melody of his voice—ones I attempt to stamp down. Poking at the bag of marinated steaks, I fight the tenseness in my shoulders and ignore how shallow my breaths are. “What were you expecting?”

  “I’m not sure. Cats maybe?”

  I snort.

  “But you have nice taste.” He ventures further into the kitchen, coming to the attached dining room. His dark eyes bounce off my deep aqua walls, widening when he spots my high tea station—a grand white cabinet adorned with porcelain tea pots and ornate cups. “Very nice.”

  “Thank you.” The compliment unleashes a warm flush down my body.

  He glances past his shoulder to grant me a smile and . . .

  Damn. I have to be closer to this man. Every fiber of my body demands it. My legs carry themselves to join him. Having Brett in my house makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve had a man here—and that maybe I’m a little lonely. I gulp through a dry throat, fighting my hungry instincts. No. I won’t let my vision rest on the muscle stretching his shirt sleeves. And I certainly won’t f
ocus on my curling toes while recalling the weight of his hands. No, I won’t focus on any of that.

  “What’s this?” He sidesteps, observing the long rectangular chalkboard which hangs off the wall.

  My stomach sinks, the same way it does each time I look at it. “Nothing.” I mutter it, regretting not taking it down last month.

  His brows wrinkle together in what looks like confusion. “Obviously it’s something.” He points to the top. “It says ‘storyboard.’”

  A bitter laugh rolls out, and I cinch my arms across my chest. “It used to be.” He nods, urging me to continue. “I used to write down all my book ideas on there.”

  “Then why is it blank?”

  “Because I can’t write.” My voice falls flat and I drop my head, staring at the floor. A second later my gut winds into a knot. “At least not anymore.” I mumble the last part to myself.

  “Yes, you can.” His face catches me off guard. Serious lines course his face and a tinge of defensiveness pulls up his vocal cords. He talks like he’s had some personal experience with my writing, and that’s just strange.

  My head jerks back, and my face screws up. “How would you know?”

  His eyes widen a millimeter or two, then flick to the ground. “I mean . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sure you can.”

  “Thanks.” The mini pep talk fails to conjure up any confidence. Shuffling back a step, I shake my head. “But I really can’t. At least not anymore.”

  Abandoning our conversation, I scurry over to the stove, pat the steaks down after removing them from the marinade, and prepare to cook them. I begin with pulling down some oil.

  “No butter?”

  My heart flutters in my stomach when he comes up from behind. The natural heat from his body wraps around me and I freeze, my fingers clenching around the bottle. “I usually don’t use butter.” The response is dry, sticking in my throat.