“Is that his truck down by my Jeep?” I asked, getting ready to rush Parker’s little legs to move faster to avoid Brody.
“Yup, it is,” she said, twisting around to peek over her shoulder. “See, he’s right behind us.”
I wasn’t about to turn around and make eye-contact with Brody.
“So, if you’re a mom of another child in this school, why are you taking Parker somewhere and not your so-called daughter? Where is she?” There it was: the question that would force me to stop and explain why it seemed like I was kidnapping his niece.
“My daughter went home with a friend, and I offered to bring Parker home,” I shouted back without turning around.
“You don’t have a daughter,” Parker muttered through pressed lips.
“Shh,” I hushed her.
“But, why did you lie?” she continued.
I am not a socialite, and I wasn’t in the mood for a quick rendezvous, and that was before I recognized I was dealing with Brody Pearson.
“Okay, stop,” Brody demanded. “Brett didn’t tell me anyone else was bringing her home. I need to know who you are before my niece gets into your car.”
Parker looked up at me with doe-eyes as if telling me to do the right thing. I had to understand his concern, a little. I stopped walking and turned around, crossing my arms over my chest, activating my defense mode. “I told you who I am. I’m Journey Milan.”
“How do you know my brother, Brett?”
I stared at him for a long minute, wondering if he believed I wasn’t the Journey he used to know … because he definitely knew me. My hair was, in fact, red back in the day, and now it’s dark. Plus, I had aged a little more than a decade.
“I thought your last name was Quinn?” Parker said.
I was outed by a seven-year-old.
“It was,” I told her. “It’s a long adult story.”
“Oh,” Parker said, scratching the side of her face with confusion.
“Journey Quinn,” Brody sighed and smirked with pride. “I know that name well. But hey, no judgment on the new last name and no wedding band. I’m not one to talk.”
“Speaking of which, where is your daughter?” I tried to change the subject.
“Oh, I knew I forgot something,” he said, spinning around dramatically. “She was in the truck about two minutes before you turned around. You’re very perceptive. Maybe I should bring Parker home.”
“Brody, Brody, Brody. Boy, do I remember you well,” I told him, trying my best to challenge his little mind game. “Always in trouble. Never at family events for reasons no one seems to know. But I’m aware.”
“What are you talking about?”
Our families grew up together. Our dads had been doing business since before the time either of us was born. We would see each other a few times throughout each year. Still, since Brody is a few years older, he was often missing from social events because he had a “game” or “practice” to attend. However, I knew the truth because Brett mentioned his behavioral issues when we were younger. Brody was a troublemaker, and his parents must have been afraid to bring him to social events. “Never mind,” I told him, wanting to end the conversation, yet again.
“Is this because I wasn’t at your dad’s funeral?”
My eyes widened at his blunt question. “Wow, way to be forward there.”
Brody held up his hands. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I—I couldn’t be at the funeral because I had to drive Hannah to Connecticut, so her wonderful mother could take her for the long weekend.”
“I didn’t expect to see you at my father’s funeral, so no worries there,” I told him. I was irritated that we had to discuss the matter at all.
“In all seriousness,” he said, walking closer. “I’m so sorry about your dad. I’m aware you were all very close.”
I swept my hair behind my ear and did my best to search everywhere, but at Brody, who had a sincere glimmer in his eyes. “Thanks,” I told him.
I unlocked my Jeep with the key-fob I was clenching in my hand. “I didn’t mean to be so cold,” he continued, taking another step toward me.
“Parker, why don’t you get into the Jeep. I’ll be right there,” I told her, unknowing of Brody’s unpredictable behavior.
She ran up to Brody and gave him a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you,” she told him.
“Later, Park. Love you too, sweetie.”
I hated that their short interaction made my heart beat a touch faster. It hadn’t crossed my mind that Brody Pearson could be sweet for a minute.
Parker climbed into the Jeep, and I remained standing with my arms crossed over my chest. “My sister and your brother are dating, or whatever,” I told him.
“Who thought that would happen?” he asked, chuckling. “The two nerds never had the guts to say “boo” to each other. Now their head over heels in wonderland.”
“I think they’re good together,” I told him, narrowing my eyes. Maybe he was jealous.
“I figured if anyone in our family were to hook up, it would be us … you know, after that one time.” He jiggled his brows.
I huffed out a lungful of air. “Please. We were stupid teenagers,” I reminded him. “I hardly remember any of that.”
“Seven minutes in heaven that lasted for ten,” he added. “I don’t know. I kind of recall some of those minutes.”
I dropped my hands by my side, wishing he didn’t bring the subject up. No one knows the full truth of what happened that night, and I would be damned if anyone were to find out. “Anyway, it was wonderful running into you,” I said, the sarcasm spilling out with each word.
“It was nice to see you again, Journey … Milan.” With a sigh that said he wasn’t through tormenting me, he grinned before continuing. “You know, it’s weird, my parents talk about your family so much and yet, never mentioned that you had gotten married at any point—or colored your hair.”
