Chapter 17: All or Nothing: Chapter 16

That Friday night, I fretted over what to wear. Ben and Emmy were having a little housewarming party for their newly renovated, postflood place together, and I knew Braydon would be there. We’d texted each other off and on over the past week about how our workdays had been, a new restaurant he discovered, trivial things like that. But we had avoided all serious topics. This would be the first time I’d seen him since he opened up to me. I wondered what the night would bring.

I chose a pair of black skinny jeans with knee-high boots and a soft gray sweater that clung to my best assets. Casual yet cute. Emmy had rejected my numerous offers for helping with the party, but I refused to arrive empty-handed, so I stopped on the way over and picked up a giant bouquet of fresh flowers for her. The hostess could never have too many flowers, right?

I was one of the first to arrive and Emmy was still setting up, so I jumped into action beside her in the kitchen. “Where do you need me?”

She gave a quick glance around the kitchen and pointed at a pile of lemons and limes on the counter. “Slice those into wedges for drink garnishes, please!”

“You got it.” I grabbed a knife and cutting board and went to work. Soon we had everything under control, guests began filtering in, and we started setting out cheeses, fruits, and other yummy bite-sized treats, along with plenty of refreshing cocktails. The large arrangement of flowers I’d brought looked perfect in the cut-crystal vase in the center of Emmy’s new dining table.

Helping set up for the party provided a great distraction. But soon the air around me changed and I realized Braydon had arrived. He stood in the center of the living room talking with a tall thin blonde with tits the size of Texas. Just great. Who the hell invited Buxom Barbie?

“That’s Marissa,” Emmy leaned in and whispered to me. I shrugged. I shouldn’t care.

“She’s a makeup artist Ben’s worked with several times. Probably Bray, too. Don’t look so worried.” She bumped her hip into mine, trying to lighten my mood.

It didn’t help. I dumped a bag of pretzels into a bowl and shoved it at her. “It doesn’t matter, Em. Just drop it.” Shit. My hands trembled as I moved on to my next task—refilling the ice. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here. When my eyes lifted to Braydon again, he was alone this time. And watching me.

“You’re not even going to come say hi?” he teased, smiling crookedly at me from across the room.

“Sorry, I thought you were busy,” I called out. Busy with Slutty Barbie.

“Come here.” He opened his arms and I immediately went to him, folding myself into his embrace. His strong arms closed around me and I inhaled against his chest.

“How have you been?” The brightness in his eyes and the sincerity in his voice took me by surprise.

I shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

His jaw tensed. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but I got called away by Emmy to help with removing the appetizers from the oven.

She thrust a pair of oven mitts at me. “Sorry. I thought you needed saving.”

I shook my head. “No, he was . . .” I searched for the right word. . . .

“He’s sweet with you,” Emmy observed, watching Braydon with a look of admiration.

Yeah, real sweet. He didn’t want to be seen in public with me, and in private he commanded my body and my heart like no one else. A real sweetie. I removed the crab wontons from the oven and began plating them, thankful for the distraction.

I avoided the chance to mingle by staying in the kitchen. I liked this role. It allowed Emmy to spend time with her guests while I kept the snacks refilled and cleared away empty plates, all while sipping my wine in peace and watching Braydon discuss sports, politics, and modeling with various guests throughout the room. I had the perfect vantage point. God, his butt was cute in those jeans. Refilling my own wineglass yet again, I settled onto a barstool at the kitchen island. I’d probably been a little too liberal with my own wine consumption, but what the hell. I was at the housewarming party for two of my married, very in-love friends and was face-to-face with my ex-fuck friend. Yay, me.

Suddenly realizing Braydon was standing just two feet away, looking concerned, I lowered the glass from my lips. I wasn’t sure when he’d entered the kitchen or how long he’d been staring at me, but he stepped closer and brought a hand to my jaw. He dragged his thumb across my damp lower lip, wiping away a trace of red wine. “You’re frowning.”

I swallowed. Hard. Then forced a smile.

“Why are you sad?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Braydon. Really.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Kitten . . .” His tone was cocksure and imploring. I pulled in a shuddering breath and he dropped his hand, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I thought about what you said, and I realized I wasn’t being fair to you.”

“Go on.” My heart kicked up a steady thumping rhythm.

“I told you when we agreed to this arrangement that I’d take care of you. And I failed at that. I didn’t take care of all your needs as I should have.”

“What are you saying?”

“You needed more,” he said simply.

“Yes, I did,” I murmured.

“I’ve thought about it, and I don’t want to lose what we had, so . . .” He hesitated briefly. “I’m going to try and give you a bit more.”

“What do you mean?” Either I’d consumed far too much wine or he was speaking in code.

