Page 82 of Shifting Sands

I leave the women when I see Brew walk in and head toward the elevator.

“Where are you sneaking off to?” I ask, wrapping my arms around him.

“Upstairs to grab another shirt. This one smells like fish,” he replies as the elevator doors open.

He steps inside, and I follow him.

He raises an eyebrow as he grasps my hips and pulls me closer.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I warn. “I just want to show you something.”

He gives me a quick kiss as we reach his bedroom. I walk ahead of him, grab his hand, and tug him toward the bathroom door, pushing it open. As soon as he steps in, two balls of fur attack his feet. He grins as he bends down to pet them.

“Erin helped me wrangle them into a cardboard box this morning. She didn’t want to share that queen bed with Jena or listen to Peter Thomas all night.”

He stands and prowls toward me. I walk backward until my knees hit the bed, and I sit down. He plants his hands on the mattress, trapping me. And his mouth comes to mine.

“We have guests,” I say against his lips.

“They’ll be fine without us for a few minutes,” he says as he nips at my bottom lip.

I lean back and then run my nose playfully against his.

“You’re just gonna have to wait until tonight. Promise I won’t fall asleep on you.”

His eyes lock with mine. “How asleep were you last night?” he asks.

“Barely.”

He grins. “I thought so.”

I fist his shirt and pull him back to me for one more deep kiss. Then I let go and push against him. “Ugh, you do smell like fish.”

He laughs as he reaches behind himself and grabs his shirt by the collar and sweeps it over his head.

And I sit and enjoy the show.

Brandee

The fish is delicious. The company is fantastic.

As I look around at this motley group of friends, both new and old, I think back to the day we buried my mother. How small I felt and how big and scary the world around me seemed. It was just me and my father—what was left of him. The months and years that followed were hard, but when Isley Paysour found me and took me under her wing, I realized that family wasn’t always the people you’d been born into, but the people who found you and claimed you along the way.

It’s human nature to isolate ourselves when we are broken, but if we open ourselves to love, it will find us—on a mountainside or on a tiny island. So, why am I so scared to let another kind of love in?

I don’t need a man. I know how to work, initiate, execute, and survive all on my own. I can carry any weight, and I have. Sometimes, I even carry the weight of the people I care about. However, it would be nice to have someone who could take the reins now and then so I don’t always have to be the one to take the lead and plan every detail.

I want someone who can handle a crisis, allowing me to fall apart if I need to. I want to feel safe and cared for enough to let my guard down and just exist. I want someone who pays as close attention as I do—who notices my likes and dislikes without needing me to instruct him on how to love me. Someone who understands and takes action to show that he sees me, that he’s invested in our relationship, and that we’re in it together.

I want someone who will be my safe space, where I’m allowed to break down, rant, and cry. Be a refuge I run to when life is cruel or overwhelming, where I can find peace and assurance. I will be his.

It’s not about who pays for what, but who pays attention. All I’m looking for is a genuine effort. Love is action, and action is love.

No, I don’t need a man, but if he’s the right kind of man, I damn sure want him.

I refuse to settle for any other kind.

Brewster Cartwright III is that kind of man. I know it in my bones. He’s the one. I knew it from the moment I met him. When I thought he was just a bartender with torn jeans and busted kicks.

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