Page 4 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

“No.” I repeat, shaking my head again. But his eyes are still narrowed and strangely, the truth slips out of me a moment later. “Yes. He said even though he had a bad experience with a redhead, he was willing to make an exception for me. But it… it doesn’t matter.”

I mean, it clearly does because I’m already picturing his beady eyes moving over my body in a disgusting way as he asks me out on a date again. This time I may have to say yes so he doesn’t fire me because I need this job. I need all my jobs.

“What’s his name?” he asks.

My heart skips a beat. “What?”

“His name,” he repeats, his tone just as soft but now there’s a muscle beating on his cheek. “What is it?”

It’s hard to say anything over the loud pounding of my heart but I still try. “I… Why?”

Keeping his gaze steady, he slowly shakes his head. “No reason.”

“Are you… You’re not going to do something”—I swallow again—“to him, are you?”

“What do you think I’ll do?” he asks instead of answering my question.

“I don’t… I don’t know. It’s…” I shake my head, trying to put my thoughts together. “This is crazy.”

“What’s crazy?”

This. This whole situation. This whole surreal situation. What is he doing out here? How is it that he’s standing in front of me and we’re having a conversation? And the most insane conversation at that. Why isn’t he inside, celebrating his engagement?

Fuck, he’s engaged , isn’t he? Engaged to be married to someone else.

I stand up straight then, even though the reminder of his engagement has made my knees weak. “Did you need something? Can I, uh, help you find anything?”

Good, this is good. I’m working. I should try to be professional.

Not to mention, maybe that’s why he’s talking to me in the first place.

Maybe he wants me to get him a drink. Or point him in the direction of a restroom.

Only why would he seek me out instead of getting any number of servers to help?

It’s not as if I’m particularly visible out here.

I’m standing stuck to a tree, away from the main path.

“Right. Because tonight, you’re the help,” he says before moving his eyes up and down my body, taking in my uniform.

I don’t know how it happened but somehow, I’ve pointed to one of my other dreaded features yet again.

Well, a uniform isn’t a feature, but still.

I have a black pencil skirt on with a slit up the back and a white blouse with full sleeves and a black waistcoat over it.

Oh, and let’s not forget the black tie and black Mary Janes.

Classic waitress outfit. A far cry from all the elegant and sexy ballgowns everyone is wearing in there, like his girlfriend—his fiancée now—is wearing.

I rub my hands on my skirt and wish he’d look away soon.

But instead, he takes his time. He runs his eyes over my waistcoat, down to my skirt.

He takes in my bare knees and calves, before eyeing my shoes.

It doesn’t matter that what I’m wearing is hideous and that he probably thinks the same thing, I still feel heated.

I feel warm everywhere he touches me with his gaze.

Probably because this is the first time he’s actually looking at me with such focus.

He’s looking at me like I’m his entire focus.

And I don’t know how to react to it other than going utterly breathless.

Also, dizzy.

God, I’m feeling dizzy. Even when he’s done and he comes back to my face, I feel like the world is still spinning. Especially when he drawls, “Nice uniform.”

“It’s—”

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

My heart thuds. “You recognize me?”

Shit. That didn’t sound so good. My voice was way too high pitched and suspicious. But I couldn’t help it. Like I can’t help it now, running through years and years of places I followed him to where he may have seen me.

Oh God, this is a disaster, isn’t it? This could be very bad.

What if it was at his house , in his backyard or at his window? Holy fuck, how do I explain that? I can’t explain that. So before I have to, I push off from the tree, ready to get away. “You know what, I have to go. I have to get back to work. It’s been?—”

But I don’t get to go anywhere. I hardly move away from the tree and take a step to leave when all of a sudden he’s in front of me. But more than that, his hand is on me. His fingers are wrapped around my bicep and somehow, I’m looking up at him and he’s staring down.

My first thought is I was right.

About a lot of things. First, our height difference. I’m hardly 5’ 4” and he’s a little over 6’ 2”. According to his stats on every sports website, he’s 190 cm. I always knew I’d barely reach his jaw, and now that we’re so close, I can see my head reaches the triangle of his throat and that’s it.

