He flinched at that word. He couldn’t help it. “I think you’re worrying too much about me, like usual.”
“And I think you don’t worry enough.”
He snorted. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone want to worry? What good does it do?”
“That’s not what I meant. What I meant is…” She bit down hard on her lower lip and looked away from him. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“No. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing. I just worry about you because life can be lonely sometimes. You live alone in Atlanta, and you’re trying to fill the void with—” She pressed her lips together, as if she wasn’t certain she wanted to continue the thought. “I just know you, and you’re not happy right now. Not really.”
How did she know that when they’d barely spent any time together?
How could she be so damn sure about his emotions, when he didn’t think he really had any anymore? Scooting closer, he grabbed her chin and turned her face back to his. His pulse leaped at the contact. “I’ll be honest. Sometimes I’m scared of what you might see when you look at me, because you never see what everyone else does.”
“I see you.” Her eyes were all wide, and her lips were parted. “The real you, not the one you want everyone to see. And you’re lonely, even if you won’t admit it.”
Goddamn.
She had him all figured out, didn’t she?
He trailed his pointer finger over the curve of her cheek. She drew in a shaky breath, her eyelids drifting shut. It would be so easy to close the distance between them. To brush a soft kiss against her lips. So easy and yet…
So fucking wrong.
“I’m not alone most nights, Twinkletoes.”
She reared back, pain coloring her eyes. “Yeah. I heard.”
For a second he was ashamed, but it was best she found out what kind of man he was now. His hand tightened on her jaw, and he leaned in. “You know how much I care about you, right?”
“Yes.” She blinked up at him. “Of course I do. You think of me as your little sister.”
He gave a slight shake of his head, refusing to drop his hold on her. He couldn’t have her, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about it every once in a while. Like right fucking now, out here in this garden, just like old times. “Not quite true. I mean, yeah, but still. I don’t really know how to—”
“Hey, guys,” Christopher said, his words casual but his voice lethal. “What’s going on out here? Got something in your eye again, sis?”
Brett closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.
Of course he should’ve expected to be interrupted. And of course he would get caught red-handed and looking guilty as hell, again. But damn it, he kind of was guilty, wasn’t he? If he was being honest with himself, he wanted to kiss Anna. He wanted to taste her lush mouth and have her clinging to him, begging for more.
Too bad he couldn’t have it.
Or her.
But still. It would be nice if, for once, he could actually have a whole conversation with Anna without one of the Hamilton brothers interrupting.
He dropped his hand back to his leg, gripping his thigh. “Nothing’s happening, Chrissy.” He used the childhood nickname on purpose to throw his best friend off. “We were talking. Nothing more.”
“I told you not to call me that anymore.” Christopher clenched his fists, his stare pinning Brett down. “And last time I checked, talking doesn’t require touching.”
“Funny. I thought it did,” Brett said.
His best friend turned red. “Oh really? Then come closer so I can ‘talk’ to you. I’ve got a few things to say.”
“Calm down. She’s not a damn child anymore,” he said, flexing his jaw.
Anna shot him a look, scooting imperceptibly closer.
“Excuse me?” Chris asked, his tone deceptively soft.
“You should really stop treating her like a kid. She’s allowed to talk to men she’s known practically her whole life,” Brett said, refusing to back down.
He wanted to say something sarcastic about Christopher treating him like an asshole looking to take advantage of Anna, too, but he knew better than to start another fight on top of this one. The famous Hamilton temper was about to come to a head, and it was directed at him for the first time in years.
Actually, the last time he’d seen Christopher this angry at him had been when he said Anna was pretty. He’d been fifteen—and he’d walked away from the encounter with a broken nose and a blood promise to never touch her. A promise he still stuck to, minus one small moment of weakness years ago.