That Swoony Feeling

by Quinn, Meghan

  Griffin: You really are an idiot.

  Reid: I’m with Rogan. I’m mad at you now too.

  Rogan: Dude, you need to get a goddamn clue. Christ, you’re exhausting.

  Brig: I’m exhausting? *points finger* You’re the ones who are exhausting. BE HELPFUL.

  Griffin: There’s no use, men.

  Reid: Lost cause.

  Rogan: I seriously had high hopes for you.

  Jen: Oh Brig, I love you, but you really are an idiot.

  Brig: *SCREAMS*

  Brig: *Flails arms*

  Brig: *Kicks a throw pillow*

  Griffin: Throw a tantrum, see how that helps.

  Reid: My suggestion, open your goddamn eyes.

  Rogan: ^^^ Yup.

  Jen: ^^^ Agreed.

  Griffin: ^^^ Accurate. And while you’re opening your eyes, hang the damn shelves for her as a peace offering.

  Reid: Excellent idea.

  Rogan: I can help you after lunch.

  Jen: I can come over too, not to help, just to watch you struggle.

  Brig: Rogan, I’ll take you up on that. Jen, I love you but stay the fuck away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  RUTH

  “So, word on the street is you’ve been ‘grouchy’ to Brig,” Rylee says, coming up to the counter as I close up. She’s spent the day in her “sex chair” finishing up a manuscript that’s been giving her trouble. Something about not connecting with the characters, not feeling their passion?

  Ugh, artists. Am I right?

  I just finished up today’s tabs, and am ready to call it a day and kick my friend out so I can wallow in a frozen pizza by myself.

  “Who did you hear that from?”

  “Ren, who heard it from Harper, who heard it from Eve, who heard it from Reid, who heard it directly from Brig in their family group text message.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I ask sarcastically.

  She sits up on the counter and crosses one leg over the other. “Why are you torturing the boy?”

  “Why am I torturing him? Uh, hello, he’s the one who’s driven me to drink. DRINK, Rylee. I swear, I couldn’t be any more obvious at this point.”

  “Oh, you could. You could tell him it’s you he’s been writing, and that he’s the one you’ve been pining after.” I bite the corner of my lip. “Ah, but that would put you in the position of putting your heart on the line and you would never do that.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve endured too much hurt for a lifetime. I don’t think my heart could take anymore.”

  Rylee places her hand on mine and I stare at the connection. “Why do you think he’s going to hurt you?”

  “Rylee, if he was interested, he would have made a move by now.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  I let out a sigh. “In his letters, he’s measuring and offering his dick size, and suggesting that we’re two steps away from the bedroom. With his pen pal. Whereas, he refers to me, Ruth, as his friend. He wants her, Rylee. Not me. He’s flirting with her. He wants to kiss her. I’m right in front of him, and if he wanted me, he’d take me. Literally . . . He had his nose in my cleavage the other day and fucking looked away. In. My. Boobs. So, don’t tell me I don’t know. If he wanted me, he’d be as upfront as he is with his pen pal. I’m done trying. This fucking hurts, Rylee, and I just can’t keep doing this to myself. He’ll be expecting another letter tomorrow, but I just don’t have it in me anymore. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Davenport, and tell her I’m not interested. It’s time to put an end to it before my heart breaks even more.”

  “Ruth, you can’t quit now. You’re so close.”

  “No, I’m not.” I shake my head. “Listen to what I’m saying. You’re not there with him, you don’t see it firsthand. There is nothing between us. But he desperately wants the girl he’s writing to, and that’s not me. Not in his eyes.”

  “I see the way he looks at you though.”

  “I love you, Rylee, but you’re also a romance novelist who has unrealistic expectations when it comes to love and relationships. You live in a fantasy—”

  “That’s bullshit, and if you would read my books you’d know that. I write realistic characters. Characters with faults, with cracks and bends in their souls. They’re human. They make mistakes. They say the wrong things at the wrong times. They experience pain, they understand what it takes to earn someone’s love back, and yes, there might always be a happily ever after but isn’t that what life is supposed to be? A happily ever after? Where’s yours, Ruth?”

