So Much More (Made for Love #3) (6 page)

I was the one she clung to when I found her too drunk to stand at some stupid party.

When she woke up in my arms the next morning, she wouldn’t let me go. She apologized. She spoke of how much she missed me. She told me that I was her anchor and that she needed me—her best friend.

It wasn’t the last time she’d leave me.

It wasn’t the last time I’d rescue her.

It wasn’t the last time she’d apologize.

It wasn’t the last time I’d forgive her.

I loved her…

You’re my best friend. You won’t say no. You never do.

I love her still…

I despise myself for that truth. I resent her for not letting me go. Me, here, in her bed—it’s got nothing to do with love. It’s about companionship. It’s about history. It’s about pleasure. It’s about dead dads and countless mistakes. It’s about hoping for redemption that only one of us believes in. It’s about trust.
Trust
. With us, it’s always been about our fractured trust.

She trusts me with her mangled heart. I trust her with my hardened body.

It’s not enough. It never is.

In spite of our late night and my exhaustion, I’m still up at dawn.
Occupational habit.
I wake to the familiar scent of Olivia and the feel of her skin pressed against mine. I’ve always found it incredibly ironic how someone with such severe commitment issues loves to cuddle as much as she does.

As I trace the tips of my fingers along the length of her exposed side, I let the questions that plagued my mind yesterday fill my head. What is she doing here, staying at a hotel, when her family lives across town? What has she been doing for the last year? It’s not the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking. We’re just as good at fighting as we are at making each other come; not to mention her uncanny ability to shut people out when she decides she’s had enough. But the last time we spoke was different. The last time we spoke hadn’t ended in a fight. It ended in promises—promises she broke with her unexplained silence.

What happened to Phillip? Does she still work at the law firm? Does she still live in Denver? Why in the hell didn’t she come back? Why is she here now? What am I supposed to make of this?

Nothing.
I remind myself.
This means nothing. Isn’t that why you didn’t chase after her the last time? Because you know that all of
this
means nothing. It’s just who we are—who she is.

Suddenly, I’m not interested in any answers. Instead, I have the urge to get up and leave. It won’t make a difference if I stay or if I go, so why not go? It’s Sunday. I usually go to church on Sundays with Aunt Row. She always takes me to brunch afterwards. It’s our thing—has been since she moved back to Colorado, seven years ago. Now that I’ve got God on the brain, getting out of this bed seems like the right thing to do. I don’t belong here.

I slide myself out from underneath her and sit up, turning my back to her as my feet find the floor. My hair falls across my shoulders and as I glance around, trying to spot my hair tie, I feel her snake an arm around my waist.

“Looking for this?” she murmurs before her lips press against my back.

I glance down and see what I’m searching for around her small wrist. I’m quick to slip it over her hand, pulling my messy mane back into a knot as she continues to assault my back with her mouth.

“The sun is barely up. Why are you?” she asks, sitting up to wrap her arms around me. The feel of her warm body pressed against my back makes my cock twitch.

“I need to go.”

“Nonsense,” she whispers before her teeth gently tug at my earlobe. “It’s far too early for clothes.”

I shrug away from her touch and stand. I’m tired. Physically. Mentally. I don’t have it in me to give her anymore of myself. “I've got to meet Aunt Row for church.”

“Seriously?” she asks derisively. “You still do that?”

I scowl at her as I step into my briefs, irritated by her condescending tone. “Not everyone has an aversion to consistency, Olive. Or commitment. Or relationships.”

“After last night’s performance, I wonder if you can claim you have any sort of
commitment
to God. You’ve been unfaithful. He may have broken up with you.”

I shake my head as I reach for my jeans. I won’t argue with her about God and she knows it.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she concedes, crawling to the edge of the bed. She reaches for me as I grab my shirt and stops me from pulling it over my head. “Bran—stay. We haven’t even had a chance to talk. You can’t possibly need to leave for church at five in the morning.” I pause for just a moment and my hesitation encourages a smirk to tug at the corner of her mouth. “I like this,” she says softly, her fingers grazing my cheek. “The beard is very sexy. I meant to tell you last night—you kept me too distracted.”

Her observation reminds me how long it's been since we've seen each other. I started growing it after her last disappearing act, which makes it far from new. “It needs a trim,” I think out loud. I make a mental note to take care of it today. If it gets too long, I’m required to wear a beard net at work—
like hell.
“I try and keep it short,” I tell her.

“Looks pretty damn perfect to me.”

I pull away from her as she leans in for a kiss, taking a couple steps back so I'm out of reach. “Why are you here?” I ask, ignoring her pouty expression.

“I told you. It's William's birthday. He called and invited me himself. I couldn't say no.”

“But The Archibald? Why didn't you just stay at the house?”

She arches an eyebrow suggestively. “Somehow, I think we wouldn't have been able to get away with our reunion under their roof. I'm a big girl now, I require my privacy.”

Right
, I think to myself.
And I'm just as predictable as she hoped.

“Come on, Bran—come back to bed. Tell me about Little Bird Cafe. Your name’s on the door. That’s incredible.”

For a fraction of a second, I think about indulging her. Then I remember she can’t be trusted with my heart, which means she doesn’t get to hear about my dreams. Not anymore.

“You’re just passing through, right? You’ll be gone tomorrow?”