“I’m asking you out.”

“Out?”

“Yes, out. Will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Like at a restaurant? In public?”

“That’s the plan.”

I’d done what Emmy had said, put distance between us, let him miss me, and apparently it had worked. I wanted to jump up and down and do some air-humping right there in the kitchen, but instead I remained composed. “Um, sure. Why not?”

He chuckled at me. “Cool.”

Wow. This was quite the one-eighty. My stomach flipped as I realized what this meant. I wasn’t alone in my feelings for him. He wanted me back. Maybe he would come around after all, open himself up to me like I wanted. Remembering Emmy’s advice, I took a deep breath, preparing myself to turn him down, even though I wanted to go running straight back into his arms. “Oh, actually, I would love to but I’m getting together with Emmy. I’m free on Sunday.”

“Sunday’s perfect. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Okay. And Braydon?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“See you soon, kitten.”

Emmy burst through the kitchen door just as Braydon was returning to the party. “Tell me everything,” she demanded, hopping up and down.

I blew out a sigh. Was he asking me out because he genuinely wanted to date me, or because he’d promised me that all my needs would be met when I’d agreed to his arrangement? I would need Emmy to help me try and decipher the latest in my ongoing saga with Braydon Kincaid. “We’re going on a date.”

She squealed and pulled me in for a hug.

• • •

The night of our date arrived and Braydon called to warn me when he was coming over to my place. I met him downstairs, where he had a cab waiting. He gave me a warm hug, pressing his body to mine, and I almost collapsed at his intoxicating scent and firm body, which was rigid in all the right places. We slipped into the backseat of the cab, the mood between us giddy. We were really doing it—going out on a proper date. The tone of our relationship felt totally different. Braydon’s wide smile and roaming hands had me giggling as we rode to the restaurant.

After he paid the driver, he helped me from the car and led me inside a dimly lit Italian restaurant with exposed brick walls, flickering candles, and the scent of garlic in the air. My stomach grumbled loudly as the hostess seated us at the booth in the front, overlooking the bustling sidewalk and busy street. The fading sunlight warmed the mahogany table and cast everything in a pretty, romantic glow. I liked being out with Braydon. I couldn’t help but notice people casting glances our direction. We looked cute together. He smartly dressed in a button-down navy shirt and gray slacks; me in my slim-fit black ankle pants, flats, and a red sweater with chunky gold jewelry.

We flipped open the menus and decided on a bottle of wine and an appetizer just as our server appeared. Once the wine arrived, he lifted his glass of Shiraz to mine.

“Cheers.”

“To?” I inquired.

His lazy smile lifted as he thought it over. “To being out.”

Out. I pondered the meaning while I swirled the ruby-colored liquid in the glass. Out in public? Or out, as in, out of the closet as a couple? I’d give myself a headache trying to solve that question, so instead I just lifted the glass to my lips. The spicy, peppery flavors of black currant and tannins hit my palate and instantly relaxed me. I took several gulps of the wine to calm my nerves. I briefly wondered if he was still worried about his ex—I knew that being out with a woman was a big deal for him. It made me sit up just a little taller in my seat.

Having not seen him on a regular basis like I’d grown used to, I wondered what Braydon had been up to. “Have you been working much?” I asked, accepting a refill of my wine.

“Quite a bit, actually. I just filmed a commercial for a sports car last week, and I’ve booked several print jobs recently. And in my free time I’ve been helping Ben on the finances for the charity.”

“I didn’t know you knew about finance.”

He nodded. “It was my major in college. And I figure if I can help them out, then they don’t have to pay someone to do it and can use their funds for good instead of operating expenses.”

I smiled at his thoughtfulness. The more I thought about it, the more impressed I was with his unending loyalty to Ben and Emmy. He was really one of the most dedicated friends I’d ever met. I didn’t appreciate that side of him enough.

We coordinated our orders to include two very different dishes so we could share them. As we ate pesto ravioli and spicy shrimp with linguine, Braydon asked about my work. I chattered on and he listened attentively. I described the tedious nature of my job and the projects I was currently running. I figured he’d be bored to tears within minutes, but Braydon always surprised me. He asked thoughtful questions and probed deeper a few times, too. It was nice to have an adult conversation that was more than just flirty banter.

Something else was stewing in the back of my mind. He’d told me about his failed past relationship and invited me out to a nice dinner . . . so I should probably feel grateful and not pry, but something told me there was more to the story. Following my gut instinct, I pushed him a little harder.

“I can’t help feeling like something else happened in your past to turn you against relationships so completely. I want you to know, you can open up to me. You can trust me, Bray.” He smiled, but didn’t say anything else. I pressed on. “If the right girl came along, do you think you’d be open for something more?”