  “Not with Brig, and I think we need to—”

  The bell to the shop rings and we both turn to find Brig walking through the door.

  Why?

  Why does he have the worst timing?

  Hands stuffed in his front jeans pockets, he walks toward us looking a little frightened but also excited.

  “Hey,” he says softly. “Can I continue to approach the counter or am I going to be yelled at?”

  “I’m closing up right now. Rylee was just leaving,” I say, stuffing away all the tabs and packing up.

  “I’m not here for coffee.”

  I watch Rylee place a hand on Brig’s arm as she says, “Be cautious, she’s still biting.”

  He doesn’t pay Rylee any attention, but looks at me, the pleading in his expression piercing the wall I’m trying to build around my heart. His eyes, sad, regretful, almost desperate, are calling out to me and I’m doing everything in my power not to look at him.

  “I’ll catch you tomorrow,” Rylee calls out as she takes off, the quickest retreat I think I’ve ever seen from her. The door rings and then shuts, leaving me alone with Brig.

  “Listen, I’m tired and hungry and I would really like to—”

  “Please come with me,” he says, his voice flat. “Please, Ruth, I really want to show you something.” When I don’t look at him, he lifts my chin and forces my eyes to meet his, and that’s my undoing. My fate is sealed when he says, “Please,” one more time.

  I might be irritated with him, but I still can’t resist the man, not when he looks at me like that, like if I don’t say yes, he might not take his next breath. So I take off my apron, hang it up, and round the counter where Brig immediately takes my hand. I snag the keys to the shop, lock up, and then allow myself to be guided down Main Street.

  “You said you’re hungry?” Brig asks, quietly walking next to me, our hands linked together.

  I’m happy and sad. Happy that I can steal this moment with him, but sad because I know it doesn’t mean anything to him . . . like it means something to me.

  “Yeah, but I can eat after we’re done with this.”

  “I can order us a pizza and we can—”

  “Brig, just show me what you have to show me, okay?”

  I feel him tense next to me, and I actually feel bad. I know he’s confused, has no idea why I’m acting the way I am, but it really has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the feelings I’ve been harboring. It’s not fair for me to be so mean to him.

  “Look, I’m—”

  “The rehearsal dinner,” he says quickly, not letting me get in another word. “We can still use your kitchen, right?”

  “Of course. And hey—”

  “Will you join me?”

  “Wh-what?” I ask, wondering if I heard him right.

  “The rehearsal dinner,” he repeats. “I was hoping you’d accompany me to it.”

  “You want me to go to the rehearsal dinner with you?”

  “Yeah.” We reach the Parlor and the garage and he turns me toward him, planting us right under a streetlamp. The soft yellow glow casts a globe of light around us as he takes both my hands in his. “I know things have been weird between us lately, and I’m really sorry for whatever I might have done, but I miss you, Ruthie.” He looks down at our hands. “I’ve missed our runs, talking to you, joking with you. And I hate that we’ve suffered from some distance. It doesn’t feel right, and I’ve felt . . . fuck,
I’ve felt awful since.”

  Oh God, now I feel really terrible.

  He squeezes my hands. “Remember when we said we were going to be honest with each other?”

  Please don’t ask me to be honest. Please don’t make me that vulnerable.

  “Yes,” I say on a short breath.

  “Okay, I’m going to ask you once and if you don’t answer, I’ll accept that. But, honestly? I’d really like to know. I want to know what I did that made you so angry with me? Because I never want to do it again. I never want to put this space between us again. So please, throw me a bone here, Ruthie, and tell me what I did.”

  Heat fills the backs of my eyes as tears start to form, tickling my nerves with desperation, with regret. I made him second-guess everything, when I shouldn’t have. This wasn’t fair to him, not even in the slightest, and I made him worry when this has everything to do with me. Yes, Brig is a clueless idiot, but then again, he wouldn’t be clueless if I just told him the truth.

