Chapter 68

“Since you’re here, not comatose and seem to have all of your body parts, I’m going to assume you’re fine and just ignoring my calls on purpose.”

His heart slammed against his sternum, and his body tightened, adrenaline pumping through him. But then the voice and words registered, and his shock at suddenly not being alone in his house released him.

He slowly turned, lowering his empty glass to his desk. And met Michelle’s furious glare. As the surprise retreated, the familiar dueling emotions of delight, lust, pain and love surged in. Michellen though the distance of the room separated them, he swore her fresh scent teased him, had his mouth watering for a taste.

His gaze lowered, and he felt a spasm in his gut. The skin of her shoulders, bared by the dark red dress that flowed over her body before molding to her beautiful legs, gleamed in the light. She’d worn this for Stoner. Gone to him looking like living, breathing sex. He picked up his glass and strode over to the kitchen.

“Nick.”

“I had no idea the door was unlocked, and you shouldn't show up like that except in case of emergency. Fire.

Flood. My imminent death from a fall and crack on the head. Since neither flames nor water are destroying my crown molding, and I’m vertical, I’m assuming,” he said, tossing her words back at her, “This isn’t an emergency.”

She followed him and stood by the door, “Well, when you refuse to answer my calls and are suddenly too busy for Michellen a lunch, I thought that fall scenario could’ve been possible and let myself in,” she drawled.

Out of his peripheral vision, he watched her stride over to him. She snatched up the glass he’d just splashed alcohol into and threw it back. Reluctant admiration wavered inside him as she didn’t Michellen flinch from the strong hit of whiskey.

She slammed down the glass on the bar top.

“Thirsty?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Pissed. I’m hoping the liquor will mellow me out long enough to listen to your explanation for why you’re avoiding me.”

Nick refilled his drink and raised it to his mouth for a long sip. Stalling. He could admit it. But could he confess that, yes, he’d cut her off this week? It’d been painful but necessary. He’d needed distance to get his head together, so when he finally saw her again, he could maintain the facade of being happy for her and Stoner.

He wasn’t there yet.

Especially with her standing so close that her body heat warmed him. If he inhaled, would he catch his brother’s scent mingling with hers? He stepped back. Another step. And another. Giving her his back, he walked back to the living room, staring at the framed pictures on the table.

Him with his parents and brother. Him and Stoner. Him and Michelle.

His friend. His secret. His heartache.

Jesus, if he could, he’d exorcise his feelings for her. Purge them so they could both be free. Briefly closing his eyes, he took another sip of his drink. When the warmth hit his stomach, he savored it. Welcomed anything that beat back the ice in his bones.

“Nick.”

“How did your date go? Was my brother a perfect gentleman?”

Masochist streak still going strong, I see.

But as much as he hated himself for asking, he didn’t rescind the question. He waited for her answer, a vise squeezing the hell out of his ribs. Her heels clicked over the floor as she approached him.

But she didn’t stop next to him. Instead, she slipped between him and the table, giving him no choice but to look at her. Look at the face that followed him into his dreams and offered him no mercy.

“Are you drunk?” She frowned.

He snorted and sipped from the whiskey. “Unfortunately, no.” Not yet.

“Nick, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

The anger bled from her expression, replaced by a concern that had the hairs on his arms and neck standing up. It veered too close to pity. And he hungered for a lot of things from her, but pity was not one of them. It sparked a fury in him. Fury at himself for foolishly yearning for the impossible for so long. Fury at her for tormenting him with her scent, her voice, her damn existence. Fury at Stoner.

Stretching his arms out on either side of her head, he deliberately set down his glass on the table and gripped the edge of it with both hands, caging Michelle in. He shouldn’t have delighted in the slight widening of her eyes. But he did. A dark, twisted delight coiled and tightened within him. And when he bent his elbows, leaning forward, he felt her swift intake of breath whisper over his dick in a filthy, sweet caress. Goddamn, he’d offer up his soul on a lit pyre for the real thing.

"Talk to you?” he murmured, cocking his head, leisurely studying the delicate arch of her eyebrows, her eyes, the impudent flare of her nose, the flagrant sensuality of her beautiful mouth, the gleaming teak of her skin... Hunger to touch, to sample, clawed at him. Coupled with the jealousy burning in his gut along with a good amount of alcohol, his usual control unraveled. “What should I talk about, Michelle? How this week has been hell? Or how I’ve tried but can’t evict you from my head? Or how the thought of you with my brother tonight has me seeking oblivion at the bottom of a bottle? Which topic do you want me to tackle first?”

Silence crackled between them. The vestiges of restraint cautioned him to move back, grant her space. Find some way to joke off those charged questions.

He ignored them.

“Why?” she breathed, her gaze dark with surprise, confusion and...

That last emotion stirred a low, rough growl in his chest. “Why, what? The hellish week, the eviction or the attempt to get drunk off my ass?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

Another plunge into taut silence. Self-preservation clawed its way to the surface, and he shuffled a mental step back on the shaky limb he’d crawled out on.

“You first.” He straightened, levering himself away from her, although his arms still penned her in. “Why are you here instead of out with my brother?”

She blinked, and the tip of her tongue swept across her bottom lip. His fingers curled into the table behind her, and he locked his arms. His body damn near trembled with the control he exerted not to bend his head and retrace that damp path with his own tongue.