Best of Intentions: A Best Friend's Brother Standalone Romance

by LK Farlow

  Wordlessly, she stalks toward the bathroom. I know I should give her privacy—that a gentleman would give her privacy—but, I’m no gentleman, so I follow along.

  Just as she goes to shut the door, I’m there blocking it from fully closing. Beep-beep-buzzzzz. There it is again, and it sounds as if it is coming from…her?

  “Jenny, what’s going on?”

  She shakes her head and pushes on the door. Nah, not happening. Gently, I push back, creating an opening wide enough for me to step through.

  Jenny sighs, but it’s not of the soft sexy variety from five minutes ago. No, this sigh is full of exasperation. Yeah, well, welcome to the club, sweetheart.

  “Whatever. Stay then,” she grumbles, sounding thoroughly annoyed.

  I plant myself on the ledge of the tub. “Planned on it.”

  Confused as hell, I look on as she pulls a small black device from beneath the sheet she’s using to conceal her body. She taps a button, and the screen lights up. “Shit,” she whispers.

  “What is that?” I ask her, but she ignores me. That shit’s not gonna fly. “Jenny, what are you doing?”

  Guess she’s pretending I’m not here as she grabs a little bag from the counter and unzips it, grabbing another smaller bag from inside of it.

  All without speaking, she flips open a little canister that almost looks like it would hold film and slides out a little strip. When she pops it into the end of a slim meter and pricks her finger, I realize she’s checking her blood sugar. I try and connect the dots as she grabs an alcohol swab from the larger bag and tears it open, rubbing it over the tip of her bloodied fingertip.

  Is Jenny diabetic? She doesn’t look diabetic…I immediately shake off that thought, realizing it’s one hundred percent as stupid as it sounds. People with diabetes—like all diseases—come in all shapes and sizes. The question is, why has she never mentioned it, and what in the hell is that little black pager-looking thing she keeps checking?

  Jenny’s not-phone buzzes again and she pushes a few buttons on it before clipping it to the front of the bed sheet. She quickly cleans up her supplies and washes her hands before heading back out into the room—still ignoring me.

  She goes straight to her purse, where she roots around for a minute. A frown mars her pretty face when she comes up empty-handed. Suddenly, it clicks into my head what she’s looking for. “Your snacks are on the dresser.”

  She straightens and whips around to glare at me. “Thanks.” Even pissed off, she’s polite. My good girl doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She opts for a pack of gummies and carries them to the bed, where she proceeds to eat them, one by one.

  “You wanna tell me what’s up?” I ask, really studying her. I mean, clearly, she’s diabetic; but is that all it is? Her skin is flushed, and she’s sweating—and something tells me it’s not from our sex, as earth-shattering as it was. Add to that, her breathing is shallow and the almost queasy look she’s sporting…yeah, my Spidey senses are tingling.

  She shakes her head. Defiant little thing. “GG, I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  “It’s…uh…nothing. I’m fine.”

  I pin her with a pointed look. Why is she being so stubborn and secretive? “Obviously you’re not. Talk to me.”

  “I-I…I’m diabetic. Sometimes around this time of night, my sugar gets low. I also skipped dinner tonight and had a few drinks. Not to mention, our—” She lets out a little fake cough. “—Strenuous activity. It definitely didn’t help.”

  Diabetes is something I know all of jackshit about. Not even gonna lie, even though it’s totally baseless, it’s an illness I’ve always associated with older people—definitely not with someone her age who looks the way she does.

  “And low sugar, that’s bad, right?”

  “Nice detective skills,” she sasses, and damn if I don’t want to kiss her smart mouth.

  Wait—she said her sugar dropped because she didn’t eat and because of us fucking. Oh, shit. This is my fault.

  “Jenny—” I clamp my mouth shut, unsure of what to say. “How can I help?”

  She gives me a funny look. “I’m fine. Once my sugar levels out, I’ll feel better. I honestly just want to go back to sleep.”

  My eyes widen. “Sleep? Is that safe?”

  “I’m diabetic, Nate. Not concussed.”

