Page 57 of Fighting for You
“Could we maybe…” she bites on her lip as she speaks, clearly trying to bring me to my goddamn knees, “take the motorcycle instead?” she finishes.
A huge smile breaks out on my face. “I knew you fucking loved it.”
She laughs as she pulls me in the direction of my bike off to the side of the driveway. I hand over her helmet, then grab my own. I watch as she pulls it on, making sure the strap is secure beneath her chin. If having her on my bike is going to be a regular thing, I’ll have to get her one that fits just right.
Once I’m satisfied and I have my own secured, I throw my leg over the seat. She climbs on behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist. I reach back and pull her even closer so her chest is flush against my back. I love the feel of her wrapped up behind me.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into her driveway. I park the bike and turn off the ignition, the dread of being alone againcreeping in. As she peels herself off of me, it feels like stripping myself of something vital. I hate the feeling almost as much as I hate the idea of leaving her. It’s fucking confusing.
“Brooks?”
“What?”
“Did you hear what I said?” She has a concerned look on her face. That’s fair. I just zoned out and missed whatever she was saying.
“Uh,” I grimace with a huff of a laugh, “No… sorry, what?”
Her brows furrow, letting me know my answer didn’t ease whatever worry is etched all over her face. “I said thank you for the ride. And well… everything.” That perfect blush comes racing up her neck again. Will it ever get old? “And umm…” she continues, looking nervous now, “I think—I think I want to try. Try this—us, I mean. If you… still want to.”
My eyebrows shoot up in shock. That was somehow the last thing I expected her to say. “Really? You sure? I thought you were looking for something more serious?” I ask, not sure why I even bring it up. I… think I want to be serious with her. Maybe.
“I think you might be worth the risk.” Before I can respond, she’s pushing up on her tiptoes and placing a small kiss on my lips. “Bye, Brooks.”
I’m still standing there, shell-shocked, as she walks away. I watch her open her door, the sound of all seven—or however many there are—locks sliding into place.
I think you might be worth the risk.
The words were said as a compliment. She meant it in a good way. A great way. She decided I’m worth the risk. But hearing those words—hearing her say those words, in that order, it only causes me to spiral. My thoughts of potential failure are rampant. A cold sweat rushes over my skin as all the ways I can fuck up race through my mind. I get back on my bike, notbothering with latching my helmet as I drive away from the spot where she cut me open without even trying.
What happens when she finds out I’m not worth the risk, not even close? What happens when she regrets the decision she just made? Will she remember this moment as vividly as I do?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brooks
I’m sweeping up the mess I made when I hear the swinging door open behind me. “Shit, Thea, you can take it out of my paycheck, oka—” I cut myself off when I see it’s Cary walking in. “Oh, it’s just you.”
He chuckles before saying, “Yeah, just me. You smashing bottles now?”
“No, asshole. It slipped out of my hand when I was restocking the bar,” I reply as I look down at the shattered glass and bourbon spilt all over the tasting room floor. Surprisingly, Cary grabs the dustpan and walks toward me with it. “Thanks.”
He looks up from the ground as he holds it out for me to sweep the glass into. “No problem. And I won’t tell Thea. It’s just one bottle, not the end of the world.”
I try not to let his solidarity get to me. I’d pick Thea over him most days, so I wouldn’t blame him for doing the same. But he’s right, it’s just one bottle. Although, It feels symbolic somehow, like the rest of my life right now. Everything feels likeit’s slipping through my fingers, just waiting to hit the ground and break into a million pieces. “Appreciate it,” I grunt.
We clean the rest of the spill in silence. Once we pick up all the glass, Cary asks, “Where’s the mop?”
I point my thumb over my shoulder. “In the closet in the back, you’ll see it.”
He walks away, leaving me with my own thoughts for a moment. I’m still mentally comparing my life to the disaster in front of me.
As he rolls the mop bucket out, he asks, “How have you been?”
I huff a laugh. “Same shit, different day.” It’s the same thing I used to tell him when he’d call once every other month for the last eight years he was living in Seattle.
“Let’s not do that anymore, okay? I’m back for good. I’d like to figure our shit out so we can have a better relationship.”
I’m stunned by Carrington Grant wanting to do something other than shove feelings into a box and hide that shit in a corner. He’s never been one to talk about… well, anything. He’s the type of guy who barely wants to hash out an argument; he’d rather move on and pretend it never happened. It’s where we never saw eye to eye, especially when it came to our parents. He never lashed out at them, except for the one instance when my dad crossed a line and said some shit about Thea. Even I was pissed about it. It was only the one time though, but for Cary that was all it took for him to cut ties with Mom and Dad.
