Page 5 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
His presence lingers in every detail. The neatly stacked blueprints on the desk. The slightly crooked pencil cup filledwith drafting tools. The pair of work boots tucked just inside the closet. Graham has always been the steady one. The one who never asked questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
He calls me Red, and always has. A nickname from childhood summers in Montauk, when my sunburned cheeks would match the sunset. He’s protective in a way that borders on feral, and loyal in the way that makes silence feel like understanding. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He’s always known how to read between the lines.
The night passes in fragments. I shower. I try to eat. I scroll through my phone only to set it down again. The bed smells like detergent and safety. I fall asleep sometime after midnight, curled on my side, the bracelet on my wrist a small, cold circle against my skin.
***
Morning comes slowly. I slip into jeans and a soft sweater, barely brushing my hair before stepping into the hallway. I need coffee or air. Something to break the weight pressing down on my chest. I don’t hear the elevator until it opens.
“Ivy?”
I turn instinctively. Jack Wilson stands at the other end of the hallway. Derek’s older brother. The one who always watched too closely. The one I tried too hard not to think about. He’s dressed in dark joggers and a charcoal henley with the sleeves pushed up. His hair is tousled. His jaw shadowed in stubble. He holds a phone in one hand, a takeout bag in the other, and looks like someone who expected a quiet morning, not to run into a ghost from the past.
His eyes sweep over me, slowly. Taking in the faint smudges beneath my eyes, the way my sweater slips slightly off one shoulder. There’s something unflinching in the way he looks at me. Something deeply masculine and quiet and unnerving. And God, he looks good. The kind of good that makes your stomachflutter for reasons you wish you could ignore. The kind of good that reminds you he was always the dangerous one, not because he broke hearts recklessly, but because he wanted deeply and said nothing.
We stare at each other. My arms fold across my stomach. Jack blinks once, slowly, like he’s convincing himself I’m real.
“You…” he begins, but doesn’t finish.
I clear my throat. “Just for a few days. Graham’s out of town. He said I could stay.”
Jack nods. He doesn’t move, but something in his expression shifts. The hallway, usually so quiet and composed, suddenly feels too small for all the things we’re not saying.
He steps forward, slowly. Not close, but not far either. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
The silence between us stretches, thick with tension. The air hums with something unspoken.
He looks at me again, longer this time. “You look… different.”
“Different how?” I ask.
His eyes move across my face like he’s tracing a story only he can read. “Like you’ve finally stopped pretending you were ever okay with any of it.”
I hold his gaze. There’s a sting behind my eyes, sharp and hot, but I blink it away. “Maybe I was, in the beginning. But not anymore.”
He doesn’t look away. Just shifts the takeout to one hand and leans against the wall. His voice lowers, soft but sure. “Do you want to come in for a minute? I made too much coffee.”
I hesitate, just long enough to feel the pull between caution and curiosity. I shouldn’t walk into his apartment, not like this. But there’s something in his voice, steady, certain, that makes me want to trust it. Just for a minute. I nod.
He unlocks the door, and I follow him inside. The scent of roasted beans and cedar greets me. His place is sleek, glass, steel, clean lines softened by dark leather and warm wood floors. It’s masculine, like him. Composed, but lived in, and unexpectedly inviting.
He pours coffee into two mugs without asking how I take it. Hands me one. Then leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of his.
I take a sip. The quiet between us stretches again, but this time it feels intentional. Easy. Jack doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t press. He just looks at me like I never left. Like he always knew I’d come back.
My pulse flutters. Something shifts in the space between us. Subtle. But unmistakable. I glance down. He steps closer.
“You should know,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges, “I’m not going to pretend I don’t care that you’re here.”
The heat between us is careful, but it’s alive.
I look up and meet his eyes. “I don’t think I want you to.”
He sets down his coffee. Takes mine too. His fingers graze my wrist, a light touch, but grounding. We don’t move closer. Not yet. But the space between us narrows with every breath, like we’re circling something inevitable, and for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel like running.
4