  And yet, the truth is scary. The truth could lead to great pain.

  The truth could truly put a divide between me and Brig. And even though I put distance between us this past week, I’ve missed his company. Even if he drove me crazy. Do I really want to lose that?

  Not really.

  Not at all.

  He tugs on my hands. “Please, Ruthie.”

  Damn him.

  Taking a deep breath, willing the tears to disappear, I say, “I, uh . . .”

  Tell him the truth.

  I can’t.

  I’m so terrified that he’ll reject me. So terrified that he isn’t attracted to me in any way.

  “I . . .” I look to the side. I know I can’t make something up, that I have to tell him some fraction of the truth if I’m going to make him drop the subject tonight. “I found out that the guy I like, well, he sees me more as a friend.”

  “What? Seriously? How come you didn’t tell me?”

  Because you’re him.

  Because you’re the one I want.

  Because I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with you, and I’m pretty sure you’ll never feel the same way about me.

  “Embarrassed,” I say, choking back a sob. But I can’t hold back the tears that stream down my face.

  “Hey,” he says softly, pulling me into a hug and cupping the back of my head. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. You’re amazing, Ruthie, and any guy would be fucking lucky to claim you as his girl.” More tears. He soothingly rubs my back, quietly trying to calm me. “He’s a fucking fool.” He pulls me away and whispers, “If it’s Oliver, blink twice, and I’ll take care of things for you.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “It’s not Oliver.”

  “Promise?”

  I nod. “Promise.”

  “Okay, because I was about to fuck up his general store, teach him a lesson.” I laugh some more, pulling a grin from him. “That’s my girl. That’s the sound I like to hear.” He kisses the top of my head and says, “I know it’s easier said than done, but you don’t want to hang on to someone who’s not going to give you the full attention you deserve. And you deserve every ounce of attention, Ruthie.” He cups my cheek. “You’re special.”

  Just not special enough for you.

  Another tear falls and he swipes it away with his thumb. “Let me take your mind off it. Come to the rehearsal dinner with me. Have fun with me.”

  “You just don’t want to be the only single person there,” I tease.

  “Maybe, but I also want company. It will be fun, and you can test out my dancing skills for the wedding on Saturday, see if I’m worth meeting out on the dance floor.”

  “Hmm, good point.” I tap my chin and let the tension melt away between us. At this point, there’s nothing I can do, not when I have to attend his brother’s wedding this weekend. Might as well get through the happily ever after of another couple and then focus on what the hell I’m going to do with all of these feelings.

  Because the line has been drawn. He’s not into me. And he’s made it clear what I should do. “. . . you don’t want to hang on to someone who’s not going to give you the full attention you deserve.”

  So, that actually leaves me no choice after all.

  And that makes me feel nauseous and terrified.

  It’s time to walk away.

  “So, will you . . . attend the rehearsal dinner with me?”

  “I guess I can,” I say casually, even though I can feel my nerves bundling into knots in my stomach.

  “Fuck . . . yes.” He pulls me into another hug. “Does this mean we’re cool?” He cups my cheek, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “Because I’ve really missed you, Ruthie. You can ask my siblings, they . . . hey, they all said they knew why you were upset. Do they . . . holy shit, do they know who the guy is?”

  God, he’s so pretty, but bricks for brains, this one.

  Not even going to lie, I say, “Yes, they do. But they’ve been sworn to secrecy. Don’t even try to get it out of them. And the only reason they know is because of their girls.”

  “Damn it,” he mutters and then sighs. “Fine, whatever. Don’t tell me. I’m only your best friend.”

  “Are you?” I ask, a cock to my brow.

  “I better be.”

  Looking around, I say, “Do best friends take each other to barely lit corners to ask them to rehearsal dinners?”

  “Oh shit, I almost forgot.” He laughs, takes my hand, and leads me to the Parlor door. “I brought you here for a reason.” He unlocks the door—still has a key from Mrs. Burberry I see—and before he opens it, he says, “You need to close your eyes.”

