Page 20 of Chilled and Thrilled

The universe must be out to get me.

Or maybe God is real after all, and I’m getting smitten. If so, well played, oh Heavenly Father. There’s no better smiting than opening an app filled to the brim with a limitless selection of prospective bang-buddies, and the very first picture I see is the man who prompted me to join in the first place.

Holy shit.

Holy actual ever-loving shit.

My pulse throbs as I stare down at the profile picture of: Bram (44) —Lives in your city! 94% YUM Match! He’s standing on a job site, grinning directly into the camera, a tablet in one hand and a hard hat in the other.

Ninety-four percent? That’s… that has to be really high, right? The muscles in my lower belly flutter, and I peek over my phone at Bram, who is adding ingredients to the risotto, lips turned down in concentration.

I swallow, turning my attention back to the phone. If I didn’t know him, if we were just two strangers on an app, would I swipe right? Absolutely. In fact, I bet there’s a whole host of other ladies who have done just that, and I can’t blame them.

Then again, maybe this could be a good thing, a way to finally get the closure I need. If I swipe right, then my profilewill pop up on his possible matches. When we inevitably don’t match—because he’ll probably be mortified to see that I’m interested in men his age—won’t that be a way to prove to myself that he isn’t interested?

Yes.

It will hurt. I’ll probably spend the next couple days lunging for my phone every time I get a notification and feeling more ridiculous each time it’s a reminder to pay my cell phone bill. None of that would be worse than carrying on as I have, falling head over heels for Bram Vogel, even while knowing nothing can ever come of it.

Biting my bottom lip, heart lodged in my throat, I drag my finger across the screen. Dimly, I’m aware of a notification popping up on my screen, but that doesn’t seem super important right now.

Because, across the room, Bram’s phone chimes.

8

BRAM

Iknow what I’m going to see when I pick up my phone.

Maybe it’s Sophie’s sudden tension or the way she whipped around to stare at the device with round eyes, panic rolling off her in waves. Maybe I’m just a hopeful old fool, besotted with a woman slipping further from my grasp with each passing day.

A good man would have stepped away and let it happen.

A good man would have valued his daughter’s feelings over his own.

A good man would have been happy when she found happiness, even in the arms of someone else.

There were so many opportunities for me to stop this thing in its tracks, for me to be that good man. I didn’t. The desire I feel for her is, and always has been, a wild, furious force beyond my control. Even as I fought, it’s grown stronger and stronger, and, still raw from the horror of this afternoon, my willpower is in tatters.

It would be easier to drive across the city in this storm than stop myself from reaching for my phone. The screenlights up as I lift it, displaying a familiar pink icon and the notification: You have a new YUM match!

“Bram.” I look up to find Sophie on her feet, gazing at me from across the room, brilliant eyes wide with horror. She’s scared, but I’m not. Not anymore. The moment I heard the noise—which could have been from any number of things—relief unlike any I’ve known before washed over me.

It’s not all in my head. I’m not alone in this, and the certainty is like the first lungful of air after staying underwater for too long.

She wants me—has wanted me for a long time—and the thought of my bold, funny, brilliant girl, feeling any of the torture I’ve endured is unbearable. Pieces of the puzzle that is Sophie Nelson have fallen into place for me tonight. The pastor’s rejected daughter aches for a place to belong, for people to belong to.

I can give her that, and I won’t make her wait another second.

My phone hits the countertop with a clatter, and then I’m rounding the island, sucking in oxygen that does nothing to satisfy the burning in my chest.

“Bram,” Sophie says again when I’m halfway across the room, half pleading, half warning. I don’t pause.

“Sophie,” I respond when I’m close enough to touch her, my voice a rough, low rasp, a plea. We both gasp when my hands lift to cradle her face, my skin on her skin, with no excuse or pretense for it other than wanting her. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Even with all this between us, I give her time to pull away, to end this. It’s not only my life I’m throwing into chaos if we do this and—even if it might kill me to see her walk away—I wouldn’t blame her either.

Sophie doesn’t do that, though. For a second, she stares at me, her chest rising and falling, hands balled into fists at hersides. Then, just like I did a moment ago, she breaks. Slim arms reach up, looping around the back of my neck, and she’s pulling me closer, eyelids heavy, full lips parted and begging to be kissed.

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