Wherever It Leads (24 page)

“True,” she grins in victory of distracting me. “Okay, you go to work and do your bookstore thing, and I’ll grab some expensive wine and we can just drink the night away.”

“I’m sure you’d hate that,” I laugh at my wine-loving friend.

She clutches her chest. “It will be torture, but I’ll do it for you.”

I lift off the bed and start the search for the purse I take to work when the doorbell rings. Presley stands and heads towards the hallway.

“I’ll get it,” she says.

“Expecting someone?”

“Maybe,” she sings. “I was with this guy a couple of days ago and he’s been threatening to show up and fuck some sense into me if I don’t return his call. So, naturally, I’m not returning any of his calls. Or texts.”

I locate my purse under a pile of sundresses I discarded when packing only because it starts ringing. I see my father’s number and my heart leaps into my throat. “Daddy?”

“Hey, Brynne Girl. Did you make it home?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I should’ve called.”

“It’s fine. I’ll let your mother know. You know how she gets.” He takes a long pause and I wait. He has something else to say, I can feel it through the line. “Grant came by here yesterday.”

“He did?” I sit on my bed and wait for him to reply.

“Yeah. He was really shaken up.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much. I let him hang around for an hour or so then told him to hit the road unless he had something to tell me and he said he didn’t. But I think he did. I think he was going to tell me something.”

“About Brady?”

“I guess. He was just so odd, even for Grant. I know things between us are strained, and he isn’t the little boy I carted to baseball practice years ago. But there’s no comfort level anymore. It’s like he feels guilty and won’t tell me why, and I finally just told him to go so I didn’t wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until he got it off his chest.”

I sigh. “Mom can’t handle you in prison.”

“I can’t handle me in prison. I’d be no good to any of you there.”

We sit on the line quietly. I watch the tree sway in the breeze outside my window.

“Has he contacted you?” Dad asks.

“Presley said he came by. I wasn’t here.”

“I want you to be careful with him, Brynne. Don’t see him unless you’re in public, okay? He’s driving a new BMW SUV. Where’d he get the money for that?”

“I have no idea,” I breathe, feeling a sickness sweep over me.

“Me either. But there’s something going on with that boy, and I don’t want you alone with him. You hear me?”

“I do.”

“If you do, like I said, do it in public. Be safe about it.”

“I will. But I have to go to work now. I’m going to be late.”

“Go. We’ll talk soon. Love you.”

I stand and head to the door. “Love you, Dad.”

T
hud!

The stack of books comes crashing down, smacking me in the head and shoulders as they barrel towards the floor.

“Ouch!” I yelp, shielding my face from the onslaught of paperbacks. The thundering stops and I open my eyes to see a chaotic scene in front of me. Romance stories are scattered everywhere, stories all ending in a happily-ever-after. The irony is not lost on me.

I begin the tedious task of picking them all up and stacking them in shorter piles on the table.

I’ve been tucked away in a back corner of the bookstore all afternoon. We haven’t been very busy anyway, so that coupled with my seclusion has given me way too much time to think, and I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.

All I can do is think about Fenton.

Everything reminds me of him. The cover model on one super-sexy book. The girl in a bikini on another. The grey paint in this part of the store would match his eyes and I know he’d hate the music playing over the speakers, just like he hated the similar music in the café we stopped at for breakfast on the way to the yacht.

It’s a miserable decline into the pits of remorse.

I’ve always heard you shouldn’t regret your decisions. You should analyze them, learn from them, and be grateful. I wonder if those people have ever experienced Fenton Abbott and then had him turn away.

Doubtful.

“Ugh,” I groan, picking up a book with a boat on the cover. It looks romantic and fun and I hate it instantly. I hope the heroine knows how that ends. He’s going to drop her off at home and she’ll be heartbroken in the bookstore at the end of the novel.

I slam it down a little more forcefully than necessary.

I’m not heartbroken.

I bend over and scoop up a novel that’s hidden under the table. It’s a glossy pink cover with a beautiful couple kissing under a palm tree. He has dark hair and a strong jawline, just like Fenton.

I press it to my chest and take a deep breath. If I try hard enough, I can smell his cologne.

“Brynne? You can take your break now,” my boss says as she walks by, carrying a stack of magazines. “There’s coffee cake in the break room. I made it this morning.”

“Thanks,” I grin, feeling relieved. I need a shot of sugar and some time to get myself together.

Working my way to the break room, I spy the dessert, take a chunk and cuddle up on a loveseat as my phone lights up with a number I don’t know. I swipe it instantly. “Hello?”

“Hey, Brynne.” Grant’s voice shoots through the phone, rougher than any I’ve heard in awhile. The familiarity I once found in his timbre is long gone.

“Grant?”

“How have you been? I was by a couple of days ago.”

“So I heard.”

“You okay?”

Dropping the rest of the cake in the garbage next to the chair, I sit up and sigh. “I’m great. What do you want?”

“Will you have dinner with me?”

“No.”

He sighs and I know he’s scratching his head. He always does that when he’s frustrated. “Please?”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“We do, actually,” he says, his voice lower now. “I want to talk to you about some stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Just . . . stuff. I can come over, if you want.”