  “Riiiight.” I drag out the word, trying not to sound as dumb as I feel. All of my diabetes knowledge is secondhand from being on scene when EMTs get called out. “Is there anything else you need?”

  She stands from the bed and unclips her not-phone, laying it on the mattress before shrugging out of the sheet. I know it’s wrong, but with the light from the bathroom completely illuminating the room now, I can’t help but ogle her. She’s fucking perfection with her high, perky tits, flat, toned belly, and softly curved hips.

  “Yeah, you can put your clothes back on.” She turns, giving me her back as she redresses. It’s then I notice the little tube leading from her not-phone to a little port-type thing on the left side of her upper-butt area.

  “What is that thing?” I ask as I slip my briefs back up my legs.

  “It’s an insulin pump.” Well, hell, that makes sense, doesn’t it? Now I really feel like an idiot. She turns back to me once she’s dressed. “It’s a little device that delivers insulin to my body to help me control my blood sugar.”

  “Yeah, got it.” I spear a hand through my hair. “But, how does it know your sugar?”

  She lifts her shirt and point to a small, seashell-shaped disk on her stomach. How did I not notice that when our bodies were damn near fused together? “This thing, my CMG—continuous glucose monitor—sends my sugar levels to my pump.”

  I nod, impressed with all of these devices. “That’s actually pretty fucking cool.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, really cool.”

  She plops back down onto the bed and pulls the covers—minus the sheet—up to her shoulders. I round the bed to my side and do the same, earning me an odd look. “What are you doing?” she asks, disbelief lacing her tone.

  “Same as you, I’d imagine.”

  “Humor me.”

  I give her a small grin. “Going back to sleep.”

  She snorts. “Didn’t take you for a sleepover kind of guy.”

  Reaching out, I drag her closer to me, tucking her into my side. “Usually I’m not. But tonight I am.”

  “Whatever,” she mumbles, sleep already claiming her. Unfortunately, it evades me.

  Every time I close my eyes, vision of Jenny dance behind them. Visions of us actually dating. Visions of me wooing her and us falling in love.

  I press my face into the space between her neck and shoulder and breathe her in, as the future we could have continues playing out like a movie in my mind. I can see her so clearly, dressed in white, with my ring on her hand. And then, a few years down the line, I see her belly round and swollen with our first child.

  I drag my fingers over the soft skin of her shoulder, loving the way she fits so perfectly against me. And when she reaches out and places her hand on my chest, I’m hit by the rightness of her—of us. I can so clearly envision the future we could have. I can see us growing old together. Content and happy together.

  Sleep finally starts to call to me, and my visions blur into dreams. But just as fast, they turn to nightmares, and I’m bombarded with visions of me fucking it all up.

  I’m hit with images of me heading out to the bar after shift with some of my buddies, and instead of going home, I leave with someone who isn’t her.

  No. I wouldn’t. I open my eyes, blinking rapidly to clear my mind before trying to sleep again, but it’s no use now. The seed has been planted, and every time I close my eyes, I see something worse than the time before.

  I imagine Jenny pacing the floor, wearing a trail in the rug, waiting for me to come home, as she wonders where I am.

  In vivid detail, I watch as my carelessness slowly drives her crazy,
just like it did with…

  I unwrap my arms from around her and sit up, jamming my hands over my ears, hoping it’s enough to block out the memories.

  No, no, no. Jenny deserves more. I won’t make the same mistakes again. I won’t hurt her. I repeat the mantra to myself over and over again as she slumbers peacefully, completely unaware of my internal battle. But at the end of it, she does deserve better.

  And I know if I tried talking to her, if I tried explaining my past and my fears and hesitation, she would either try and soothe me, and be far more understanding than I deserve, or she would run screaming and never look at me the same way again.

  Honestly, I’m not sure which would be worse. No, that’s a lie. Her convincing me to stay and try would be worse, because I undoubtedly know how that scenario would end.

  As much as it sucks—as much as I want to stay—I know what I have to do. Even though she’s everything I’ve ever wanted but never let myself hope for, I know I’ll ruin her, and I refuse to ruin her. So, I do the only thing I can. I tuck her hair behind her ear and press a soft kiss to her temple before sliding out of the bed, into my clothes, and out the door.

