Not The One (London Lovers #4)

by Amy Daws

  And to readers and my London Lovers fan club. This gig wouldn’t work without you. For real. I don’t write for the birds. I write to be read. Thanks for loving books. Book nerds are the ceeewlest.

  To my angels in the sky. My special six. I wish I dreamt of you more. Stop by sometime and say hi. Your mommy misses you.

  Amy Daws lives in South Dakota with her husband, and miracle daughter, Lorelei. The long-awaited birth of Lorelei is what inspired Amy's first book, Chasing Hope, and her passion for writing. Amy is a lover of all things British and her award-nominated romantic comedies, The London Lovers Series, are centered around Americans in London. For more of Amy's work, visit: www.amydawsauthor.com or check out the links below.

  Newsletter: www.amydawsauthor.com/news

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  MORE BOOKS BY AMY DAWS

  The London Lovers Series:

  #1 Becoming Us Finley’s Story Part 1…College Style

  #2 A Broken Us Finley’s Story Part 2…London Style

  #3 London Bound Leslie’s Story…A London Lovers Standalone

  #4 Not The One Reyna’s Story…A London Lovers Spinoff Standalone

  Also, a College Dance Standalone Collaboration by Amy Daws & Sarah J. Pepper:

  A Memoir by Amy Daws:

  Chasing Hope: A mother’s story of loss, heartbreak, and the miracle of hope.

  And now, a sneak peek of A Broken Us

  Brody aggressively paces the hallway of our tiny split-foyer house. I cringe as he rakes his hands through his curly brown hair and lets out a frustrated sigh. Anger and tension are radiating off his body like blurry lines surrounding a campfire.

  I turn away from him because I can’t stand seeing him like this. So hurt. So broken. A sadness creeps over me as I look around our home we built together. I painfully take in my last moments here. I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll be sitting on this very couch. Four years ago, we picked it up off the side of a curb. Sure, we may have been one step away from being labeled dumpster divers, but we knew it was nothing a $40 carpet shampooer couldn’t fix. We were senseless like that together, and it was great.

  Every flat surface in our house is littered with picture frames. Brody didn’t mind my obsession. I'm infatuated with finding the wackiest frames I can. I frequently receive them as gifts from friends, family, and even coworkers. I love putting unconventional pictures in frames. There’s a photo of Brody sleeping on the couch, and one of me with my three nieces, eating mashed potatoes. My favorite is a mustard-colored pleather frame with tiny black seahorses glued around the edges. Inside the frame is a picture of Brody and me on a four-wheeler. I’m facing backward, straddling him while his arms grip the handles. He’s biting my neck as I laugh. We were so happy. So innocent. So perfect.

  Candid photos show more about one’s life and personality than posed pictures. My heart sinks as I realize none of these pictures will be going with me.

  “How can you do this, Fin?” he barks, spinning back on his heels to stride down the hallway again.

  Still sitting on the couch, I stare at my hands in stony silence, swallowing big gulps of air while he adjusts to the news I just dealt him.

  “How can you need time?” he throws at me in a mocking tone. “Away from me?” He trudges swiftly across the living room. In only four paces, he’s on his knees, directly in front of my face, gripping my cheeks between his soft, large hands.

  “You can’t mean this, Fin. You can’t!” his voice cracks as he says my name and his expression melts from anger to desperation.

  “Brody, don’t.” I state, pragmatically. “I have to. I told you I can’t do this anymore.”

  “THIS IS US!” he booms, loudly, while turning my face back to look into his eyes. “You can’t do us? That kills me, Fin—it kills me!”

  “This is what I need, Brody. I’ve explained everything. There’s nothing more to say. I told you this isn’t up for discussion.”

  I've been practicing these very words in the mirror for the past week, fixing my expression to look strong, and not insecure. The last thing he needs is to receive mixed signals from me.

  Brody looks down and appears to be collecting his thoughts. As his gaze comes back up, his eyes rove quickly over my whole face. I know he's searching for any glimpse of reservation in my decision to leave.

