Exposed (VIP 4)

I’m offered the opportunity to go up to my room and relax, but if I do that, I’ll fall on the bed and sleep for hours. Besides, it would only put off the inevitable. So I follow Whip around the terrace and toward the rear gardens where everyone is having cocktails.

I spot Rye immediately. Mainly because he’s lying prone on the lawn, his big body sprawled at an awkward angle, his eyes wide open and unblinking. I’d be alarmed, but everyone is looking on with a smile as a gaggle of small children approach him with caution. I recognize some of them as the kids of Xander and Isabella’s various friends.

“Is he dead, then?” one boy asks.

“Poke him,” a girl of about six offers.

From his seat on Sophie’s lap, little Felix squawks and waves his fist, as if to say, Do it, mates!

The brave pair of kids tiptoe closer to Rye, and the girl nudges his ribs with her toe. Rye remains limp.

“He’s faking,” she says, but she doesn’t look certain.

She tries it again.

With a roar, Rye explodes upward, jumping to his feet with impressive speed. The kids squeal and scatter like a flock of birds. Screaming and laughing, they run for it as Rye goes after them, snarling like a bear. That is until he somehow catches sight of me. He halts, spinning more fully around to face me, and stands straight. Our gazes snare and, oh sweet sin, he smiles.

That smile, it’s the sun rising over a dark hill. It spreads over his face and lights his eyes.

A warm wave of sparkling happiness fills me, and I am helpless in its wake. All I can do is smile back, my entire body humming with want and anticipation.

We grin at each other like proper fools. That is until the children regroup and swarm Rye. He goes down in a tumble of tiny limbs and children’s happy screams. And all I can think is that resistance is futile.

Rye

She’s here. It’s the only coherent thought I have. She’s here. The absence of her was a cold fist in my chest all these weeks. Weeks I spent pretending everything was fine, just the same as ever. Weeks lying to myself. Because the whole time, that cold, hard fist in my chest was there, hurting, aching, reminding me that she wasn’t around.

In the quiet, still hours of the night, I’d lie in my bed and wonder if it was for the best, ending things early, telling myself how bad it would have truly hurt if I’d stayed longer, pretending that I was okay with keeping things how they were. My insides were shredded. They’d be completely liquidated if I’d grown even more attached.

Still, I can’t regret having her for those brief moments in time. She made me realize I can have something more out of life, that it’s okay to want more.

But what I truly want is Brenna. And she wants a clean break. How the hell do I act around her now?

The question runs through my head as I extract myself from the pile of small children I’d been playing with in an attempt to distract myself from her inevitable arrival. I sic them on Jax and Killian and make my way to where she’s accepting a pink, fizzy gin drink from a passing waiter.

It’s cold on the terrace, but they have large braziers set up around the spot and the outdoor fireplace is crackling away. Brenna huddles near it and sips her drink while some guy named Ned that I’d been introduced to an hour ago chats her up. He’s an investment banker from London and is wearing the kind of tightly tailored suit those guys seem to favor. I don’t like him. Mainly because I’ve become a jealous fool when it comes to Brenna. Not proud of that, but I can’t seem to shake it off.

It’s a strange, uncomfortably weakening relief when Bren turns my way and gives me a small smile.

“Hey,” we both say at the same time. With the same, awkward hesitation.

Ned must be as smart as he looks because he fucks off fairly quickly. I don’t acknowledge him but keep my eyes on Brenna. God, but she’s sharp-edged beautiful in this faded watercolor world of mine. She makes my knees weak and my heart ache. And all I can do is stare at her, afraid to blink and find she’s gone.

My palms start to sweat, my breath coming in short. This is what she does to me. And, fuck me, but I like it. Well, except for the fact that I seem to have become tongue-tied. I swallow thickly and force my voice to work.

“You cut your hair.” It’s all I can get out. And it’s probably the worst way to start, because she flushes deep pink and touches her hair.