Second, I always knew he was beautiful. While that wasn’t the first thing that made me watch him or keep watching him over the years, I know how good looking he is.

It’s not just his black hair with hidden dark brown strands that only come out in the sun.

Or even his glittering eyes with the same peekaboo chocolate brown.

It’s the fact that he has a lot of hidden treasures on his face.

Like, the first thing you notice about him is the bone structure.

The high cheekbones, the sculpted jaw, the killer slant of it like a precarious mountain slope.

So you miss the soft curve of his mouth, or the shape of his eyes.

You miss that his eyelashes are so thick and spiky.

Or that his nose is slightly bent, revealing that he probably broke it at some point in his life.

You are so blinded by the sharpness of his features that you miss the little details that are just as important. You think he’s so handsome, but when you discover all the hidden things about him, you realize he’s more than that.

He’s beautiful. My stepbrother.

“What…What are you doing?” I breathe out, looking up at him.

“Stopping you,” he says in a lowered voice, his face dipped.

“Stopping me from what?”

“From hurting yourself.”

“What?”

“There’s glass everywhere.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t want to step on it and hurt yourself while running away from me.”

“I wasn’t running away from you,” I lie.

His fingers flex around my arm and something flickers through his features. “You do.”

“I do what?”

“Run away from me,” he explains. Then, leaning closer and lowering his voice even more, “When I get too close.”

“I—”

“And it’s the least I can do.”

“What?”

His eyes flick back and forth between mine as he drawls, “What kind of a big brother would I be if I didn’t save my baby sister’s best friend?”

I blink.

That’s how. That’s where he knows me from.

A giant wave of relief flows through my system and I almost sag in his hold.

My mind was going in million different places.

Bad places. But I should’ve known. I should’ve thought of that first. Because he’s right.

I am his sister’s best friend. Or rather, one of her best friends.

Because his sister—Callie—has a lot of friends.

And a few years ago, I became one of them.

I know what it looks like though. I’m a stalker so maybe I designed it that way. I orchestrated a meeting with Callie so I could get close to the Thorne family, and finally break the news about who I am.

But I swear, I swear to fucking God , that wasn’t—isn’t—my plan.

It wasn’t my intention to become her friend at all.

But then somehow, we both ended up at the same high school, and despite me keeping a careful distance from her, we became friends and she’s exactly as I thought she would be.

Like she always seemed from a distance. Warm and friendly and so kind.

Sometimes I wish I could tell her who I really am, but I can’t.

In any case, he’s right. I do run away when he’s close.

I don’t look at him. I don’t talk to him.

I pretend he doesn’t exist because I have no other choice.

My obsession with him is already too strong; I don’t need to fan the flames.

Even now I should insist on him letting me go and running but instead I say, “I just… Congratulations.”

His eyes narrow. “For what?”

“For your… engagement.”

His fingers on my arm flex, reminding me that he’s still holding me. Not that I forgot, but the strength in his grip, the power, takes my breath away for a second. “You saw that, huh?”

“Everyone saw.”

He hums. “Which was exactly my intention.”

“I don’t…” I frown. “Understand.”

He shakes his head once. “You don’t need to.”

That was strange. And maybe I shouldn’t be going down this road, but I know I won’t get another chance like this. Another chance to be this close to him, to ask him things. “Do you love her?”

He goes still. Or at least, it feels like that. The expression on his face freezes. His chest stops moving. Even his grip on me feels tight but immobile. It only lasts a second though, all of this. Like a hiccup in time. In a flash, he’s back to being all intense and staring. “What do you think?”

“You,”—I lick my lips—“proposed to her.”

He glances down at my mouth for a second. “There’s your answer then.”

I swallow; he’s right. Why else would he propose to her if he didn’t love her? That was a stupid question. So I ask a new one, a more important one. “Why her?”

He keeps his gaze steady. “The heart wants what it wants, doesn’t it?”

I swallow again, this time with difficulty because I know what he means. I know exactly, in great detail , what he means. Then, nodding, “I’m happy for you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. You deserve it.”

His grip tightens then. “What do you know about what I deserve?”