Remembering my father’s warning, I give in. I know Grant’s going to show up. That’s just how he is. If I at least hear him out and agree to do it somewhere publicly, maybe he won’t come by the house and cause a scene.

“No,” I groan. “Don’t do that. I’ll . . . I’ll meet you somewhere tomorrow night.”

“You will?”

I hear the surprise in his voice and instead of making me smile, I frown deeper. “I guess. You’re leaving me no choice.”

“Perfect. I’ll text you a place later. Does that work?”

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“Awesome! I can’t wait to see you, Brynne.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I click off the phone and squeeze my temple. The son-of-a-bitch better have something to tell me. Before I can think about it too long, the phone rings again. I hold it in my hands, watching Fenton’s name at the top of the screen.

“Hello?” I try to sound as relaxed as I can, like I was just lying on my bed, watching television. The syllables come out forced, breathy, but it’s the best I can do.

“Hey, Brynne. It’s Fent.” His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket on a winter night. It tugs at the memories of being actually wrapped around him and that stings. Even so, I can’t help but feel the little hope budding in my gut at his attempt at reaching out.

“Fent, huh?”

“It’s a newly acquired moniker given to me by a beautiful, sassy, bikini-clad girl. I kind of miss hearing it, actually.”

“Whoever gave it to you was clearly a genius.”

“That might be stretching it . . .”

The laugh that radiates from me betrays my attempt at sounding cool and unattached. Our banter is too comfortable. It’s almost as if we haven’t lost a step in the easy way we have together. Had together. Whatever.

The uncertainty of where we actually stand and the anticipation of why he might’ve called riddle me, and as much as I want to just start talking, I don’t. The ball is in his court.

“I thought I’d check on you,” he says.

“I’m good.”

He breathes heavily and I know he’s squeezing his temples. I wonder where he’s at and how things are going for him. And before I know it, I’m asking. “How are you?”

“Hanging in there. What did you do today?”

“I’m working, actually. On a break. What are you doing?”

“The same.”

His answer is super simple, leaving both nothing and everything to the imagination. He didn’t say enough for me to decide if it’s a good day or a bad day, and I’m not sure I’m supposed to press for more.

“Sounds fun,” I reply and then decide to take a gamble. “Did you ever work out that big problem you had?”

“Maybe,” he grunts. “But I don’t want to call you and talk about work.”

“Well, what do you want to call and talk to me about?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. I’m holding my breath, hoping, maybe even praying a little bit, that he’ll say something I want to hear.

Instead of something over-the-top, or even hopeful, he laughs. “I just wanted to hear your voice, to tell you the truth.”

“Well, here I am. Hanging in there, as you say.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” A long moment passes between us and I wait for him to continue. “Do you have plans tomorrow night? I’d love to see you now, but I have meetings that are probably going to run late,” he sighs.

I have half a notion to tell him I don’t. I want to see him so much that I would blow off Grant and maybe never hear what he has to say just to lay my eyes on Fenton again. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know I can’t do that. I’m just a distraction for Fenton and I need to hash this out with Grant.

“I do, actually,” I say, feeling the words fall off my lips.

I don’t miss his groan in response, but I can’t make out the words he mutters.

“What do those entail?” he asks cautiously.

“Dinner. Then wine.”

“With the same person?”

“Not necessarily,” I shrug. “I might have wine at dinner, but Presley and I will also be having wine when I return.”

“So it’s safe to assume you’re not having dinner with Presley?”

“That’s true. It’s also safe to assume, for what it’s worth, that I won’t be wearing a bikini.”

“Brynne . . .”

The deep timbre of his voice floods through me, sparking the spots in my body that only he can. I shiver from the onslaught.

“Who are you going to dinner with?” he asks, his voice rough, not at all the cashmere effect.

“Grant.”

Tension fills the line and I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear in some sort of pointless self-defense maneuver. Without being able to see him, I know his eyes are narrowed, his strong, sexy jaw pulsing. He would be looking down at me, taking a step closer to me, invading my space and my senses with all that is Fenton.

I gulp, the mere vision of him making me sweat.

“Can I ask a favor of you?” he says finally.

“Sure.”

“Don’t go to dinner with him.”

I snort. “Fenton, really? This is none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business.”

“Too freaking bad.”

He laughs, but the rumble isn’t filled with amusement or sincerity. “Go to dinner with me instead.”

I leap off the sofa, my cheeks aching from the smile stretched from ear-to-ear. Pulling the phone away from my face, I exhale a rushed breath.

It’s what I want—definitely what I want—to see him, to spend time with him. But as I pace across the break room floor, reality sets in. If not because I need this resolution with Grant, but because I’m not letting him think he can just call the shots. That’s not how I roll for him or anyone else.

He needed a pause to this relationship and now I do.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

The innuendo thick in his voice makes me shiver, my thighs clenching shut at the promise of things to come.

“I’m sure you would,
Fent
, but I really can’t.”

A low rumble ripples through the phone and I clamp my legs together harder. “I don’t understand why you are so hell bent on seeing this kid?”

“I, for one, have a little respect for a couple of years spent with someone.” It’s not the complete truth, but I don’t want to bring up Brady. I want to keep it simple.