“Oh, no,” she cuts in with a choked laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, no. Do not even go there.”

I can’t stop myself. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“Unless it’s about what to get Scottie for his birthday, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Easy. Handkerchiefs from Henry Poole.” I shrug at Brenna’s obvious surprise. “Boring, I know. But Scottie loves those things. And, you’re right, that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Rye, no.” She holds up a hand. “Just don’t.”

“You’d rather go to an escort service?” I’m trying hard not to sound panicked at the notion. “Risk all the things that could go seriously wrong with that? Risk your safety?”

Wrong thing to say. Her auburn brows lower. “You would focus on that. It’s none of your business.”

“We established that. But, I’m your friend—”

“We fight all the time.”

“Yeah, we fight. And, yeah, you’re annoying.” She purses her lips in clear irritation, but a flash of acknowledgment makes me fight a smile. Bicker though we may, we know each other well. “I care about you, Bren. If something happened to you, it would tear me up.”

The silence that follows is so absolute, the honking from cabs fifteen stories below rings loud and clear. Brenna’s obvious shock is another blow. For fuck’s sake, did she really think I didn’t care? She’s Killian’s cousin. That alone would make her important to me. But she’s also a major part of my life. For better or worse, we’ve been in each other’s pockets since we were headstrong teens.

Despite my best effort to keep quiet, I grumble low in my throat. To my horror, it sounds a lot like hurt. Damn it.

Brenna bites the corner of her bottom lip—something she does when she knows she’s stuck her foot in it. Then she sighs. “Of course, I’d care if something bad happened to you.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. Truly.”

It’s impressive the way she can flip her long ponytail over her shoulder with a slight toss of her chin. I’ve seen that little move countless times and it never fails to amuse me, even when I know I’m about to get a tongue-lashing.

“I’m not feeling very enthusiastic toward you right now,” she says. “However, I’ll put your concern at ease. I’m not going to hire anyone to take care of my needs. Okay?”

I should be relieved. Instead, I am oddly deflated. Not because I want her to do that, but it weakens the case I’ve built in my head. “Oh.”

Her lips quirk. “I guess you didn’t hear that part, huh?”

“Well…uh, no?”

“No?” She tsks. “Your eavesdropping powers are sadly lacking, Ryland.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Your voice dipped a few times. It was kind of frustrating. Maybe talk a bit louder next time?”

She snorts but then switches back into her all-business mode. “Now that we’ve got that settled, you can leave.”

I should. I should absolutely turn and walk out her door. And I’d regret it forever. “Nothing is settled until you find what you need.”

Red suffuses her cheeks. “Damn it, Rye—”

“I want it to be me,” I blurt without any finesse. I breathe deep and say more calmly, “I want to be the one you use.”

My words bounce between us in syncopated agitation. For once, Brenna is at a loss for words.

Chapter Two

Brenna

 

I knew it was coming. That he was going to offer some ridiculous “solution” to my problem. I knew this. But knowing and experiencing are entirely different shocks to the system.

In both subtle and not-so-subtle ways, Rye has never let me forget that I had a crush on him when the band first got together. Usually, it takes the form of little digs about how irresistible I secretly find him or in remarks about my sex life—the idea being that I’ll never have anything better than what I could have with him, if only he wanted me in return.

I gave as good as I got, always making it crystal clear that my love life was intensely satisfying, and that I’d never stoop to wanting Rye again. He responded in kind. Were our interactions mature? No. They’d been forged in our youth, and we’d never been able to break the pattern. But this was too much. He’d gone past light teasing and straight into making my weakness a joke.

It is appalling how hurt I am. I didn’t expect that at all. I thought I’d worked past being hurt by him. Unfortunately, Rye Peterson has never been easy for me to push into the background.

Certainly not now. He stands before me, his beefy arms crossed over his wide chest, thick eyebrows winging up in expectation. Millions view him as Kill John’s lovable goofball, a big teddy bear who simply needs the right person to cuddle him into submission. As for me, it’s all I can do not to punch his arrogant blunt nose. I won’t do it. I still have some sense of decorum. But I can’t hold my tongue. I can’t.

“You asshole,” I grind out, lurching up and stalking forward. “I know we’ve had our moments, but I never thought you’d sink this low.”

“Hey,” he cuts in with a shocked voice. “Hold on there—”

“No, you hold on.” I poke his chest. “This isn’t funny.”

His mouth falls open. “Wait a minute, you think I’m making a joke here?”

The outrage in his voice gives me pause. “What else am I supposed to think? You overhear me saying I’m…” God, I’m not going to repeat myself. I’m humiliated enough that he heard it the first time. I swallow convulsively, horrified that I might actually cry. “And now you’re, what, offering yourself up for the job? And I’m supposed to take that seriously?”

Rye sets his hands low on his hips and cocks his head like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “Bren, this isn’t a joke. I’m completely serious here.”

My butt hits the curved arm of the couch, all the blood in my head rushing to my toes. He can’t be serious. Yes, there had always been a buzz of attraction between us, but we’d both knew it was unwelcome and unwanted. Rye would never fold like this, not after all this time.

But he reads me well and gives a short nod of confirmation. “I’m not trying to yank your chain or belittle you. What I’m offering is real.”

I touch my forehead and find it clammy. In truth, I’m reeling. “I need a drink.”

Turning my back on him, I march to the kitchen, wobbling on my heels. I never wobble. I kick my shoes off before pouring myself a glass of water from the fridge and then take several large gulps.

Rye walks up and leans his forearms on the counter. His expression is completely calm, but his thumb betrays him and taps an agitated rhythm on the marble. He clearly hasn’t shaved in a while, and his stubble has moved into beard territory. Over the years, Rye has worn a beard only once—one strange summer when all the guys decided to rock the lumberjack look. That quickly ended when people started sending them beard oil and toy axes.

Rye doesn’t look bad, however. Just the opposite; it’s hot, different. It changes his face enough that it’s as if I’m talking to a new version of Rye. And it throws me off even more.