I smirked in return. “It was a bad trip to Vegas on my twenty-first birthday. And I don’t want anyone to recognize me. So, we’ll leave it at that.”
“Wow, sounds like quite a story.”
“Yeah.”
“Was the guy still around in the morning, or are you still married to a stranger?”
“Whatever you want to think, Brody.”
“I can do that,” he said, smirking. “Anyway, have a good night.”
“Yeah, likewise.”
Brody walked up to me and opened his arms for a hug. I couldn’t help but scan the area in search of watchful eyes. It was just a hug, but why did he feel the need to hug me?
I held still, frozen, doing little to stop the embrace, and I’m not sure why I didn’t back away. I should have. Then, he held me tightly as if he had missed me, which is impossible. “I’m honestly sorry for what you’re going through. I shouldn’t have been a jerk to you in the school. I’m protective of Parker.”
“I understand,” I told him.
“Maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” he continued.
I shrugged rather than offering a response. “If you lose the beard, maybe.” It was a joke, but in all seriousness, that thing scratched the hell out of my neck as he hugged me for an awkwardly long minute.
“My beard?” he questioned, pulling away as if I made a derogatory comment. He ran his fingers down the side of his facial hair, causing my lip to perk into a snarl. It’s gross. I hate thick beards.
“It’s not the best look,” I told him, being honest, as I always have been.
“On the contrary, it is the best look,” he argued.
“Okay, whatever you say.” I wanted to end the argument.
“The single mom’s club at the school has no complaints about it.” He winked to add a touch of idiocy to his comment.
“Well, there are plenty to choose from.”
I looked back at my Jeep, making sure Parker wasn’t trying to get my attention. “I should warm up the Jeep.”
“Yeah, same,” he sa
id.
“Well, if I see you, should I pretend like you don’t exist,” he asked.
“That would be for the best.”
Brody stepped away to walk toward his truck, but I could have figured our little meeting wasn’t over. “Just out of curiosity, why would it be for the best?”
I didn’t have a logical answer to the illogical question. Although, a dark thought rolled through my mind, and I made my way over to where he was standing. We were away from the overhead streetlamps and in the blindspot of our two vehicles. “Well, Brody, it’s because I’m good at making things very uncomfortable,” I whispered to him.
Brody tilted his head to the side with a surprised expression. “I’m not following,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t get uncomfortable easily.” I don’t think he seemed too sure of himself.
I looked around once more to make sure no one was watching as I placed my hand on his broad chest, clenching his shirt into my fist. “I’ve learned a lot since our seven minutes in heaven game way back when, Brody.” I pressed up on my toes, bringing my lips a half-inch from his. “The game of making a man uncomfortable is one I enjoy winning.” I brushed my mouth against his and dragged the tip of my tongue along his bottom lip.
Brody’s hand looped around my back and pulled me in against him as if he had no restraint. “Don’t assume you’ll win a game with an opponent who has perfected his skills over the years,” he muttered against my mouth. “Got it?”
“I don’t usually like to assume anything, but I am aware of my capabilities.”
“Is this a challenge?” he asked.
“Shave your beard, and I’ll consider it.”
“Not a chance.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Journey.”
I raised my brow. “Neither have you, Brody.”
He tugged me into him a little harder and kissed me with a clear need. “This isn’t over,” he whispered.
“Prove it.”
Brody’s hand slipped down against my back pants pocket, where he snagged my phone. “Perfect,” he said. “Lucky for me, you don’t lock your phone.” Brody turned around and held my phone up, out of reach.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure I can send you texts and photos.”
“Photos …”
He stared over his shoulder with a hard look. “Photos,” he said again. “We have all this wonderful technology in our favor.”
I heard his phone buzz from wherever it was on his body. “I have your number, and you have mine. Don’t be a stranger, Journey.”
“Goodnight, Brody,” I told him.
“Hey,” he said, tugging at my hand as I tried to walk away. “Tell me you haven’t thought about me over the years.”
I stared back at him for a moment. “I can’t tell you that.”
“I might call you,” he said.
“I might not answer.”
“Then, you might end up wondering what you’re missing out on.”
“We would be a bad idea, Brody.” The only thing the two of us have caused in the past is trouble.
“And if I shave?” he questioned.
I bit down on my bottom lip and shrugged. I hated the sparks running through my body. I hated that it seemed like no time had passed since we touched last. He was making me feel alive when I had felt dead for so long. Worst of all, I hated that I wanted him to text me. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll want to play with you again.”
“Like a game?” he asked.
“Sure—like a game. I’m unstoppable at winning games.”
“It’s on,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
“Or, maybe we can have our own bake sale,” he continued, lifting his brows. “You can bring cookies, and I’ll bring the milk.”
I laughed him off, dismissing his line with a shake of my head. “Okay, well … until then, keep it in your pants, Brody Pearson.”
Brody adjusted his pants as if responding to my comment. “Yeah, thanks. It’s been a memorable evening.”
“It always is with me.” With a quick wink, I left on that note as I walked away.
