Exposed (VIP 4)

Her nose wrinkles as she lets out a self-deprecating sound. “I spent over an hour in the car with Whip, and he never noticed.”

It chafes that Whip picked her up. I wanted to. And yet when I saw him heading for the car, announcing what he was going to do, I hadn’t protested, fearing that the last person she’d want to see at the gate was me.

“It looks good.” It does. But different. I’ve only ever seen Brenna’s hair in a sleek ponytail or running down her back. But it’s now cropped to the tops of her shoulders, the deep-red mass swinging around her face with the slightest movement. It makes her look softer, drawing attention straight to her amber eyes and petal-pink lips.

I want to kiss her so badly that I find myself leaning in but freeze the second I realize what I’m doing. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice the slip because she’s staring off into the distance. Hell, this is awkward. I hate it. Hate that I’ve done this to us. A lump settles in the base of my throat.

A waiter comes by with a tray of drinks, and Brenna sets her half-empty glass on the tray then turns to me. “I’m tired as hell.”

I guess that’s my cue to fuck off like Ned did earlier. It hurts. Shit, it hurts. But I can’t force my company on her. But then she takes a small breath. “But if I sleep, I’ll be a mess for days.” Her gaze, filled with hesitation I’ve never seen from her, clashes with mine. “You want to go on a walk with me?”

“Yes.” Fuck yes.

“All right. Let me change first.” She’s wearing her trademark heels—these are pale pink—and one of her sexy, tight skirt suits in dark green that reaches her knees. Sleek and gorgeous as always. Every time I see Brenna James, I want to unwrap her like the gift that she is.

But she’s not mine anymore.

Fists clenched, I follow her into the house—not that you can really call a place like Varg Hall a house. The main entrance is an enormous double-height space with a black-and-white marble checkerboard floor. Classical statuaries flank the various doorways, and massive portraits of stern Englishmen and women from centuries past hang from the walls. Soaring overhead is a ceiling mural of frolicking angels that is probably the work of some master artist. But I zoned out when we were given the tour years ago.

I wait by the wide staircase, which has been draped in pine garland. The stuff hangs over doorways and snakes around the blood-red marble mantle in the hall fireplace. There’s a twelve-foot Christmas tree at either end of the hall: one is decorated in gold and red, the other in silver and blue. It’s so festive, I feel like I’ve fallen into a Christmas card.

I’m humming “Deck the Halls” when Brenna soon returns, dressed in jeans and a thick Irish sweater. She’s traded her heels for sturdy walking boots and is in the process of putting a white knit cap on her head. She’s so damn adorable, I get a pang in my chest.

A freaking pang.

I’m in so much trouble.

I tuck my hands into my jean pockets and fall into step beside her. We keep silent until we’re away from the house and on a path that leads to a Greek revival folly set by an idyllic lake. I swear this place is insane. I can’t imagine growing up surrounded by this, but it hits me that Brenna spent many summers here.

I try to imagine her as a kid. Did she dream of this life we have now? Had she pictured herself growing old with someone? Melancholy floods me, and my chest aches.

“You were really good with those kids,” she says, breaking the silence. Her lips quirk. “Cute, even.”

“Cute. What every man wants to hear: he’s cute.”

Frankly, I’ll take the compliment with pleasure, but a guy has to at least pretend he doesn’t want to preen with pleasure over being called cute by the girl he’s gone for.

She clearly knows I’m faking my disgruntlement. “Adorable? Is that better?”

“Let’s stick with cute.” I move to the side to let her pass a close pair of boxwood hedges. “I like kids. They’re fun. Uncomplicated.”

We fall into step together as the path widens once more.

“You obviously relate to them,” she says.

A smile pulls at my cheeks. “Is that your way of saying I’m immature? Or simplistic?”

She huffs a sound of dry amusement. “I would never call you simplistic, Rye.”

“So immature is still on the table.”

We’re not teasing each other with the ease we once had. There’s a stilted element that strikes an off-key note. But damn if it doesn’t still feel good to my battered soul, all the same.

That small, coy smile lingers on her lips. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”