He pondered my question, looking down at his plate. Then his blue eyes slid up to mine. “She’d have to be one hell of a girl.” He smiled, his dimple taunting me.

“Why are you like this?” I held up a hand. “And don’t say it’s just because of your past. I hate to think one girl had this power over you. Something else must have happened.” Something prevented me from mentioning Katrina. I knew he’d had at least one successful relationship, but I doubted he’d take too kindly to me digging into his past.

Braydon released a heavy exhale and set down his fork. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, but I could tell he was willing to try. For me. “Let’s just say I was with someone who fucked with my head. It’s made me wary of starting anything serious again.”

I waited, watching him and silently turning the bracelet on my wrist. I sensed there was something more he wanted to say.

“My mom . . .” He coughed and cleared his throat before starting again. “She developed early-onset dementia. She got so bad, so unstable and untrusting of everyone, she had to be moved into a permanent-care facility. My dad lost himself when that happened. I watched how losing my mom utterly changed my dad. He went from this vibrant, strong man, looking forward to retirement and traveling, to a shell of his former self. He had to go on antianxiety medication, and when he wasn’t at Mom’s side, he just sat in front of the TV and zoned out. Retirement was put on hold to pay for her extremely pricey care. That all happened at the same time that I found out the girl I’d grown close to was batshit crazy.”

I reached out and held his hand. “I’m sorry. Is your mom . . .” Better, I prayed.

“She passed away last year.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He nodded at my acknowledgment. There was nothing more to say. Braydon wasn’t some shallow player, as I’d feared. There were deeper reasons that explained how he had become this person, external forces that had shaped his outlook and willingness to give himself over and fall in love. My heart hurt for him. I knew I needed to be patient and let him heal and find his own way. I just hoped that I was at the end of that path.

After that heavy conversation, we ate in silence until we were both full. We refused dessert, even though the cheesecake and the tiramisu were calling my name. I knew I better not overdo it.

“Thank you for tonight,” I murmured after Braydon had settled the check with our server.

He lifted my hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss on my palm. “You’re welcome, dear.”

It all felt so normal and datelike, yet it was such a new experience being out with him like this. I liked it. A lot. And I especially loved how he’d opened up to me a little more. I couldn’t believe he’d shared all that about his mom and dad’s relationship. I could see why that would make him wary about love. But it only made me want to love him more. He needed it—deserved it—and I wanted to be the one to care for him.

After dinner, we stood on the sidewalk as the traffic and pedestrians buzzed past us. I was full and happy and slightly tipsy from the wine. I was trying to keep my expectations in check, but I wanted nothing more than for him to whisk me back to his place and show me where he lived. Take me to his bed. I hoped his pillows smelled like him. I wondered if he’d be messy or neat. A minimalist or a hoarder. Would his kitchen be barren and seldom used, or would it bear the evidence that he enjoyed cooking at home? I’d gotten another peek inside the heart of Braydon, but there were so many other little things I was curious about.

“Are we going back to your place?” I whispered, nuzzling against the warmth of his neck. I loved the way his stubble lightly grazed my skin.

“Not tonight.”

I paused. “Oh.”

“Can I take you home?”

I thought it over. I didn’t want to ruin the evening. Tonight was progress, I had to keep reminding myself as we waited for a passing cab to stop.

“I could come over for a little while,” he offered.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I thought this was what you wanted?” Confusion etched into his brow.

I shook my head. Going out was just half of the equation. I wouldn’t give in this easily. “No apartment, no sex.”

“Why is that so important to you?”

“It just is. I don’t want to fall into the same pattern with you. Where you live is a huge fucking deal. Someone’s place says a lot about them. I don’t want to take the next step if you’re going to keep holding back.”

“Can’t I have just one secret?”

“Yes. Harmless secrets, like whether or not you pee in the shower—or if you’ve ever farted on the subway and blamed it on someone else.”

He broke out in laughter, despite the heavy moment. “You’re too much. You know that?”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“And for the record, I don’t pee in the shower.”

“Yeah right,” I scoffed. “I thought all guys did that. It’s like a locker room thing—crossing streams and playing swords . . .”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not this guy. I use the toilet. While the shower water heats up.”

I chuckled. “Me too.” My foolish brain cataloged that it was just another of the many things we had in common. “Still, this is a big deal to me, Braydon. Huge, in fact. I want us to trust each other. If you can’t even give me your address, then maybe we need more time.”

He nodded. “You’re right. Goodnight then.”

“Night,” I said a bit more harshly than I meant to. I turned from him and slipped into the cab that had stopped at the curb, feeling mixed emotions about the way our first date had ended.