“What is Davien doing this weekend?”
I know this question takes a lot for him. There’s no love lost between my bodyguard/fake boyfriend and my best friend. Davien visited last week, and although Brooks didn’t leave the house, he made himself scarce in case we decided to go out, and he needed to provide security. I stayed home, even when Davien begged, because I didn’t want to be separated from the man.
Davien left in a huff, but I couldn’t stay agitated for long because Brooks suggested watching a movie and then his leg brushed mine when he walked past to sit on the opposite end of the couch.
“You mentioned having plans with him when I first told you about the wedding.”
I barely manage to keep my head from jerking back in confusion. This is the first I’ve ever heard about the wedding. He hasn’t mentioned it to me. Being alone, being away from him, is something I would remember.
“Oh, yeah. Davien has a slew of things planned,” I say, instead of demanding that he tells me exactly who else he’s seeing because he’s getting me confused with whomever it is.
“And security?”
“I’ve hired that other firm you suggested,” I lie, knowing Davien is back in California and not expected to return to Missouri for three more weeks.
“Good,” he says with a quick nod before draining his espresso cup and placing it in the dishwasher.
Now I remember the conversation we had about the alternate security firm in case Blackbridge Security is too busy. It was put in place because there are some things they have to respond to immediately that may take Brooks away, but the man never mentioned the wedding.
My good mood turns sourer than it did when he mentioned the lady with the fake bomb.
“You okay?” he asks when he notices the look on my face.
I hate that I’m so terrible at hiding my emotions around him. I’ve always felt confident in my ability to shove down my distaste. Being in the spotlight for so many years helped me hone that skill, but there’s something about Brooks that always leaves me vulnerable.
“I’m good.”
“Ready for How It’s Made?”
“Sure,” I tell him, offering a quick but fake smile.
He reads it easily, and I eye the stairs as we leave the kitchen on our way to the living room.
I feel the need to have a little time to myself, but at the same time, I can’t imagine missing a second spent with him, especially if he’s going to be gone for four days.
My chest feels heavy as we sit on the couch, and he pulls up the show we’ve been binge-watching.
“Conga drums,” Brooks says. “Right up your alley.”
“Skip this one,” I mutter.
“But you’re a musician,” he argues.
“Fletcher is a drummer,” I clarify.
“Skipping,” he says, his jaw clenching as he points the remote at the television. “Grinding wheels and milk? Who picks the lineup for this series?”
“Probably a random draw,” I say as I suddenly become uneasy.
I know what I want to do, what my body is aching for me to do, but it may open up a heartbreaking can of worms I’ll never have the chance to recap.
“Can I lay my head on your lap?” I ask, the courage to do so coming from some lost place inside of me I’m not able to access very often.
I figure a verbal rejection would be easier to stomach than a physical one.
“Sure,” he says without hesitation, lifting his arm to give me access to his lap.
I press my cheek to his thigh, keeping my eyes locked on the television as I try my best to swallow down the disappointment I feel when he keeps his arm on the back of the couch, but then his fingers brush my hair, sifting through the strands as the guy on the screen explains how milk is pasteurized.
I don’t care how fake his friendship is at this point. I’m going to take what I can get from this man.
Chapter 19
Brooks
Even with my head in a mess, I can admit that I’m having a good time. My joy has less to do with my best friend’s sister getting married this weekend even though I’ve known her for what feels like forever.
My delight comes mostly from watching my best friend drool over the girl he’s been in love with since he was a teen.
Jules Warren can do no wrong according to Kit, but he still skates around her like she’s a bomb slowly ticking down. He gets tongue-tied and shy, and it’s hilarious to watch.
I’ve kept my distance since the woman kissed his cheek in the elevator earlier this weekend, but the man seems stuck, standing at the bar, choosing to watch her from a distance, something he’s done for years rather than approach her and strike up a conversation.
I give the man a hard time, telling him that I’m going to steal his girl, but that would never happen. Jules has always been his whether she knows it or not.