Page 63 of Conflict
I don’t even care because what just happened is progress, promising.
And, now, I have her cell number.
Branson’s place is dark when I pull into his drive. I pound on the door, waiting for him to answer. When he does with a growl, I’m taken back by the sight of him. Disheveled is putting it mildly. I push past him and close the door.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growls, his voice gravelly.
That’s when the smell hits me. “Jesus Christ, Branson. Your dad said you were sick. He didn’t say you were medicating with—what is that, scotch? You smell like a fucking distillery.”
“Yeah, well, what’s it to you?”
This is much worse than I thought. He’s not hungover; he’s still fucking drunk. With an eyeroll, I place my hands on his shoulders, guide him to the kitchen, and force him onto a stool at the island in the middle of the room. He sits there in silence while I make coffee. When I place a glass of water in front of him and take a seat across from him, he doesn’t look at me. He just keeps his head hanging. I’d feel bad, give him sympathy, but that’s not how this is going to work. So I let him have it.
“I’ve been trying to call you for ten fucking days, asshole. If it weren’t for Alyssa, I’d have no idea why the hell you’re avoiding me. Which, by the way, good fucking going.”
Branson lifts his head, his eyes narrowed at me. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Alyssa doesn’t know the whole story.”
From what Alyssa told me, I have a feeling Branson’s wrong. I’m pretty surehe’sthe one who doesn’t have the full story, and while it should be up to him to come to his senses, I understand the underlying damage in him. So if I have to give him the nudge he needs, I’m up for the challenge. After all, if your best-friend-slash-family can’t be honest with you, who can?
The coffee pot chimes, signaling that step one of Branson’s revelation is ready. I pour us both a mug and then sit back across from him. I’ll fill in the blanks for him, but first, I want to hear the story in his own words.
“I have all day. Spell it out for me.”
I sit back and listen as Branson spills everything, and I shake my head, knowing I was right. He has this all wrong.
“If you would’ve just called me back that day, all of this could have been avoided,” I tell him.
Branson scowls. “What the hell does that mean? I thought you were calling to warn me. After all, you tried to tell me before why they broke up.”
This is the moment I realize men genuinely are idiots. It’s a wonder women love us.
I run a hand through my hair and then lean forward, resting my forearms on the counter. “I was calling to warn you, Branson. I wasn’t the one overseeing the acquisition of his company and had no idea about it until he came storming into my office, demanding to see you. According to Alyssa, their father found out you’re a Wellington, and those two shitheads decided you and Ariana planned this takeover together. She knew nothing about it.”
Branson’s mouth drops open. “What?”
It’s one simple word. The way he says it lets me know he’s just realized what a dumb shithead he’s been.
“Ariana didn’t leave him because he didn’t have any money. She left because she overheard him saying he didn’t love her. That all he wanted was a trophy wife.”
“Fuuuuuck,” Branson moans, his head falling into his hands. “What the fuck have I done?”
Before Alyssa, I probably would’ve told Branson it doesn’t matter. Given some false platitudes about other fish in the sea. But, now that I get what having—and losing—a woman can do to a man, I sympathize. And I’m not even in love with the girl.
“Dude, I get it. You went through that with Megan and you didn’t want it to happen again. Only this time, you allowed yourself to fall in love with Ariana. You finally put a woman above the job, and at the first sign of trouble, you put your walls back up and pushed her away. And you fucked up. Now, my question is: What are you going to about it?”
Branson looks up at me. The dark circles under his eyes make him look haunted, and shit, he probably is.
“What can I do? I compared her to Megan. I… Fuck. I made her believe this whole thing was fake in order to keep Dad happy and become CEO. There’s no way in hell she’ll ever talk to me again, let alone forgive me. Fuck, I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”
I’m kind of at a loss for words, something that’s unusual for me. I rack my brain, trying to come up with something motivational, but Branson rises from his stool and leaves me alone in the kitchen. I’m just about to follow when he comes back out, holding a box and two pieces of paper.
“What are those?” I ask, eyeing the objects in his hand, especially the box, which looks like one from a jeweler.
Branson’s eyes meet mine, determination shining in them. “This is the kick in the ass I need to win my woman back,” he tells me.
I raise an eyebrow, unsure what the hell a box could do to save what he did, and then it dawns on me.
He doesn’t plan on losing Ariana.
He plans on marrying her.
Well, hell. That’s one way of winning a woman back. I just pray, for his sake—and selfishly mine—it works.