“I have a life I've got to get back to,” she answers, sitting on her heels. “But I'm here now. I'm here
now
, Brandon. We have today—if you'll just stop being so stubborn—”

I huff out a sigh as I tug my shirt on over my head. “Because, for you, it’s just that simple. You can blow through town, take what you want, leave what you don’t, and dust your hands off before you get back to your
life.
”

“Hey,” she bites as she stomps out of bed, dragging the sheet along with her. For the first time since she woke up, she covers herself. “Don’t give me that high and mighty bullshit like
you
didn’t take what
you
wanted last night.”

“Oh, and now
you’re
the martyr?” I cry, snatching up my shoes. “You came to do what you always do—fuck my dick and fuck up my head. Well, you got my dick, but you won’t get my head. Not this time,” I grumble, turning to head for the door.

“Dammit! Brandon—
wait!
” she insists, racing toward me. She blocks my path to the exit, stopping my progress with a hand against my chest. “Just
wait.
”

I shake my head at her, immune to the desperation in her eyes. “I
did
wait. I’ve
been
waiting. I’ve
always
waited for you.
You
left
me, remember?
” She pulls her hand away from me as if I’ve burned her with the truth. “I should never have come,” I say, reaching into my pocket. I toss the keycard onto the floor and step around her. “I’m done, Olivia.”

I
SKIPPED OUT ON
church. It wasn’t that I felt condemned or unwanted after my night with Olive. If anyone understands how messed up I am over that girl, it’s God; but after my five mile bike ride home, I needed sleep. When I got in, I took a long shower, I called Aunt Row, made my excuses, offered up my apologies, and then I crashed. I didn’t wake up again until after noon.

I spent the rest of the day running errands and trying not to think of Olive—
Olivia
. I wanted what I said to be true—I want to be done. For good, this time. I should never have gone to her hotel room in the first place. It just confirmed what I already knew with every fiber of my being—we’re broken. We can never be more than what we are.

What we are neither is, nor will it ever be, enough.

I had plenty of things on my to-do list to stay busy and distracted. Cruising around town on my bike, the weight of my groceries on my back, felt good. The weather was nice and I needed the exercise; I needed to punish my muscles and remind my body that I am capable of staying in control. The exertion and the sun wore me out enough for me to get a good night’s rest, which is exactly what I needed.

Now, as I pedal my way through the quiet streets, the darkness of Monday morning’s pre-dawn serving as my only companion, I think about Daphne’s reminder that CSU students will be pouring into town any day now. When school starts, business will pick up and I
need
another set of hands at LB. I decide to take her advice. I have to stop being so picky and just hire someone who can get the job done. I’ve got a handful of resumes from interviews that I’ve conducted over the last couple of weeks. I promise myself I’ll go through them as soon as I’m done with today’s baking.

Just like every other morning, time flies as I busy myself in the kitchen. At seven thirty, when a knock sounds at the front door, I shouldn’t be surprised at how three hours seem to have disappeared, but I am. If it weren’t for the supply of freshly baked pastries I have to show for it, I’d wonder what the heck I’d been doing.

“Oh, my god, I love working the opening shift,” Rachael gushes as I let her in. “It smells like heaven in here. What’s on the menu?”

“Banana nut, cinnamon apple, blueberry crumble,” I reply, listing off the muffins I threw together. “Cranberry orange, lemon zinger, french vanilla,” I continue, naming the scones. “Berry and caramel,”I add, remembering the two kinds of coffee cake that are cooling as we speak. “And if I have time, I was thinking about playing around with a new loaf recipe this morning.”

“You’re a baking beast,” she laughs. “What kind of loaf are you thinking about trying?”

“I’ll let you know if I’m successful,” I say with a grin.

The shop opens at eight and I leave Rachael at the front to man the counter while I make up a supply order. When business starts picking up, I jump on the espresso machine and help her through the rush. We find a steady groove and as soon as Joey arrives, he takes my place and I’m back in the kitchen.

“Brandon,” I hear Rachael call a little while later. “There’s a cutie out here who wants to see you.”

I freeze, thoughts of Olive—
Olivia
—filling my mind.

Did she come back?

“Stuey, don’t make me come back there.”

My shoulders slump in relief at the sound of Daphne’s voice. I cough out a chuckle at her use of my nickname. Every time she calls me Stuey, I regret telling her what the
S
stands for in
Brandon S. King
. I didn't know Stuart could get even more embarrassing. In any case, I know she means to express her affection for me when she uses the name; she does the same thing with her brother, Roman, whose middle name is Cornelius. I still haven't decided which is worse, Corny or Stuey?

I wipe my hands off on my apron and head out to the front. She’s got Caroline in one of those cross-body-wrap things and she smiles when she sees me.

“Someone missed me,” I tease.

She shrugs, absentmindedly running her fingers through Care’s curls, the same dark brown as her mother’s wavy locks. “I just needed to check and make sure you were still in one piece. I didn’t hear from you yesterday.”

“Right. Yesterday,” I mutter, rubbing my chin.

“You saw her.”

I know she’s asking a question, but she doesn’t phrase it like one, and the look in her eyes speaks of her worry. We’ve only been friends for a couple of years, but in that time we’ve come to know each other well. Not to mention, she witnessed the aftermath of my last encounter with Olive.
Olivia.