1
“Just one more shot, and I think I’ll be good,” I tell Marco, the owner of Chez Tru, the newest restaurant to open in this small area of Lakebridge, Vermont. I’ve been shooting portraits of steaming food for nearly four hours, and I feel nothing but starvation. I was hoping maybe Marco would offer me a sample after capturing the photos, but no such luck.
“I can’t wait to see the outcome,” Marco says, running around behind me to sneak a peek at the display on my camera.
“I should have the raw photos uploaded by tomorrow, but the edits will take a few days.” I press the power button to shut my camera off and slip it into my bag. I offer him a smile with the hope he will stop asking to see the raw images on a two-inch display. I don’t usually allow clients to view unfinished work before I scrutinize which of the five-hundred photos is suitable for editing.
“Very well,” he says, huffing with a sigh. “As soon as you have anything to show me, please send a sample along. I’m very eager.”
Marco is breathing over my shoulder, and the warm air puffing from his lips makes me shiver. He’s in my bubble. I take a step away and face him as I zip up the lens pocket of my bag. “Absolutely,” I tell him.
“Journey, might I ask you to join me for dinner this evening?” His question shouldn’t stun me after spotting the several lingering glances today when he thought I wasn’t looking. He doesn’t know a photographer sees everything—every detail, including the indentation on his ring finger. Marco is probably my age or somewhere in his thirties, and he’s a good-looking man with full pockets. But he’s got this beard—which, I can’t. The desire to spout off my spiel is strong: first off, you own a restaurant … shave. Second, the whole wedding-band indent—what’s up with that? Third, I’m emotionally unavailable to all suitable men. So um, sorry.
“That’s kind of you to ask, but I should get working on these photos since you’re so eager to have them back.” I slip my leather jacket on and offer another phony smile to get my point across. My sights are set on the front door of the restaurant. I just want to get out of here. The street has minimal lighting, which makes the road darker than I like. “Oh, I’m sure they can wait a night,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I try to inhale a slow breath, hoping to calm myself, but it’s no use. Marco is already touching me. I jerk my shoulder away and stare at the spot where his hand was resting, glaring at my covered shoulder as if it were burning.
“You should get home to your wife,” I tell him, brushing by as I shuffle my bag onto my back.
“My wife?” He laughs as if my statement was a joke. I’m sure there’s a chance it might be a joke to him, but I’m going with my gut, and my gut says he has a wife.
“I always say, we hide lies within subtle details. By the indent on your ring finger, I’d say you’re married and have been married for at least five years. Good night, Marco.”
I walk out the front door and take my keys out of my back pocket. Asshole.
I am not affected by this man. He is not worth a second thought.
I say I’m not affected, yet I jump a foot into the air when my phone vibrates in my coat pocket.
“God,” I groan, hitting the answer button before glancing at the display. I hear the video call chime, informing me I’m visible on camera while recovering from my two-second heart attack.
“I am not God, but I can understand why you’d confuse me for him.” I hold the phone up and tilt my head to the side, glaring at Brody Pearson—my arch-nemesis, and sudden video stalker.
“I shouldn’t have let you take my phone number,” I tell him for the fifth time since I gave him my number last week.
“Aw, come on, you didn’t let me take your number, per se. I took it without permission. However, despite your lack of desire to see my face, thi
s is like the first time you haven’t hinted at a smile when I’ve called.”
I press my lips together and smirk or smile as he’s calling it. “Oh, you mean my resting-bitch-face?”
“Journey, wait up!” The voice carries down the street, and I wish I had been able to park closer to the entrance of the restaurant earlier, but there was a sale in the antique shop next door, so I had to park three blocks away.
I turn my face away from my phone, determining how much distance I have from Marco.
“Who’s that?” Brody asks, his eyebrows arched with concern.
“The restaurant owner who won’t give up.”
Brody looks confused because I didn’t tell him I had a shoot today. It’s not like we’re dating, or even friends, so there’s no reason for him to know what’s happening throughout my days. Since I ran into him last week at the school, it’s like we’re best friends who FaceTime each other. I’ve already informed him: A. I don’t have best friends for a reason. B. I don’t FaceTime for a reason.
However, for some odd reason, I keep answering his call.
“A restaurant owner?” Brody questions.
“I had a job today. A shoot. I use those big devices, called cameras, and there’s this thing called a lens which you aim at an object and then click a button, and poof! A copy of the image is burnt into a digital chip. Magic, right?”
Brody’s eyes drift up toward the ceiling in his house. I only know it’s his house because I recognize the ceiling fan from when he gave me a virtual tour of his ceiling the first time he video called me. He said he couldn’t show me the rest. That was special. “I wasn’t sure if you were talking about a weapon or a camera there for a minute, fireball.”
I had red hair more than ten years ago, but he thinks it’s still funny to call me fireball even though my hair is now a dark shade of auburn.
“Journey, wait a minute, will ya?” Marco is following me down the dark sidewalk. If I weren’t talking to Brody, I might have pulled out my car key and shoved it between my fingers to make it look like a knife—one that would only give the dickhead an injury as mild as a paper cut.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 26