  “Brig, if you put another hole in the wall—”

  “I didn’t put a hole in the wall, well, maybe I did, but not the kind of hole you’re thinking of.” Guiding me by the shoulders, he walks me into the Parlor and I take in the fresh scent of paint and wood. My heart hammers in my chest as he flips on the lights. “Open your eyes.”

  I open my eyes, blink a few times and then . . . oh my God.

  “Brig,” I say clutching my hands to my chest. “What . . . how?”

  The Parlor, it’s . . . finished.

  Freshly polished floors gleam at me, perfectly painted white moldings frame the walls, doorframes, and windows. Shiplap covers the back wall, and on either side of the room, the natural wood shelves with iron piping have been installed . . . just the way I wanted. The register counter is beautifully outlined in shiplap as well, with a butcher’s block counter and stain to match the wooden shelves. The old-fashioned register I found looks ready to be used too.

  But the best part of it all? Hanging behind the register is the iron sign I had made for the shop that I’d left in the back. Scrolled in beautiful whimsical cursive it says: Piccadilly Parlor.

  “I can’t believe you did this.” I walk around the room, running my fingers over the shelves, marveling in how straight and secure they are.

  “Rogan helped. He’s grateful you’re allowing us to use the kitchen, so he brought over a few guys and we finished up everything quite quickly. Then Rogan helped me stay to clean everything. The kitchen is all set as well and the bathroom, well, take a look.”

  “Brig, you can’t be serious.”

  I walk to the bathroom in the back right corner and open the door. It’s a unisex, single-stall bathroom that was once covered in teddy bear wallpaper. We’d stripped it down and redid the floors, but that was about it.

  When I walk in and flip the light on, I’m hit with six-foot-tall board and batten all around the walls in a midnight blue. The rest of the walls are a beautiful white. The floors match the main dining space, and the gorgeous sewing machine vanity that Mrs. Burberry left has been cleaned and repaired. The picture I picked out to hang above the toilet that says: “Wash your hands, you filthy animal” is hanging. I can still hear the deep, throaty laugh from Brig when he read the picture.

  “I can’t believe you did this.”

  He pops his h
ead in. “Technically, Rogan’s guys did this. They were quick and efficient. I’ve never seen a room transform as fast as I saw this bathroom change. It makes a statement. I like it.”

  “I love it,” I say breathlessly, my pulse picking up, rapidly pumping blood through my veins, making me feel dizzy. I grip the wall and stare up at him. “This is . . . this is too much.”

  He shakes his head. “This is what Port Snow does. We come together to help one of our own, especially when they might be going through a tough time.”

  “Brig, I don’t . . .” Emotion clogs my throat, my heart beats so hard it feels like it’s trying to break my ribcage. I’m so grateful for this man, and all I can think about is how much I love him. How much he means to me.

  How much my heart will break when I let the dream of us go.

  Tears cascade down my cheeks and he draws closer, minimizing the space between us so he can swipe away at my tears.

  His proximity brings on a new wave of sensations, as his rich scent hums around us, his gentle touch breaking through my protective barrier, and his voice as soft as his blue-eyed gaze.

  “Don’t cry, Ruthie Girl.”

  My cheek leans into his touch, my skin igniting from how close he is. The palpable desire I have for him owns my actions, as I move in even closer and press my hand to his chest.

  “Thank you,” I say softly, my fingers playing with the cotton of his shirt. “Thank you so much, Brig.”

  His hands fall to my hips where he gently holds me in place.

  “You’re welcome. I really wanted—”

  I don’t know what comes over me and later when you ask, I probably won’t be able to tell you what happened in this moment, but before he can finish his sentence, I stand on my toes, reach my hand behind his head, and bring his mouth to mine.

  The moment our lips connect, the heady feel of his masculinity presses against me. I will never be the same. Instantly, my life becomes divided by pre-kiss Ruth and post-kiss Ruth.