by Ryan, Lexi
When the front door clicks shut behind them, Abbi tosses another pillow at Stella. “I don’t want to know anything about my brother’s skills in the bedroom, thankyouverymuch.”
“Nah, I don’t know anything anyway,” Stella says. “The only thing remarkable that happened that night was Kace’s head exploding when he realized who was reaching for his dick. It just makes me feel better to imagine he’s bad in bed, since he totally rejected me.”
Abbi rolls her eyes. “You were seventeen. And drunk.”
“Can we get back to Brinley’s problem?” Savvy asks.
“Yes,” Abbi says. “Brinley, the bitch, who has a fiancé and a husband, when I can’t even find a date for Friday night.”
“Hear me out,” Savvy says. “I’m not telling you to end your relationship with Julian or to start a real one with Marston.”
“Our lives don’t work together,” I say. “Please take Marston off the table.”
“First of all, I’m not sure about that,” Savvy says. “Second of all, I’m saying this has all happened really fast, and this marriage might mean you can slow it down. Collect your trust, buy The Orchid, then figure out what you want.”
I snag one of the martinis off the coffee table and wince when the intense sweetness hits my tongue. “That’s not an option.”
“Why not?” Abbi asks.
Because my parents are controlling jerks. “Because marriage isn’t the stipulation for getting my trust before I turn thirty. I only get it early if I marry someone my parents approve of.”
“Oh, fuck,” Savvy whispers, and the other girls look down at their laps. Everyone in this room knows my history with Marston, and that a marriage to him won’t get me the money under those terms. Not only do my parents not approve of Marston, they’d rather see me and their granddaughter on the streets than welcome him as part of their family.
Chapter Seven
Marston
December 25th, before
There are moments where the divide between the relationship I have with my girlfriend and the one I want feels so vast that I wonder if we’re just fooling ourselves. This is never as apparent as on days like today, when I’m setting the table for her family’s Christmas dinner and pretending we’re not even friends.
“Marston,” Lori says softly from the opposite side of the table.
I pull my eyes off the double windows at the front of the dining room, ignoring the car that just pulled into the Knoxes’ circle drive so I can focus on the place setting in front of me. I don’t really want to see Roman sucking up to Brinley’s parents anyway. Not that he needs to. It seems like he’s earned their unconditional approval just for being born rich.
“You keep focused today,” Lori says quietly. “I know this isn’t easy.”
I meet her gaze. What exactly does she know? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She scoffs. “I’m in this house as often as you are,” she says with a purse of her lips. “You’re playing with fire like you’re the only one who’ll end up hurt.”
“I’m not . . .” I shake my head. I don’t want to lie, and I don’t want to get Brinley in trouble. So, like always, I choose secrets. “I’ll do fine today. I promise.”
Lori gives me a quick nod of approval and then goes back to filling water glasses.
“Brinley, Roman’s here,” Mr. Knox calls from the front door. “Roman, you should really stay for dinner.”
“Coming,” Brinley calls from the den. I can’t help but look as the sound of her steps come closer. She flashes me a smile as she passes the dining room with her sister, Brittany, hot on her heels. There’s so much in that smile—our secret little language—that for a second I almost forget how much I hate the guy waiting for her at the door.
Aunt Lori clears her throat, and I get back to work.
“I wanted to bring you a present,” Roman says from the foyer, and I stiffen.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Brinley says. I wonder if she sounds so uncomfortable because she really wishes he hadn’t or because she knows I can hear their conversation.
“Of course I did,” Roman said. “Christmas is about spoiling the people who matter to you.”
I clench my teeth so tightly my jaw aches. He’s really laying it on thick for her parents.
“Open it, Brin,” Brittany says.
I focus on lining up the knife with the opposite fork and try to ignore the sound of tearing wrapping paper.
“Oh my God, that’s so romantic!” Brittany croons. “Brinley, put it on! It’s perfect.”
“What a beautiful gift,” Mrs. Knox says. “Roman, this is so thoughtful. Brinley, this’ll look just stunning on you.”
I reach for another wine glass, trying to hide what a fucking mess I am, but I feel like I can’t breathe while I wait for the sound of Brinley’s voice. When it finally comes, it’s quiet, but not so quiet I can’t hear. “Thank you, Roman. You shouldn’t have.”
“Why don’t you two go to the study for some privacy?” Mrs. Knox says.
Glass shatters at my feet before I realize what’s happened.
I dropped it. I dropped a wine glass.
Mrs. Knox runs into the room, eyes wide as she stares at the shattered crystal at my feet. Roman and Brinley follow shortly behind, and Roman smirks at me. The message is clear in that one little expression. You’re the help. I’m the one they want to see their daughter with.
“Marston,” Lori says. “What happened?”
“I just . . . It slipped. I’m sorry.”
Roman puts a hand on Mrs. Knox’s shoulder. “It’s hard to find good help these days, isn’t it? My parents are struggling with this too. One second they’re careless with the china, and the next, the silver is missing.”
