Spencer.
He leaned against the polished bar, a highball glass in his hand. Glenmorangie, neat. She didn't need to taste the liquor to know, because she knew the man. He didn't do cocktails, just Scotch or beer. And Glenmorangie was his favorite label.
From where she stood, she could see his profile, and she was certain that he hadn't noticed her. He'd let his beard grow out a little, so that it looked more like it had the first time they'd met, and she had to admit she liked it. Once they'd started dating, it had been neatly trimmed, and she'd always felt like he was playing a role. Hell, maybe he was. Trying to be the clean-cut, middle class guy that her father would approve of.
Now, the beard was a little unkempt. A little wild. And for one fleeting moment, she wanted to feel those dark whiskers on her cheeks again. Her lips. Her thighs.
He cocked his head, as if he'd heard someone call him. As if, she thought, he'd picked up on all the decadent images running wild through her head.
She froze, and Hannah looked back at her curiously.
"I--I forgot something in the ladies' room. Y'all go on ahead. Nolan's a really nice guy. Just introduce yourself."
"What--"
But Brooke turned away, cutting off Shelby's words, because Spencer had turned toward them, and like a coward, Brooke was going to bolt.
She had no idea if he'd seen her, and she wasn't going to hang around to find out. She knew she couldn't put off talking to him forever--especially if they were doing a show together--but she needed time to prepare. And one minute wasn't nearly enough.
She slipped back into the hallway that led to the restrooms and office space. She assumed there would be an emergency exit down there, but after she passed the closed office door and turned the corner, she realized the space was little more than an alcove with some shelving for paper supplies. Napkins, paper towels, toilet paper, rolls of receipts. Damn.
The exit to the alley must have been the other direction, back toward the kitchen.
She turned, took one step, then squealed as Spencer pushed her back into the dark corner, his palm firm on her shoulder.
"Brooke," he murmured in that familiar, rough voice. "I think it's time we had a little talk."
Chapter Five
"What the hell, Brooke?" His voice rolled over her like salted caramel, rough and sweet at the same time. "Was it not enough that you yanked my heart out? Then stomped on every goddamn thing I thought was true and real and right? Now you have to come back so that you can rip open the scars? I mean, Christ. You've stayed away from me for five goddamn years. Why the hell are you back in my life now?"
She tensed, her insides coiled like a spring about to snap. She told herself she wasn't scared, but that was a lie. She was terrified. She just didn't know if she was afraid of Spencer--or of her own reaction to him. Trepidation, yes. But underscored with genuine desire.
In other words, she was screwed.
"Let go of me." The words were low and forceful, and she congratulated herself on her voice not shaking.
His brown eyes hardened, but he complied--and she immediately regretted the demand. He wasn't touching her now, true. But both his hands were on the wall on either side of her, effectively caging her in and putting his entire body in extreme proximity to hers.
Years ago, the wild pounding of her heart and the lightness in her head would have been evidence of excitement. Right now, though, it was fear.
Not that she thought Spence would hurt her--she didn't. But she couldn't breathe like that, with him trapping her, stealing away what little control she had over the situation. Not anymore. Not after what happened.
"Back off." She'd intended the words as a demand, but they sounded choked and weak. She lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Hadn't her father always told her that looking in control was almost the same as being in control?
He didn't move. For that matter, he didn't say a word.
"I mean it," she said, feeling stronger. "If you want to talk, then call me, and we can meet for coffee. You don't have to manhandle me." Brooke forced her voice to stay steady, and she hoped he couldn't hear the pounding rhythm of her heart. He was close--so close she could taste the whisky on his breath. "Or is that the way you roll now? Intimidating women in dark corners?"
Still, he said nothing. But he kept his eyes on her face, studying her intently as if she was a problem he had to solve. Which, frankly, she pretty much was.
The silence lingered, thick and heavy, until she couldn't stand it any longer. "Spencer. Please."
She didn't know what he heard in her voice. But he took two steps back, his arms falling away, freeing her.
For a moment, his expression seemed gentle. Almost understanding. And she allowed herself to listen to the small, pitiful voice that said he would forgive her. That she'd done the right thing five years ago, and eventually the universe would correct itself.
Brooke knew there was no chance for a future with Spencer--she'd had no illusions when she walked away, and she'd made her peace with that. But it hurt more than she'd ever believed possible to know that the man who'd once loved her so tenderly, now despised her beyond all measure. Even if that hate was inevitable.