Page 55 of Beautifully Messy
“One,” he says, his voice so low it ripples down my spine. “I’ve met the most incredible woman… and I can’t have her. She’s brilliant, funny. We talk for hours, and it’s easy. And she’s so goddamn sexy I can’t think straight.” He swallows hard. “I’ve thought about her every single day for the past year. And it’s so bad, Sydney, I have to take multiple showers a day to jerk off, just so I can look at her without losing my goddamn mind.”
His words strike like flint.
My body sparks to life before my mind can catch up. Something tightens low and insistent, pulse hammering against my ribs.The image of him in the shower, wanting me.Fuck.
“Two,” he says, stepping forward, closing the space, “I watched her husband grab her, and I did nothing. Every part of me wanted to put him through a wall. But I didn’t, because I knew she wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want me to fight her battles.”
He pauses, voice softening. “Even though she deserves someone who would.”
I inhale sharply, but it’s not enough. His words crash over me. I try to stand my ground while the tide pulls harder.
“Actually, make that three. She’s married to a jackass, and I’m dating her sister-in-law instead of her.”
We’re standing inches apart, but it might as well be an ocean. The heat from his body radiates across the small space, making it hard to breathe, hard to think clearly.
“Why are you with Ivy?”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t flinch. “I know this makes me a fucking asshole. How wrong it is that I’m with her when I can’t stop thinking about you.” His voice drops, rough and broken. “When I imagine a life with you.”
The truth is brutal and blinding in its clarity.
I want to tell him he makes me believe I could be more. That freedom isn’t something I chase on long runs or under frozen lights. That life doesn’t have to hurt. That being chosen by him is both the most intoxicating and terrifying thing I can imagine. I open my mouth to say something. The words form and die as the front door bursts open. Laughter floods in, boots thudding on hardwood, voices rising in cheerful chaos.
I force my legs to move and slip into the living room, past the noise, past the almost of it all. The practiced, gleaming smile appears as I drop my shoulders, pitch my voice higher and become who they expect.
“Hey guys! How was skiing?”
Jules clocks me instantly. Her eyes dart to the kitchen. Something sharp shifts in her gaze—a tilt of her head, a narrowing of her mouth—and I follow her line of sight. James stands where I left him, eyes locked on me, jaw set, every inch of him taut.
“Do you need some time to finish the conversation we clearly interrupted?” She lowers her voice, her eyes skating across the others, as if she’s devising a distraction.
I feel it—all of it—burning through me. Every word he said. Every one I didn’t. I stand frozen, fists clenched, agreeable Sydney fracturing.
Mason steps in, blocking my view of the kitchen. He reaches for my hand, his touch light enough to look loving. “I’m sorry about yesterday, and for leaving the way I did today. Let’s go home in the morning and have a quiet New Year’s Eve.”
I swallow my laugh as a lifetime of possibilities flashes in a heartbeat.
With Mason, I know what to expect. I can handle his disregard and cutting words. It requires low expectations, a steady dulling of self. I can do that. I’ve done it for thirty-seven years. I know how to shelter Anna from it.
But James?
What he offers is something else entirely. Something alive. Unpredictable. Messy and beautiful. It terrifies me because it demands that I believe in a world where love is freely given and won’t be pulled away.
“Syd.” Mason squeezes my hand.
“Yes. I think we should go home.” I swallow hard.
***
Sleepwon’tcome.
I know I shouldn’t leave the room. Shouldn’t check if he’s still awake. But knowing isn’t the same as listening.
Barefoot, I slip into the hallway, my feet silent against the wood floors. Oversized sweatpants hang loose on my hips. My bare face feels exposed, hair pulled back in a messy bun. Nothing to hide behind. Inside, I feel just as unguarded.
But I don’t stop, not until I reach the sunroom.
He’s sprawled on the sofa, a book open in his hands. His eyes stay fixed on the pages; he doesn’t look when I step into the room.