My face is so hot, and I hate Roman more than I’ve ever hated anyone—for making this moment worse, for being such a dick every time I see him, but mostly for being the kind of guy Brinley’s parents want for her.
“Roman,” Brinley says. “This was an accident.”
Mrs. Knox lifts her eyes, and her lip curls as she looks at me. Roman’s message is clear. I can’t be trusted. I’m not just beneath them—I’m so low I’m not even worthy to serve them.
“I was standing right here, ma’am,” Lori says, her gaze flicking to mine. “It slipped.”
“This is my good crystal,” Mrs. Knox says, “and I’ll be taking the funds to replace it from your wages.”
I bow my head. “I understand.”
Mrs. Knox gives Lori a cold stare. “I suggest you be more selective on who you bring in for seasonal help. Just because he can do the physical labor required in the gardens doesn’t mean he’s a good fit for in-home help.” With that, she stomps away.
“Real smooth, Death Rowe,” Roman says.
Brinley gasps, and I look up in time to see her glaring at Roman. “You promised you wouldn’t use that name.”
You promised? I didn’t think it was possible to feel any smaller. When was Roman making Brinley promises? How often does he come over with gifts for her? How often does her father convince him to stay for dinner?
Lori looks back and forth between us. Seeming to sense that this interaction can’t go anywhere good, she leads Brinley and Roman from the room. “I think your mother wanted you two to have a chance to visit in the study. Let’s go then, and I’ll make you some fresh coffee.”
Brinley stays behind, scanning the mess at my feet before looking up to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
That’s when I see it—the new bracelet on her wrist is covered in diamonds. I could never afford anything like that in my wildest dreams. Hell, I probably can’t even afford the wine glass I just broke.
I swallow—my pride, and the fucking shards of my heart. I never wanted to fall for a rich girl, but here I am. “Why are you apologizing? You didn’t break it.”
But she knows. It’s all over her face that she too sees this divide today—between the couple we are and the coupl
e we want to be. And when she walks away to join that asshole in the study, I have to press my palm to my pocket. The velvet box that waits inside holds my gift for Brinley: a twenty-dollar necklace from Target that feels like it’s devouring what’s left of my pride.
Chapter Eight
Brinley
Present day
I reread the most recent texts on my phone for the third time in the last ten minutes, still unsure how to reply.
Julian: I was completely out of line tonight. Can you forgive me?
Julian: I’m an ass.
Julian: I love you, but this whole thing . . . I panicked.
He was, and I can, but I wasn’t exaggerating when I told him I wouldn’t let anyone push me around anymore. Part of me—possibly the least mature part—wants to make him stew for a bit.
A knock sounds at my front door, and I stiffen. I got Cami into bed an hour ago, shortly after all the girls left. I know I need to talk to Julian after the way we argued tonight, but I’m too exhausted.
The knock sounds again. “Brinley. We need to talk.”
Marston. I open the door a crack. He rocks back on his heels and looks me over with those intense brown eyes. He looks gorgeous . . . and angry. I’m exhausted just thinking about another fight tonight. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He looks over his shoulder, glancing up and down the hall. “Because you’re afraid someone might see us together, or because you didn’t want me to know about Cami?”
My stomach lurches. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t find out sooner. I guess I can thank his decade-long avoidance of Orchid Valley for that. I’m not ready to answer his questions, but I dodged the truth the whole time we were together in Vegas, and look where that got me. “Who told you?”
“Not you,” he says, jaw twitching. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Vegas wasn’t about that.”
He drags a hand through his hair and bows his head, like looking at me is just too hard. “Is she the reason you left that morning?”
My heart squeezes. “Partially.”
He blows out a breath and lifts his gaze to mine. “How old is she?”
“She turns ten next week.” I close my eyes and wait for him to do the math. A little chunk of my heart breaks off, knowing he’ll never look at me the same. Maybe we were officially broken up, but I understand Marston well enough to know he’ll see my behavior as a betrayal to him. It even felt like one to me while I was doing it.
He’s quiet for too long, and when I open my eyes, his gaze is burning into me. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but it’s as if he doesn’t know me at all and he’s trying to figure me out. “Is she mine?”
Those three little words are a knife twisted in my chest. I spent my entire pregnancy terrified he’d come back to Orchid Valley and ask me that, terrified I’d have to admit what I’d done. “No.” My voice warbles on the word.
“But she’s turning ten,” he says, “which means she’s mine and you’re lying to me, or you—the girl who hadn’t even kissed anyone before me—moved on real fucking quick.”
That knife in my chest drags deep, and it guts me. It’s not his words as much as the expression of sheer heartache on his face. I throw the door wide and turn back inside to grab a framed photo off the foyer table. “She’s not yours.” I shove it into his hand.
Cami’s smiling broadly in this school picture, her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, and when Marston looks at it, I know he’s not going to see what I do. He won’t see the freckles she got by spending hours at the pool last summer. He won’t see that the crinkles around her eyes are absent—the tell that this isn’t her real smile. He won’t see the girl who’s always a silly joke away from a giggle or the fourth-grader who cares so deeply about her friends. He’ll see Roman Humphries’ green eyes and the perfectly even top and bottom lip that look just like her father’s.