  It was nice while it lasted, Jenny Jones, but like I said, I’m not the guy for you.

  chapter eight

  Jenny

  The mattress dips beside me, and my eyes flutter softly as I linger in that space between sleep and awake. The back of a hand brushes my hair away from my face, and I lean into the touch. “Feels so good, Nate,” I mumble as I roll to snuggle deeper into him. Last night was nothing but pure magic, and I’m not ready for it to end.

  “Nate?” a decidedly female voice shrieks, bringing me into full consciousness. “Jennifer Anne Jones, you better start talking!”

  My eyes pop open at what I now recognize as Natalie’s voice. Why is the wrong damn Reynolds in my bed?

  “Jenny, I’m gonna need you to start talking now—oh my God, is that a hickey on your neck?”

  My hand flies to my neck, and memories of Nate licking and biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there invade my mind.

  Nonplussed by my lack of reply, Natalie hammers on. “A hickey from my brother? Oh, Jenny, no! Is that why y’all both disappeared last night before we even cut the cake?”

  Groaning, I drag the duvet up to cover my face. “Can we not talk about this?” I beg.

  “Ha!” Natalie exclaims, pulling the fluffy blanket off of me. “Fat chance. Let’s look at the facts: one, y’all both mysteriously vanished at the same time last night; two, you have a hickey the size of a freaking softball; and three, you called me by my brother’s name, which leads me to believe he spent the night with you in…oh my God, gross!”

  Natalie flies off of the bed like it’s covered in spiders and snakes and every other creepy-crawly known to man. “I was sitting. On the bed. You most likely fucked my brother in.” She gags a few times as she paces back and forth at the foot of the bed. “You did sleep with him, right?” she asks, pausing to look at me.

  The fact that it’s Natalie here and not Nate is an unwelcome reality. It’s not like I expected our one-night stand to lead to wedding bells, but, Jesus, I at least figured he would stick around until morning. He seemed so content, so into me…until he saw my pump. Guess the joke’s on me—again. Like always.

  The realization sinks heavy in my gut. I blink my eyes closed to keep the tears at bay and nod to Natalie, confirming what she already knew.

  She shudders. “Bleh. TMI.”

  “You asked,” I remind her, my voice scratchy.

  “And I regret it.” She drops down into the overstuffed chair in the corner. “Speaking of regrets, do you—”

  “Regret last night?” I cut her off. “I don’t think so. Honestly, I’m all kinds of topsy-turvy. Do I feel a little empowered for actually going after what I wanted? Yes. Does it sting a little that I woke up to him gone? Also, yes. But, at the same time, he didn’t make me any promises, and I knew the score, so these hurt feelings of mine are on me, not him.”

  “Well…” She trails off, searching for the right words. God bless her, this must be an awkward situation for her, quasi-comforting her best friend after a one-nighter with her older brother. Yeah, definitely not ideal. “I really don’t know what to say. I kind of want to high-five you, because you know, yay sex! But, at the same time, it was with my brother, which is gross. And he’s probably the biggest commitment-phobe I’ve ever met, and even though I love him and think the world of him, you’re not the kind of girl who does casual.”

  I take the time to digest her words, really chewing on them before replying. “You’re right. I don’t do casual. But, like I said, the opportunity to go after something I wanted presented itself, and I took it. Nate made it clear he couldn’t offer me more than one night, and I went for it anyway.” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I promise I won’t let things get weird between us. I’m a big girl.”

  Natalie searches my face, as if looking for cracks in the armor I’m wearing. After a few loaded moments, she nods, seemingly pleased. “Okay, well, good. I’m gonna head back to my room to get ready. I’ll see you in an hour for brunch?”

  “Sounds good. See you then…Mrs. Warner.” At the sound of her new name, she blushes and smiles a megawatt smile. Marriage suits her well.

