Page 20 of My Brother's Best Men
I push through the doors into the outside air. It’s chilly, and immediately I regret not bringing a damn jacket or hoodie or something. The cap-sleeve pink sheath dress with the sheer see-through panels is certainly not thick enough to provide the warmth I need at this moment; the cool mountain air juxtaposes the heat of panic and anxiety lacing through me.
If only my nerves and anxiety could truly keep me warm, but alas, I’m a human and not a damn coal-operated train.
“Sophie, wait…”
I stop at the sound of his voice, and a part of me thinks it’ll always be like that. I could be in another country, years from now, far, far away from Elijah Brecker, and his voice would make my entire world stop.
He catches up to me, that dark brown gaze holding me still where I stand.
“What do you want?” I ask, hearing the bitterness in my voice as he steps forward, his smoky cologne invading my lungs.
God, he smells so fucking good. Like cinnamon and smoke, desire and comfort wrapped in one delectable, tempting package.
And he looks just as good too, if not better.
After I got pissed off all those years ago, I blocked his profile so I couldn’t go looking and lurk like a stalker on his social media. I rationalized that it was the best thing to do to save myself both the heartache and the drama. I knew if I kept it around, I’d always be tempted to look at what I couldneverhave.
It wasn’t that I didn’t think Icouldhave him if I wanted, but I valued what we did have—our close-knit friendship—and I didn’t want to ruin that with admitting my feelings for him like some cliché Hallmark movie.
But I also knew, deep down, I wasn’t Elijah’s type. I grew up with the guy, after all, saw him through several girlfriends and ex-girlfriends.
Elijah liked brunettes, for one. Tall, leggy, well-endowed brunettes with flat stomachs who looked like they could be models or starlets. Every girlfriend he’s ever had has been a fifteen on a scale of one to ten.
And then there’sme.Average all the way around. From my height to my hips, there’s nothingspecialabout me. The real me.
My father used to say, “dress for the job you want.” I took that to heart as a kid, and it became my entire strategy as an adult. Before I landed my gig with H & H, when I was just applying, I thought about what kind of woman a firm like that would want. I looked at pictures online, checked out their social media accounts, and browsed through photos of the folks at their events. I studied the quintessential “H & H woman” and I became her.
I cut and dyed my hair, got some highlights, invested in a wardrobe that was way above my pay grade, and faked it until Imade it. And maybe I fell into that persona a little too easily, if I’m being honest. Because it was fun to be the woman who had it all.
The woman Elijah Brecker would have wanted.
But I’m not that girl, and that reality is more than apparent right now as I stand here on this damn patio, staring back at Elijah with misty eyes.
“Hey…” he says, reaching out to grab my wrist. I should pull away from him again, because I know he doesn’t mean to be so fucking tempting. “I just wanted to see if you were okay…” His voice is soft, sweet. Caring.
That’s the thing that used to aggravate me the most about Elijah. It was so easy to fall in love with him. Not because he was my friend, but because he’s the walking embodiment of a warm hug.
Hecares. Some would argue he cares too much, but that deep concern and care is where I’ve always felt the most comfortable. The mostme.
I should pull away and tell him I’m fine, to go back to the dinner table before dessert comes. But I’ve also been drinking, and my mom pissed me off, and I’m cold and his touch feels warm and too familiar and maybe, just maybe…
A part of me wants to soak up that familiarity just for a little bit.
Because I know no one can fix me quite like Elijah. So I don’t push him away, I let him pull me gently toward him like I’m a moth succumbing to flame.
“I’m fine,” I say, but even I don’t believe me. For one, I can hear the shake of my voice, the undeniable sound of a woman about to cry like a baby.
I wish my mother didn’t have to be so…so…
I sniffle, looking down at where his hand grips mine. There’s a moment of silence as he gently tugs me closer, and I let him. I follow him without question. His thumb brushes over my knuckles in that rhythmic, soothing fashion that’s so familiar, yet so foreign.
He used to do this all the time when we were kids. When I was upset because Sam wouldn’t let me hang out with him and his friends. And when we grew up, became teenagers…it was his comforting touch after lost friendships and relationships that gave me the hope and courage to keep chasing my dreams. To not give up on love or getting out of this fucking town.
It’s okay, you got this.
I lick my lips, nodding as I look up at him. His spicy scent surrounds me and the wind rustles the trees in the distance, causing a symphony all too familiar and melancholic.
“You don’t look fine,” he says, and I feel the faintest brush of his fingers, pushing some chaotic strands of hair behind my ears. “You look like you could use a friend right about now.”