“Who’s the father.” It’s not a question. It’s a demand for me to speak the words I owe him.
I would climb mountains and cross deserts to not be responsible for the look on his face right now. “Marston, can we not—”
“You fucked Roman right after I left?” His raw voice is like razorblades to my conscience.
“I fucked a lot of guys right after you left.” No reason to sugarcoat it. “My sister died, my boyfriend moved to the other side of the country, and my parents were like zombies.”
“You wanted me to move. You wanted me to leave.” He shakes his head. “I would’ve done anything for you, but you pushed me away and told me to stay gone.”
If I close my eyes, I can remember the day I told him to go. My sister’s body had just been lowered into the ground. My grief was a living thing, eating me from the inside out, my guilt right at its side, but the birds were chirping and the sky was blue. Down was up; left was right.
I can’t expect him to understand, and I’m not sure I want him to. He endured enough suffering of his own during those years. “That summer almost destroyed me,” I whisper. “I was a mess, and when I gave up on trying to make my parents love me, when I was consumed by grief over losing my sister . . . over losing you, I found escape in partying. In rebellion and booze and . . . sex.” I swallow hard, remembering those awful weeks. They’re little more to me now than a blur of shots, frat boys, broken curfews, and yelling matches with my parents.
“How could you?”
I can’t expect him to understand what that was like—how I’d just lost my sister and felt like I’d lose my parents too if I did one thing wrong. But after Marston left, I spent a week walking on eggshells and trying to be the perfect daughter. When my parents still wouldn’t look at me, I snapped. I got pregnant with Roman’s baby, but it could just as easily have been someone else’s. That Cami had Roman’s DNA was one more reason I could never be with Marston again.
He shakes his head. “Roman? Did you even wait for me to get out of town before you let him in your bed?”
Once, those words would have broken me, but I’m not the girl I used to be. “If you want to stand there and slut-shame me, go ahead, but know that my father’s ahead of you by almost eleven years.”
* * *
Marston
She has a kid.
Brinley has a child.
I left her house before our fight could grow into something more. Something worse. The moment she suggested I was trying to slut-shame her, I knew I needed to get out of there and ended up at Lake Blackledge. No surprise. This was always where I came to think when I lived in Orchid Valley, always the place where I could calm my mind enough to think clearly.
But this is a bombshell.
I guess I should blame the booze or the meds she was taking or the combination of the two, but she didn’t breathe a word about her daughter the night we were together in Vegas. She somehow didn’t think it was necessary to share that Roman fucking Humphries had gotten her pregnant within weeks after I left town.
That part burns. It’s not the thought of her having other partners, but the idea of her giving herself to him. It makes my blood run hot with rage. I was gone, but did she do it to hurt me on some level?
She has a kid.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I want to ignore it, but I promised Alec we’d catch up tonight, so when I see his name on the screen, I answer. “Hey.”
“From the tone of your voice, I’m guessing it’s not going well?” he asks.
When I texted him last night, I was all cocky self-assurance. Brinley loves me. She wanted to marry me. It was only a matter of time before we figured this out—before we somehow made it work. “She has a kid,” I say, and even out loud, the words still don’t sound real.
“With the guy she’s marrying?”
Thank Christ not. But fuck. Julian probably thinks of Cami as his by now, and how much worse would tonight have been if he’d heard me at the door and come to see who Brinley was talking to? This is a fucking mess. I blow out a breath. “No. She had her daughter in high school
. Right after I left.”
“Well, shit. Yours?”
“No.” And I still can’t decide if that hurts more or if it’s a relief. But it was never really a question. Brinley may have kept her daughter a secret, but she never would’ve kept a child from me. She would’ve known I needed to be the father my sperm donor wasn’t, needed to prove I was better than a blank spot on a birth certificate.
“Fucking hell,” Alec says. “That’s . . . Shit.”
I sink onto a bench and look out over the water that’s sparkling from the lights all around the lake.
“What are you going to do?”
“I came here for my wife, not to suddenly find myself the stepdad to a ten-year-old kid, but they’re a package deal and . . . Fuck, I have to figure out how I feel about that before I push her on this marriage again.”
“No one would blame you if it changes things, Marston.”
I lean back and close my eyes, imagining the life I came here to fight for, the love I’ve never been able to cut from my heart, no matter how hard I tried. “Honestly? I don’t think it changes anything.”
Chapter Nine
Brinley
“You keep making faces like that, and I’m going to encourage you to take up day drinking,” Savvy says, pulling a hoodie on over her open-backed tank top. She snuck in between personal training sessions and brought me coffee—and not just black brew but one of the concoctions from the kitchen with steamed milk and caramel. Since I’ve given myself permission to screw the diet for the time being, I’m enjoying every sip.
“What?” I ask. “Is my RBF flaring up again?”
She rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t pull off resting bitch face if you tried. I’m talking about the panic in your eyes.”
