Wrong Man, Right Kiss (Gage Brothers 2)

But she couldn’t speak. To her frustration, she was crying now, and with her throat so tight, it was really hard to get a word out.

She’d never imagined she could ever hurt anyone. She loved to laugh, to enjoy life, to paint. She was young at heart and had never seen herself as a threat to anyone—not even to a bug, because she had a habit of escorting them out to the yard and never squashing a single one. She would cut out her eyes for Julian if he needed them, her hands so she could never paint again. She’d give him two kidneys, her liver, and her pancreas and lungs, too! She wouldn’t even mention her heart because she’d never really had it to herself in the first place.

She’d given it along with her lollipop to a six-year-old boy a long, long time ago.

“Julian, don’t be ridiculous, please. I love you,” she said as she wiped her tears, rushing after him when he’d got tired of waiting for her to reply. But he was already boarding the elevator, as proud and stubborn as all the Gage men she’d ever known.

“Get your stuff, Molly. I’m taking you back home. Consider the mural done.”

Nine

For exactly twelve days, eleven hours, forty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, Julian buried himself in work, sweat and sports. He hadn’t set foot at the San Antonio Daily in almost two weeks. Not even to present his damned brothers with his resignation letter.

No. Since then, JJG Enterprises had officially opened for business, so instead he’d buried himself in work from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. each day, and after that he had been rowing, paddling, kayaking, running, climbing and skydiving his freaking heart out.

He would come home at midnight, soaked in sweat, to feed hi

s body, bathe himself and drop down dead on the bed. But it was no use. His head continued swimming with memories of making love to Molly, kissing her sweet lips. Memories of her betrayal.

He’d never thought that a casual, collected guy like him, with everything under control, would ever get to feel that way.

And every day when he saw her mural upstairs, he wanted to tear that wall down. It was so bright and vivid, so sassy, so Molly. He could bulldoze it to the ground if he didn’t have millions invested up there. Millions. Hell, his whole damned heart, since he’d imagined sharing that future with Molly.

Now he didn’t even want to wake up.

Even his home, once his sanctuary, seemed to assault him with memories at every turn.

Her scent lingered in the pillows. He kept finding her stuff around the house. Fashion magazines. A random paintbrush. In the kitchen pantry he’d find the artificial sweetener she claimed was the best sitting right next to the honey he liked to gobble. And those damned Sleepytime Teas.

He hadn’t realized until the glaring emptiness of life without Molly stared him in the face every day how deeply she had infiltrated his life. She had been involved, in little and big ways, in every part of his day. From the cookies he’d snack on at the office or at home, provided by Molly from Kate’s delicious kitchen, to the text messages reminding him of a family gathering to her calls—Forget to say hi yesterday, moron? Call me. Or else!

He wanted to forget he’d ever met this woman, forget he’d ever wanted her, forget he’d been prepared to change his whole life around for her….

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t forgive her. If only he could just forget her. Forget the way she laughed with him, at him, and poked and prodded him and made his body feel alive in a way nobody else did. He’d had strings of lovers but had never enjoyed sex so much, cherished the moment so fiercely as that night he’d spent with her.

He’d replayed it in his head dozens of times, groaning and suffering like a masochist, but the reality had been so sweet he didn’t want to forget that time with her. Ever. To have finally seen her, sprawled and wanting him in his bed, that red hair fanning across his sheets, could still give a grown man wet dreams.

She’d said she loved him a thousand times in her life. He knew she did. As a friend. As a “brother.” But did she love him? Julian had been inside her, knew every secret of her body, knew where to press her, how to make her moan, what she ate, what she feared, where to tickle her. Would she rather have spent that night with Garrett?

Garrett.

His blood boiled at the thought of his brother. Even though he knew Molly’s feelings for Garrett had been based on a kiss that Julian himself had given her, he continued to feel so jealous he couldn’t even see straight. He couldn’t believe that she would betray him to his brother like she had. So why had she?

Had two decades of pure, raw friendship meant nothing to her?

He desperately tried fishing his memories for clues of her and his brother together. Looks he could’ve missed. Touches that had more weight to them than they should have. But he came up with nothing. Every memory of Molly was tied to one man, and that man was him. Maybe he had not always been a man. But when he had been a boy, he had been her boy.

Jules, Jules, gimme a piggyback ride.

And when Kate had tried to patch her up after a good scrape and would coo down at Molly in a maternal way, “I’m going to kiss your boo-boo better,” little Molly would point at Julian across the room and grin. “No, I want him to do it.”

And later, as teens: Teach me to surf, Jules. Will you drive me over to art class, Jules?

And as an adult: Coffee? Tea? Call me! I’m still alive, you know, just been painting!

But now he was alone.