Page 113

“That’s part of it, but again, I was fifteen fucking years old,” he spits. There’s so much fire in his eyes and words, willing me to understand it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the circumstances. “I didn’t know what I was doing when I picked you up, just that I was angry, and you were the only one I could think of who would help me forget.”

It did have something to do with me. “Do you—”

He holds his hand up. “I don’t want to talk,” he responds immediately, voice insistent. He waves to the counter beside me. “Hand me that bourbon.”

I reach for the bottle, giving it to him and then tucking wet strands of hair behind my ears. “Do you really think drinking is the answer?”

“No. I don’t think it’s the answer, but it’s gonna fuckin’ help.”

I know he doesn’t want to talk, but I can’t wrap my mind around it. “Ridge, this is big. Brooks is your dad.”

He unscrews the cap, tosses it aside and drinks straight from the bottle. “That man is not my dad. My dad died.”

My skin starts to itch. Obsessively. I scratch at my chest. I have to get his damn dress off. With the material wet, it’s like being wrapped in Saran Wrap. “That makes you Austin’s brother,” I mumble, unzipping it.

Ridge’s attention is on me, removing my dress. Well, attempting to. It’s like trying to take off a sports bra when you’re sweaty. An impossible task.

Chuckling, Ridge shakes his head, entertained by the sight of me. “It technically makes me his half-brother. Why does it matter?”

When I have the dress off, leaving me in only my bra and very skimpy panties, I throw my hands up, slapping them down at my sides. “I don’t know.”

Ridge eyes my body, the image causing him to shift and lean forward, his hands on my thighs trying to pull me into him. “You’re thinking too much.” Letting go, he hands me the bottle. “Have some bourbon.”

I shake my head and sit next to him. “I don’t want any.”

He flops back against the couch, running his hands through his hair. “Well. . . have some anyway, and then we’ll talk.”

I push the bottle back at him. “I want to talk sober.”

“Idon’t.”

Now we’re having tug-a-war with a bottle of bourbon. “You’re impossible.”

“No, I don’t think I am.” He takes a drink, then points his finger in my face. “Getting you to let me stick it in your ass, that’s proving to be impossible.”

“Keep it up and I’ll never let you in.” I take it because why not. Maybe then if he’s relaxed and I’m relaxed, he might actually talk to me.

IT’S HOURS LATER, nearing midnight when we are talking, and the conversation shifts to us and what all this means. I’m nervous I’m going to say something I’m going to regret, or worse, confess feelings he might not have in return.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. . . .”

“Fuck that.” Ridge shakes his head, swallowing over another drink. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me.” His words are direct, a challenge. One he’s not backing down from.

I blink and swallow painfully. Shit’s real now, isn’t it? Goddamn that bourdon.

Ridge dips his head forward, waiting. “Don’t ignore me.”

I look away, out the window toward the track in the distance, but with the low lighting in here and the lack of light out there, I can’t see it.

Ridge reaches for me, his breath bourbon filled as he brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “Tell me you don’t love me.” His tone softens with each word.

“Why?” I whisper, resisting the urge to clam up and tell him nothing.

Ridge runs his thumb under my chin, tilting my face to meet his gaze. Slowly, he brings his forehead to mine and closes his eyes, releasing a defeated breath. “Because I love you.”

When this first started in this very same trailer, I told myself that it was just sex.

It wasn’t. Not with our history. It never could have been.