  “Please, Finley,” he says, with shaky breath. “You love us, you can’t do this to us.”

  I knew he’d use us against me. I knew he’d say this, and I'm prepared for it. Us has the potential to be my kryptonite. But I can’t let it get to me.

  When Brody and I first started dating, we were incredible together—like two peas in a pod. We were goofy, stupid, funny, and playful. We were all the things that made a person laugh a lot in life. We both lit up inside when we made our relationship official.

  One night, back in college, after a rousing and playful wrestling match in my apartment, we’d been laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes. In that moment, I let out a large exhale and said, without thinking, “I love us.”

  Brody froze and looked at me in shock. My eyes widened as I realized the intensity of the proclamation I’d just made to him. I’d known I loved him for nearly a month, but we’d only been together for two, and I sure as hell didn't want to be the first one to say the L-word. But my big, fat mouth blurted it out like it was just a normal Tuesday!

  As I realized he wasn't responding, I awkwardly tried to get up off the floor and think of a quick excuse to get him the hell out of my room. I silently chastised myself for scaring the crap out of him, and therefore ruining the best thing that had ever happened to me. He grabbed my wrist before I stood all the way up, and unceremoniously pulled me down on top of him. He sweetly said, “I love us, too.”

  The only emotion I remember feeling in that moment, was giddiness. I felt giddy! As my heart pounded happily beneath my chest, Brody appeared to be contemplating something. He had just reciprocated my feelings, so I couldn't fathom what he could have been pondering.

  As he tucked my hair behind my ears, he spoke softly, “Actually, I think I love us more than I love—you—does that make any sense at all?”

  It made perfect sense. Brody and I fit together so naturally, in a way I didn’t even know was possible. It was like I’d evolved into a better version of myself I didn’t even know was inside of me. I’d never met anyone I could laugh with so often and be my complete self with. It was Brody who brought that out in me. And I did the same for him. It was us. Ever since the day we first declared our love, we never said, I love you, we always said, I love us. I was so excited in our early days of love. I'd been transformed into a hormonal teenybopper. I was like a 14-year-old girl talking with my bestie about my first kiss with a boy, squealing the last word of my sentences because I couldn’t contain my excitement. Good Lord, I was a goner.

  Brody and I made it five years and still said, I love us. It was strange to others, and probably sounded a bit egocentric, like we were announcing to the world that we thought we were this hot power-couple everyone should strive to be, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. We were simply in our own bubble, playing by our own set of rules. It was us, and it was perfect.

  “It’s us, Fin! I love us!” Brody repeats, snapping me out of my memories of a much sweeter time. Our love was so much easier when we were in college.

  As I look into Brody’s deep, navy-blue eyes, my heart begins to break and bleed inside of me. Brody and I had so many dreams together. But they were made when life was so much easier. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to erase the beauty of his face and our love. Tears quickly escape down my cheeks. As I attempt to turn my head away from his grasp, he grips my face harder between his two hands, forcing me to face him. I feel his warm, soothing breath on my lips, panting with desperation. My lips betray me and part ever so slightly; with that, he attacks my lips with fervor.

  Brody works passionately on my firmly closed mouth—begging, pleading
for a return in gesture. I sniff back a gasp of air through my nose as his hands drop from my face and wrap around my lower back, binding my arms against my sides.

  I have to hold out, I can’t give in. I can’t show him I still love us. He won’t want me when he learns the truth. This is the best way—the easiest way.

  But deep down, I know that this is Brody. I love him. I don’t just love him; I love us, which means more in our weird, remote world. He’s kissing me and begging me to stay. Why the hell am I doing this to us? I want to give in and let us be us, in whatever capacity that may be. No, no! I’ve thought this through; I can’t let him sway my decision. He might not love us if he learns the truth, and I can’t stomach that. In the long run, he will be much happier without me. He’ll find someone new and she can receive his passion—his kiss.

