Page 42 of Conflict
“It’s the girl from the hotel, isn’t it? She’s holding you back.”
His chest heaves with a sigh and his eyes meet mine. “I hate that you know me so well. But you know what? You’re the best fucking friend I’ve ever had. You’ve always had my back, no matter how much of a jackass I can be. So yeah, Shane. I’ll bro-down with you.”
Bringing a hand to my chest, I tell him, “I’m honored, Bran. Would you believe I’ve made it thirty years without a single bro-down? I’m touched you’re my first.”
I raise my glass, and he clicks his with mine.
“Don’t get used to it. This may be your firstandlast.” He takes a sip of his wine, but then he spills. In the only way Branson knows how: succinctly. “That connection with your resort girl? I felt it, too, with my hotel angel. I…I don’t even remember much from that night, except that she was there. I held her… Or, well, maybe she held me, but we spent the night in each other’s arms, and the memory of it? I’ve never felt safer in my life. At first, I thought I’d dreamt her. Another cruel dream in the misery that is my life.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t?” I ask, causing him to scowl.
“I didn’t imagine her, Shane. I couldn’t have imagined a woman that perfect if I’d tried. Yeah, I was wasted. Fucked up, out of my mind, and yet…I can still feel her. I can still smell her; the scent of coconut haunts me. I just fucking wish I could taste her.”
I’m shocked into silence. I’ve never heard Branson talk with such passion, especially about a woman. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen, and I have to wonder: Who the hell is this mystery woman?
“IknowI didn’t dream her. And I have proof.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, folded piece of paper. Then he hands it to me. The paper is worn, creased along the edges, and the ink appears faded, as if he’s read it countless times.
If you don’t want anyone else to give up on you, you can’t give up on yourself. Life’s messy, Branson. All the scotch in the world won’t change that. If you don’t like your life, change it. I’ll make you a deal. You take my advice, and I’ll think on yours. -A
I whistle then hold the note out for him. “One night with drunken you and she has you pegged. Is this why you’ve finally decided to get over the past and get your shit together?”
I’ve never been one to mince words with him, and I’m not about to start. It’s the truth. Branson’s life was royally fucked years ago up, not by only his own doing, and he’s been facing the brunt of it ever since. In the past few months, however, I’ve noticed a change in him. He doesn’t look—or smell—like he’s slept at a distillery for the past seven years. He’s clearly been spending time at the gym, and he’s almost back to his pre-Megan fighting form. In other words, he looks like the confident, well-built cousin who’s been hiding for far too long. And if it’s because of this girl, I’ll move heaven and earth to find her.
After I find my own, of course.
“Yeah, asshole, she’s the reason. At first, I was desperate to find her. I even tried bribing the concierge at the hotel into giving me a full manifest of guests, attendees at any events the hotel had hosted, but it didn’t work. I tried drinking myself into oblivion, in the hopes that in an alcoholic stupor I could remember her name the way I couldn’t forget her face, even sober. The more I couldn’t remember, the worse it felt. And then I realized, even if I did remember, what kind of man was I for her? Not one worthy, I knew that much.” He holds his hands out wide. “So this is me, Shane. For the first time in my life, I’m makingmyselfworthy, and I’ll continue to do so until I find her.”
“Well…fuck me.”
It’s not eloquent. It’s not even really a response. It’s just… Hell, I’ve never seen him like this and I’m shocked.
He pins me with a stare. “Now you know. I, Branson Wellington, am trying to change for the better for a nameless face. Trying being the operative word, of course. And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll cut your balls off.”
I hold my hands up in retreat. “Consider me warned. I can’t allow your brothers to be the only ones to carry on the Wellington line.”
Branson grunts but doesn’t say another word.
“Bro-down officially over.”
A few minutes later, I scan the bar in search of the brunette, wondering if I might be able to give her a nudge in the jilting-a-man-at-the-altar direction by introducing her to my cousin, who seems to be on his best behavior tonight. But it wouldn’t be fair to her when Branson’s thinking of another. When my eyes finally find the mystery woman, I’m taken aback at the sight of the woman she’s with. For the second time in a week, my heart nearly stops beating.
“What is it?” Branson asks.
“It’s her.”
My intuition wasn’t wrong. Alyssa and the woman I’m guessing is her sister look so similar that they could practically be twins. How the hell did I miss it? And now, for the first time in far too long, we’re in the same room.
Like hell if I’ll let her get away.
