Stealing Her (Covet 1)

Cursing, I pulled the lipstick USB out and stared at it. Why did it feel so heavy? Like a loaded gun or bomb about to be set off. The heaviness of it felt like a bad omen as I weighed our future in my hand.

I never asked for this responsibility.

All I wanted was for my mom and brother to live.

And now I was stuck in some sick love triangle that my own brother wasn’t even aware he was participating in.

Things were fucked up, and I only had myself to blame. We wouldn’t be so desperate for money if I had just worked harder to be there for Mom, if I had just swallowed my pride and contacted Julian, hell, if I hadn’t ripped up that check.

If I had just told Izzy the minute she opened the door and sworn her to secrecy and let her fall for me, not him all over again.

I was officially disgusted with myself.

I quickly went to the adjoining closet and put on one of Julian’s many suit coats; this one was gray. I didn’t put on a tie because I didn’t give a shit. I shrugged into the too-tight jacket and made my way into the kitchen.

Izzy was already dressed, sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping her coffee, and checking her phone.

The minute I walked up, she slid the newspaper toward me and then followed it with a cup of coffee. All black.

I grabbed it and added some cream and a packet of stevia.

She looked up from her phone. “You don’t want black coffee anymore?”

I froze. “Just felt like something sweeter this morning.”

“The last time you had any sort of real or artificial sweetener was years ago.”

I gulped. Shit. She knew, she knew something was off, she was finally putting it all together, and all I was doing was throwing more lies at her.

“Well”—I sipped the sweetness—“maybe I just want something that reminds me of what you taste like while I’m suffering at work.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“The fact that you’re suddenly left-handed. Weird, since I didn’t notice it before. Is that another one of the aftereffects from the brain injury?”

Fuck. “One of the many, I’m afraid. If you’re concerned, I can get you a list of all the crazy shit I’m bound to do while my head is recovering from all that swelling.”

“No.” She sighed and then frowned back at her phone. “No, sorry, I’m just—last night was—”

“I’m sorry.” I moved around the counter and grabbed her hand. “That was me being a dick and not thinking about you. You wanted to talk, and instead I just took over, and that’s not fair to you, alright? I don’t want to be that guy.”

“What do you mean?” She gazed into my eyes.

God, she was one of the prettiest women I’d ever seen. I wanted to protect her from everything—me included. Damn it, when did this get so complicated?

“I mean I don’t want to be the guy who doesn’t hear you, doesn’t see you. The one who fixes things with orgasms and easy smiles. I want to know your concerns, and I want to talk even if it means I stay up all night. I want to be that guy because that’s the way I was raised. And that is the truth.”

“Edward didn’t raise you that way.”

“I know,” I whispered. “He didn’t.” I felt myself giving in, sinking into the sand as her eyes locked onto mine. It was the perfect moment to confess to her, to ask for her help. To apologize.

I hated that we were having a wedding in a few days and she still thought everything was fine.

“So you’re saying your nanny did that?”

“I had my mom before the divorce,” I whispered, while my brain chanted Lie, lie, lie, you still have her. “I know how to treat the woman I love.”

It was the first time I’d said love to her as Bridge, but it wouldn’t be the last.

I was doing this, wasn’t I?

I was keeping her.

And if he was alive, he would hate me forever.

My gut clenched as she slid off the barstool and wrapped her arms around my neck. “I love you too.”

Wrong, so wrong.

Did she love him? The new him? Me? Who did she love?

Did it matter?

I kissed her then, softly, and then more urgently as she took the cup of coffee out of my hands and spread her palms across my broad chest.

Mine, she was mine.

I lifted her onto the counter, my hands on her hips as I walked between her legs, our tongues twisting as she clutched my hair and pulled. Everywhere I touched was like heated silk.

“You’ll”—she kissed me again—“be late for work.”

“Let me be late.”

“Julian.”

I stopped.

I stopped because it was his name.

And I hated him more, maybe in that moment, than I ever had.

My jaw flexed. “Right, you’re right, I’ll see you tonight for dinner?”