Rye

She’s here. It’s the only coherent thought I have. She’s here. The absence of her was a cold fist in my chest all these weeks. Weeks I spent pretending everything was fine, just the same as ever. Weeks lying to myself. Because the whole time, that cold, hard fist in my chest was there, hurting, aching, reminding me that she wasn’t around.

In the quiet, still hours of the night, I’d lie in my bed and wonder if it was for the best, ending things early, telling myself how bad it would have truly hurt if I’d stayed longer, pretending that I was okay with keeping things how they were. My insides were shredded. They’d be completely liquidated if I’d grown even more attached.

Still, I can’t regret having her for those brief moments in time. She made me realize I can have something more out of life, that it’s okay to want more.

But what I truly want is Brenna. And she wants a clean break. How the hell do I act around her now?

The question runs through my head as I extract myself from the pile of small children I’d been playing with in an attempt to distract myself from her inevitable arrival. I sic them on Jax and Killian and make my way to where she’s accepting a pink, fizzy gin drink from a passing waiter.

It’s cold on the terrace, but they have large braziers set up around the spot and the outdoor fireplace is crackling away. Brenna huddles near it and sips her drink while some guy named Ned that I’d been introduced to an hour ago chats her up. He’s an investment banker from London and is wearing the kind of tightly tailored suit those guys seem to favor. I don’t like him. Mainly because I’ve become a jealous fool when it comes to Brenna. Not proud of that, but I can’t seem to shake it off.

It’s a strange, uncomfortably weakening relief when Bren turns my way and gives me a small smile.

“Hey,” we both say at the same time. With the same, awkward hesitation.

Ned must be as smart as he looks because he fucks off fairly quickly. I don’t acknowledge him but keep my eyes on Brenna. God, but she’s sharp-edged beautiful in this faded watercolor world of mine. She makes my knees weak and my heart ache. And all I can do is stare at her, afraid to blink and find she’s gone.

My palms start to sweat, my breath coming in short. This is what she does to me. And, fuck me, but I like it. Well, except for the fact that I seem to have become tongue-tied. I swallow thickly and force my voice to work.

“You cut your hair.” It’s all I can get out. And it’s probably the worst way to start, because she flushes deep pink and touches her hair.

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?”

“If I was, I’d be reeling up a boot right about now.”