“Real smooth, Death Rowe,” Roman says.
Brinley gasps, and I look up in time to see her glaring at Roman. “You promised you wouldn’t use that name.”
You promised? I didn’t think it was possible to feel any smaller. When was Roman making Brinley promises? How often does he come over with gifts for her? How often does her father convince him to stay for dinner?
Lori looks back and forth between us. Seeming to sense that this interaction can’t go anywhere good, she leads Brinley and Roman from the room. “I think your mother wanted you two to have a chance to visit in the study. Let’s go then, and I’ll make you some fresh coffee.”
Brinley stays behind, scanning the mess at my feet before looking up to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
That’s when I see it—the new bracelet on her wrist is covered in diamonds. I could never afford anything like that in my wildest dreams. Hell, I probably can’t even afford the wine glass I just broke.
I swallow—my pride, and the fucking shards of my heart. I never wanted to fall for a rich girl, but here I am. “Why are you apologizing? You didn’t break it.”
But she knows. It’s all over her face that she too sees this divide today—between the couple we are and the couple we want to be. And when she walks away to join that asshole in the study, I have to press my palm to my pocket. The velvet box that waits inside holds my gift for Brinley: a twenty-dollar necklace from Target that feels like it’s devouring what’s left of my pride.
Chapter Eight
Brinley
Present day
I reread the most recent texts on my phone for the third time in the last ten minutes, still unsure how to reply.
Julian: I was completely out of line tonight. Can you forgive me?
Julian: I’m an ass.
Julian: I love you, but this whole thing . . . I panicked.
He was, and I can, but I wasn’t exaggerating when I told him I wouldn’t let anyone push me around anymore. Part of me—possibly the least mature part—wants to make him stew for a bit.
A knock sounds at my front door, and I stiffen. I got Cami into bed an hour ago, shortly after all the girls left. I know I need to talk to Julian after the way we argued tonight, but I’m too exhausted.
The knock sounds again. “Brinley. We need to talk.”
Marston. I open the door a crack. He rocks back on his heels and looks me over with those intense brown eyes. He looks gorgeous . . . and angry. I’m exhausted just thinking about another fight tonight. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He looks over his shoulder, glancing up and down the hall. “Because you’re afraid someone might see us together, or because you didn’t want me to know about Cami?”
My stomach lurches. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t find out sooner. I guess I can thank his decade-long avoidance of Orchid Valley for that. I’m not ready to answer his questions, but I dodged the truth the whole time we were together in Vegas, and look where that got me. “Who told you?”
“Not you,” he says, jaw twitching. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Vegas wasn’t about that.”
He drags a hand through his hair and bows his head, like looking at me is just too hard. “Is she the reason you left that morning?”
My heart squeezes. “Partially.”
He blows out a breath and lifts his gaze to mine. “How old is she?”
“She turns ten next week.” I close my eyes and wait for him to do the math. A little chunk of my heart breaks off, knowing he’ll never look at me the same. Maybe we were officially broken up, but I understand Marston well enough to know he’ll see my behavior as a betrayal to him. It even felt like one to me while I was doing it.
He’s quiet for too long, and when I open my eyes, his gaze is burning into me. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but it’s as if he doesn’t know me at all and he’s trying to figure me out. “Is she mine?”
Those three little words are a knife twisted in my chest. I spent my entire pregnancy terrified he’d come back to Orchid Valley and ask me that, terrified I’d have to admit what I’d done. “No.” My voice warbles on the word.
“But she’s turning ten,” he says, “which means she’s mine and you’re lying to me, or you—the girl who hadn’t even kissed anyone before me—moved on real fucking quick.”
That knife in my chest drags deep, and it guts me. It’s not his words as much as the expression of sheer heartache on his face. I throw the door wide and turn back inside to grab a framed photo off the foyer table. “She’s not yours.” I shove it into his hand.