  And Brody doesn’t just kiss, he commands. The man has a technique I have never experienced, and I have kissed my fair share of guys in my wild college-girl phase. His hands touch my cheek in a way that makes me feel cherished and consumed with one simple touch. I swear I’ve come close to orgasm multiple times from Brody’s incredible kisses.

  I contemplate one last kiss, one last goodbye to take in, so I’ll never forget—us.

  I slowly turn my palms out to feel the sides of his denim clad thighs, so muscular and familiar. I move my head slightly, giving him better purchase of my mouth. As my lips begin to move against his, Brody’s hands move up my back, releasing my arms to roam. His right hand reaches the nape of my neck and threads through my long brown hair. He gently pulls my hair tightly, just how I like. I know exactly what he’s doing.

  This is a reminder kiss. This is Brody’s way of making me remember how great we are and how hot we make each other.

  My reserve breaks as I feel gentle flutters in my lower belly. I’m past the point of no return. I can’t help it. I’m needy for Brody. I always have been. His total package is completely irresistible.

  Brody has gorgeously thick and curly brown hair. He cuts it short, leaving just enough length for me to comb my fingers through. His navy-blue eyes contrast perfectly with his creamy complexion. Brody has an unexplainable look about him that feels comfortable and undeniably sexy. It’s not only his appearance that draws me to him, it’s the comfort I feel with him. Brody feels like home to me. When we made love for the first time, he commanded my body with the deeply intense emotions he had for me—it was simply profound.

  It’s amazing how hot finding your soulmate can be; to find someone who truly gets you, and encourages you to be yourself by just being who he is. When the physical aspect of our relationship took off, it was everything I could do to keep my hands off of him for any extended period of time. We were always touching each other and being complete goofs at the same time. It worked for us.

  Some of our hottest sex sessions escalated when we talked in ridiculously stupid voices, laughing obnoxiously. We relentlessly made fun of each other and called each other out on the stupid stuff we did. It made us feel connected and safe. We understood each other. We’d be laughing at something ridiculous, then with one glance, we were all over each other. It was as though our happiness and sex drive combined tracks on a railway and ignited us into a frenzy.

  I feel that frenzy now as my fingertips brush the side of his bare skin peeking out of his soft, fitted t-shirt. The skin-to-skin contact zaps Brody into action. He quickly breaks away from my lips and pulls my t-shirt up over my head.

  As he begins to come back for my lips he pauses and looks down at my breasts. I’m ashamed to see I am wearing his favorite bra—a sheer, teal brassiere that covers nothing. My nipples harden under his hot perusal.

  I don’t know why I wore this set of underwear today. I wasn’t planning on things escalating like this, but my mind betrayed me when I got dressed for work that morning.

  A frustrated grumble rises out of Brody’s chest and he commands my mouth again. His hands run down the backs of my thighs and lift me up. My legs wrap around his waist in response. Brody is strong. He’s not what I would call bulky but he’s tall, lean, and toned.

  I’m nearly six-foot tall myself, so he towers a good four inches over me, giving him the caper for these types of antics. I’m not blessed with the willowy runway model frame. I have an hourglass figure with a plump behind that Brody seems compelled to touch every time I pass him in a room. It doesn’t matter if we are in a crowded restaurant or at a family function. He has no shame. He doesn’t like being referred to as an Ass Man though; he says my eyes are his favorite feature. My eyes are blue, according to my driver’s license. The blue is so light that my surroundings are reflected in them and they change from blue to grey, and sometimes green. I’m told aqua is the best color description.

  Brody’s one free hand begins roaming over the top of my full B-cup breast as he carries me down the hallway into our bedroom.

  He lays me down on our familiar and comfortable bed we’ve slept in together for the past three years. I feel an ache in my heart, knowing I’ll never be back in this bed. I thoughtfully watch him as he undresses me—and then himself. He kisses me tenderly up my leg. When he reaches my belly with his lips, I close my eyes and will the pain in my heart to stop. Not there, don’t kiss me there.

