“Your dad has been like a father to me. I’m lucky Joseph hired me when he did, and he’s always had my back just as much as I’ve had his.”
His words are kind, but let’s be real: my dad is a politician. I’m sure there are some caveats in Brad’s statement. Still, the alpha male seems hyper focused on the picture for the moment, and his gaze bores holes into our images. Hoping to make him smile, I point at the adolescent version of myself in the snap with my sunny expression and winsome smile.
“Can you believe that’s me? I mean, it’s weird right? Who would have thought we’d still know each other after all these years?”
Those blue eyes swing my way, and his gaze is so intense that I gasp a bit. It’s almost as if he has something he wants to say on the tip of his tongue, but is fighting the urge. Plus, it’s different because Brad’s never looked at me like this before. If anything, he’s been very remote whenever we interact; of course, that’s if he deigns to talk to me at all.
Deciding to be brave, I allow myself to gaze at him as well. My heart starts racing because I like what I see. Perhaps this guy is a white-collar worker, but still, he’s absolutely gorgeous in a button-down shirt that highlights the width of his shoulders and a pair of black slacks that emphasize his lean waist and long legs. But perhaps sensing my assessment, he abruptly turns away from me.
“Here,” he motions to the couch. “Sit down and drink. You need to flush that hooch shit out of your system.”
I stare at him for a minute, a bit taken aback by his gruff tone, and then slowly walk to the couch and take a seat. Brad lingers at his end of the sofa for a few minutes as if he’s undecided on what to do. I raise an eyebrow in a question. “Aren’t you going to sit, or are you planning to just hover and look at me like I’m a crazy person?”
His jaw locks and squares even more. He doesn’t reply, but after a moment the alpha male walks to the sofa facing mine and sits down with his elbows on his knees, intently staring straight in front of him. His expression is tortured and my heart softens. Honestly, I’ve never seen Brad act this way, and it’s puzzling. It’s like he can’t stand to look at me and yet also can’t keep his eyes away from me at the same time.
“Look,” I begin in a halting voice. “I’m sorry I called you tonight. I didn’t mean to put you out or make you angry. If you like I can get an Uber to take me back to my dorm. Now that we’re back in Manhattan, I’m sure a vehicle will be available in a matter of minutes.”
But before I can stand, Brad’s black head jerks in my direction and the look he shoots me sends hot shivers down my spine.
“Katy, I’m not angry you called me,” he mutters in an anguished voice. “That was the first smart thing you did tonight.”
“Yes but—"
“Don’t yes but, me. You’re better than that shit, sweetheart. I can’t believe you were so irresponsible. Going out dressed like this, and then drinking some punch spiked with god knows what? Do you know how many predators are out there, ready to take advantage of a ripe young girl like yourself?”
Ripe young girl? I swallow hard and try to look unruffled.
“I’m sorry,” I begin. “I should have thought—”
“That’s right!” he rages, cutting me off again. “You should be thinking! Why didn’t you use your brain? Do you know how badly tonight could have gone? There could have been any number of terrible things in that punch you swallowed: ketamine, ecstasy, or who the fuck knows? If I hadn’t gotten there so quickly someone could have …” He stops, his fists clenched on his lap, making the veins pop in the tops of his hands. The man looks utterly tortured and runs a hand through his black hair, making it stand on end. Somehow, it makes him look even more rakish and desirable.
“I’m sorry, Brad,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “I won’t do it again.” I hate crying in front of anyone, but this time it can’t be helped. I’ve had the worst night, and now the one man I’ve wanted my entire life hates me and thinks I’m a piece of crap. How can I survive this situation?
Big fat droplets start rolling down my cheeks and Brad watches impassively for a moment. But then he lets out a growl and moves to sit by my side, the sofa cushion sinking under his heavy weight.
“Sweetheart,” he says in a tortured voice. “Please don’t do this. Don’t shed tears. It’s fine, and everything’s worked out.”