I don’t know what happened between oh shit, I have it bad for my brother’s girlfriend and I’m free. The tension between Samuel and me is definitely still alive, but I wonder if meeting Stevie has anything to do with how much better I’m feeling now.
Over the course of my bender, I could sense it—the pining and the hurt slowly fading, visiting me less the more time that passed. I had plenty of distractions, and I indulged in them constantly, losing myself in the moment so I didn’t compulsively revisit the past and the girl who was always in my head but never by my side.
I’d go a whole hour and then a whole afternoon without thinking about Emma or Samuel. Then I’d go a whole night. A day. Never a week, but close enough.
But then Stevie shows up, and I don’t think about Emma much at all. Come to think of it, since Vegas, I didn’t think about Emma until that day Rhett told me Samuel wanted to speak to me.
I’d panicked then. Lost my shit worrying about him and her and how it would be to see them again after all this time. Maybe that’s why I’m only just realizing where my head’s at and how I truly feel.
Where is my head at?
Watching Stevie clean her plate, I can honestly say I have no thought other than to show my fake girlfriend a real good time. And why not? Why can’t I be over Emma? I fell for her quickly, and nothing ever happened between us. Well, except for the kiss, and that was just—yeah, a terrible thing I did. There are all those old wives’ tales about how the time it takes you to get over someone is directly related to the time you were together.
Emma and I were never together.
And I still took the better part of a year to lick my wounds. What if they’re healed?
What if I really have moved on?
That would mean I’m free to do anything. With anyone. Fake. Real. Whatever. I don’t want to fall in love again. I have enough sense to know I need to pump the brakes a bit here. But the relief is real, and I want to celebrate it.
I just have to convince my brother I really am over Emma. Which shouldn’t be hard, considering it’s the truth.
Stevie’s running her boot up the back of my calf while chatting with Beau about how he’s been learning to cook from Samuel. She’s engaged. Relaxed. Her lips are stained a deep shade of plum thanks to the wine.
I’m just buzzed enough to think having her shake her ass in front of my family is a good idea. Because I’m gripped by the sudden, fierce need to enjoy my freedom to the fullest.
I wanna see if Stevie really does know her Fleetwood Mac.
“So y’all,” I say, setting down my fork and wiping my mouth on one of Milly’s fancy monogrammed napkins. “Would you be up for a little impromptu musical accompaniment to dessert?”
“Yes!” Annabel says.
Milly holds up her wineglass. “Yessir. Will you be taking requests?”
“Nope.” I turn my head to look at Stevie. “But if I play, I’m gonna need someone on the tambourine.”
Stevie’s eyes light up. “You actually have a tambourine?”
“What kind of Stevie Nicks fan would I be if I didn’t?” I stand and take Stevie’s plate. “You okay if I do some dishes real quick, then run back to my place to grab what we need? Shouldn’t take more than five minutes, tops.”
Stevie looks at me, forehead crinkling for half a heartbeat before it’s smoothed by a smile. “Of course. Thanks for checking, baby.”
Her smile—it’s not totally fake, but it’s not totally real, either. Feels a little forced, almost.
That bothers me.
I have a right to my feelings. We all do. But I have absolutely no right to wonder why being looked after trips her up so much. I promised her this weekend was an extension of our fling, so while faking a relationship is totally kosher, digging into real pain and unhappy pasts is not.
I lean down and press a kiss to her mouth. “I’ll always check in with you, honey.”
I grab her plate and mine and head for the kitchen. Milly follows me, and that’s when I notice her eyes are a little red.
“Hey.” I nudge her with my elbow. “You all right?”
She turns on the faucet and keeps her gaze trained on our dirty plates as she gives them a rinse. “I’ll be okay.”
“What happened?”
She finally spears me with a glare. “Can you not take a hint? I don’t want to talk about it. It’s nothing, anyway.”
“Then why were you crying?”
“I don’t cry. I kick ass.”
Chuckling, I elbow her aside, relieving her of dish duty. “Everybody cries, Milly.”
For a second, her lips purse and her chin crinkles, like she’s holding in a sob. Blinking, she swallows and looks away. “Love’s a bitch. That’s all.”