  I quickly roll him onto his back and take control of the situation. I don’t want to have that conversation, so before he sees the pain in my eyes, I connect our bodies and we begin moving together in perfect synch.

  Brody strokes my hips and thighs, and my hands wrap into my hair as I ride him into a state of oblivion. Brody loves me on top. This is a good farewell position. He deserves this—it’s the least I can give him.

  As if sensing something in my demeanor, he sits up. While still inside me, he places his ear against my chest. His hands caress my back while we continue gyrating against each other. I’m desperate to focus on our bodies and not what this means. He pulls back to look into my eyes and I quickly look away.

  “Look at me, baby. I need to see us,” he says, in a raspy, aroused voice.

  My eyes instantly crash into his and we stare deeply at each other until our bodies can’t hold out any longer. I cry out loudly and Brody kisses me passionately, swallowing the pleasure coming out of my mouth. As we come crashing back down together, he pulls me down on top of him and turns us on our sides, tucking me into him.

  When my body settles back down, I can’t stop the tears from pouring out of my eyes. We didn’t use protection and it doesn’t even matter. We haven’t used protection for nearly two years…and it doesn’t freaking matter. Sex with Brody is always incredible, but the sick, doomful feeling afterward is more than I can bare. It is utterly painful to feel so incredibly amazing one minute, and be slammed with crippling depression the next. I can’t give us what we want. My body is broken. Barren. Us is broken.

  This is why I have to leave.

  How can I force Brody to be stuck with someone like me? Someone who can’t give him all he deserves in life? Am I expected to get over the idea of never being able to see a tiny, pink, cuddly bundle of us? As narcissistic as it might sound, not making a mini-us is not what I signed up for. I’m in love with us and loved the idea of seeing a tiny person who had a little bit of me and a little bit of Brody.

  And what if Brody decides he doesn’t want me? How can I possibly live with the horror of being dumped for not being able to do the most important thing a woman’s body is designed to do? I am in baby-making hell with a man who gets me so innately well that it physically hurts to continue being with him. Brody and I have had an incredible connection for years, but this feels like the one thing that he just might not be okay with.

  We never married, so there’s no fuss to it other than moving my stuff. Brody and I never wanted to get married. We were so confident and content with us, that marriage seemed irrelevant. To us, it felt like an archaic thing to do to make other people happy. We knew we had something above the normalcies of other couples; getting married and putting rings on ou
r fingers would sully the commitment we had to each other.

  Our families were uneasy with our arrangement. We both come from traditional families in the Midwest. Get married, have children—blah, blah, blah. We assured them we were just as committed to each other as any legally-married couple—even more so. They gave up arguing about it so fervently, but still made small, snide comments here and there.

  When we finally revealed we were going to try to have a baby, they were excited. I think they thought if we had a baby together, we’d eventually decide marriage would make things easier as parents because then we’d all have the same last name. And maybe they were right, but Brody and I didn’t feel that way, so we were just taking things in stride. I guess they’ll all have a good laugh when they hear about this.

  I turn over and hug Brody as tightly as I can. Burying my face in the crook of his neck, I breathe in his musky bar-soap scent.

  “That wasn’t goodbye,” he softly whispers into my hair.

  I pull away and look into his eyes, and I finally see it. Defeat.

  “It was, Brody,” I whisper back, my eyes welling with tears.

  “I don’t understand. Why won’t you at least tell me where you’re going?” he croaks as his eyes become red around the edges.

  I rub the pad of my thumb along his cheekbone and thread my fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to understand. Just know it’s what I need.”

  I kiss him one last time with all the passion I can muster and he doesn’t even respond. His lips form a hard line against mine and I know it’s over.

  I creep out of the bed and quickly grab my clothes before dashing into the bathroom to clean up. I’m quiet as I step out, nervous Brody will be waiting for me in the hallway, attempting to prevent me from leaving. When he’s nowhere to be seen, I tiptoe down the hallway then step outside into a blast of unseasonably warm air. The last days of summer don’t appear to be leaving Kansas anytime soon.