  After Natalie leaves, I linger in bed for a bit, letting the memories of last night wash over me. While Nate may only be my second sexual partner, something tells me we connected on a level that’s deeper than physical. Unlike the boy I lost my virginity to, Nate owned my body so thoroughly that my inexperience flew out the window. Beneath his touch, my body reacted on pure instinct. Then again, maybe I’m the only one who felt the connection. After all, he dipped out in the middle of the night, making what should have been empowering feel a little dirty.

  I force myself out of the bed and into the bathroom where I crank on the shower. As the water heats, I quickly check my blood sugar level before suspending my insulin delivery and disconnecting my pump.

  As much as I love my pump—you know, because it helps keep me alive—I also hate it. Sure, Nate acted cool when he saw it, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s why he crept out before the sun could rise.

  Memories of my first, Brian, creep in, unwelcome and unwanted. He was so repulsed by my diabetes. He always asked me to prick my finger and mess with my pump in private—as if he was embarrassed by it. I hated the way it made me feel, as if I was less than him because my pancreas didn’t work. But, at the time, I was blinded by his good looks, charm, and charisma. It was almost unfathomable that someone like him would even be interested in me, so I did as he asked.

  The final straw was when we finally went all the way. To say I didn’t get the fairy tale romance all girls dream of would be a major understatement. At first, when my shirt came off, Brian’s eyes feasted over me…until his gaze hit where my infusion set was inserted into my stomach. He actually gagged when he saw it and asked if I could put my shirt back on.

  And like the pathetic little girl I was, I did as he asked. Brian then proceeded to take my virginity without any foreplay, with the lights off, and my clothes still on, my panties simply pushed to the side. Apart from a hand on my shoulder for leverage, he didn’t touch me, and once he was done, he disposed of the condom, tucked himself back into his jeans, and told me he didn’t see us working out in the long run.

  Even though Nate is nothing like Brian, even though he treated me with respect and showed me how good sex could truly be, my brain can’t help but draw parallels. Seemingly, both of them found me lacking after seeing my dirty little secret. My eyes water and those pesky tears threaten to return, but at least in the shower, I can pretend they’re nothing more than water droplets, here to wash away my questionable decisions.

  After I shower, I reconnect my pump and resume my insulin before blowing out my hair and styling it in loose waves. I keep my makeup light and fresh looking—I’d love to skip it entirely, but the bags under my eyes fr
om my late night make it impossible.

  Dressed casually in a flowy white-and-navy striped romper that ties at my neck—thankfully concealing the marks Nate left behind—with a watermelon-colored cardigan and a pair of wedge sandals, I make my way down to the Grand Hall, where brunch will be served.

  Those stupid bees riot in my belly at the thought of coming face-to-face with Nate this morning. But I squash those fuckers down; there’s no way in hell I’m letting what happened between us affect me. At least, not outwardly.

  The entire elevator ride down, I keep reminding myself that I knew the score. That the only reason he left was to avoid the morning after awkwardness. That it has nothing to do with my…deficiencies.

  I lose my breath when I step into the Grand Hall. The space is so incredibly beautiful, from the natural wood-beamed ceiling to the plush settees and velvet chairs gathered around the mismatched tables, which are adorned with floral arrangements that are stunning and understated all at once. And don’t even get me started on the floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall that showcase the picture-perfect waterfront views. This place is a rustic dream come to life.

  One of my most favorite things is pinning gorgeous restaurant and bar interiors to my Future Goals Board from the comfort of my couch, and this space is definitely pin-worthy. And judging from the scents wafting through the space, the food is going to be drool-worthy.

  A hostess steps out from around the corner and greets me warmly. I let her know I’m here for the Warner Brunch, and she quickly guides me back to where the newlyweds are already seated.

  As I lower myself into the seat across from Natalie, I can feel Alden’s stare. Obviously, she told him. Which isn’t really shocking—they had enough secrets at the beginning of their journey to last a lifetime.

  I delay eye contact for a few minutes, taking the time to scoot my chair in and place my napkin in my lap. Finally, Alden clears his throat, and I glance up at him sheepishly.

  “So…” he starts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You and Nate, huh?”