They share a look that speaks of a lifetime of watching out for each other. And while I’m so damn glad she’s had Killian watching her back, I suddenly feel all the years of being on the outside of her life, looking in. I’m still not fully in her life. My chest clenches, and I resist the urge to rub it.

Killian glances at his watch. “Shit, I’ve got to go.”

That’s my cue to go as well. I could stick around, wait for him to leave, but Brenna won’t like that. She’ll worry Killian would suspect something. Maybe he would. I don’t care, but I slowly stand—for her, I’ll play this part.

“I’m heading out too.” It’s pouring rain now, pelting against the glass front of the tea house. I could use a good dousing.

Killian gives Brenna a quick kiss on the cheek then flicks down a wad of cash before Brenna and I can pay. “You need a ride?” he asks her.

“No, I’m good. I’m going to return a few emails before calling a car.”

She pointedly doesn’t look my way. Fine, then. Message received.

I grab a square of lemon cake for the road.

Killian glances at the window and then back to me. “You want a ride?”

“Nah. There’s a shop next door I’m going to.” Lie. But I’m getting pretty good at it and made note of the bookstore when I’d arrived. Just in case. I give Brenna a nod. “A pleasure as always, Berry.”

“Rye.”

That’s it. That’s all I get. It’s part of our act. Doesn’t stop the oppressive heaviness that settles on my chest. I take a breath and push out into the rain. I’m instantly soaked and cold to the bone.

Brenna

Alone. Finally.

Even though the shop still hums with conversation and the soft clinks of silverware against china, it’s wonderfully quiet at my table. A nice little cocoon of silence.

I pour the remaining dregs of tea into my cup and take a sip. It’s gone cold and bitter, but I don’t care. I need to do something with my jittery hands.

Shit. I don’t want to deal with my parents. I really don’t want to deal with them in front of my friends. The potential for humiliation is too great. Not when they try their best to make all those around them equally unhappy, and I am one of their favorite targets. In their eyes, I am a traitor. I went off with spoiled, rich Killian and turned my back on them. I shouldn’t let it bother me. Yet one snidely spoken comment from my father and I’m decimated, uncertain, and embarrassed to live within my own skin. I loathe how family can do that to me.

I hate feeling weak, feeling less than. I hate that this insecurity has affected every aspect of my life when I’ve worked so hard to be strong, independent.

After finishing off the tea, I set the cup down with more force than necessary and collect my stuff. It’s still pouring, and I call a car from the service we keep on staff. But my mind drifts to Rye. He surprised me by showing up here.

I can barely look at him when our friends are around now. I’m convinced they’ll see everything on my face, the need to touch him, the way my eyes linger on his face, his arms, his broad shoulders. The scent of him, crisply spicy, deeply masculine, is still in the air around me, and all I want to do is breathe it in.

Our official sex-up day is tomorrow. It feels like a year from now. I wanted to leave with him, ask him to take me away somewhere—his bed, mine, didn’t matter. Just take me away and make me feel good. Make me feel something other than the gnawing sadness and disappointment that talk of my family churns up.

I’m becoming too attached already. I resent the days we’re forced to stay apart. They’re a punishment, something I have to grit my teeth and bear.

In other words, it’s all a mess now. Killian is clearly suspicious. The fact is, Rye and I are getting along too well for any of our friends not to notice. That they expect us to remain as we were, always at odds, always fighting, irritates me. Are Rye and I not allowed to grow?

Either way, it’s a good indication of how they’d react if they found out what we’re doing. Which is to say: they’d want to discuss and dissect every angle. They’d either proclaim us married by the end of the year or broken up by Sunday. A cold sweat breaks out at just the thought of them converging on us. No, it’s none of their business, and I plan to keep it that way.

Maybe I should feel cheap or small for turning to Rye for physical gratification, but I don’t. For the first time in years, I feel…well, not safe…but excited. Life was starting to lose its color, its immediacy. Rye gives that back to me.

God, but he’s going to be there for this horrible family reunion party. He’ll see my parents in action. He’ll see how Uncle Xander treats me like a beloved daughter, while my own dad will do his best to belittle me. He won’t miss the way my mother questions my profession, my life choices. And he’ll be there with Aunt Isabella…Queasiness runs greasy fingers through my belly. I don’t know if I can handle all that heaped on me in one go.

My parents aren’t happy people. Never have been—at least as long as I’ve been around. Thing is, as far as I can tell, they used to be. Before they met each other, that is.

Knowing my mom as I do now, it’s hard to imagine, but she worked as a model throughout her teens and early twenties. She never reached the superstar fame of Killian’s mom, Isabella; her career mostly focused on runway and catalog work. Even so, she met Isabella during Fashion Week, and they became friends. Enough that she was a bridesmaid at Isabella and Xander’s wedding. She took one look at the groom’s younger brother, Neil, and that was it for both of them. Instant attraction, the sort of high octane lust that burned hot and bright—and fast.

My parents lost themselves in each other, marrying within a month. Less than a year later, their attraction died a swift death, and they realized they didn’t actually like each other as people. Only it was too late; mom was pregnant with me, and neither of them wanted to admit their mistake.

It didn’t help that, while Isabella and Xander’s careers went supersonic, my parents’ careers fizzled. Dad kept betting on the wrong investments, the wrong clients, and mom couldn’t secure any more bookings. All they were left with was a little girl neither of them seemed to know what to do with, a small house on Long Island, and a mutual loathing that oddly fueled them. They might have divorced but instead they clung to each other in their misery. And they took me along for the ride. My entire childhood was one long reminder that any misstep or wrong decision I made could result in catastrophe. Work hard but don’t dream big. Dreams easily died in the face of reality.

“Best you learn now, Brenna,” my father had said in a tone that held years of weariness and failure. “You will never be more than a footnote in those boys’ lives. They keep you around because you’re cheap labor, not because you’re of any real value. Don’t waste another year on them. Go to school and live an ordinary life like the rest of us.”

As much as I’ve tried to push those ugly words out of my mind, they had become stuck like tar to my insides, a burning weight. I constantly fight an ugly whisper that asked, what if my parents were right? What if I’ll never be more than someone the guys can easily replace?