Page 56 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

We need to talk.

My stomach plunges to the floor. I knew it. I knew those three little words would destroy it. I read Beau’s message over and over, my heart hammering. However I look at it, I don’t see this conversation ending well. Beau’s going to take it back. Or he’s going to ask why I didn’t say it. Or he’s going to say the rules are broken and he can’t do this anymore.

I turn the phone face down without answering. I need time to prepare myself for whatever’s coming.

19

BEAU

It takes three days of incessant texts for Brinley to finally agree to meet me. I thought she would invite me back to her place, but instead, she suggested the St. Regis Hotel. We’ve met up here a few times before, enough that it feels like part of the fabric of our relationship. It’s a nice hotel, but far away from our usual haunts that we know we’ll be safe. Safe from the guys, safe from cameras, safe from everyone except each other.

I made sure to arrive early, even calling ahead to request an early check-in. I ordered all her favorite items off the menu. I doubt either of us will have much of an appetite once this conversation starts, but it’s a peace offering. A sign that whatever happens in this room, I still want the best for her. I also ordered a good bottle of red. That I’ve already opened and downed a glass of. I need all the courage I can get.

I spent the past two hours pacing, trying to figure out what I’m going to say. I’ve got nothing. The truth is ugly enough that no heartfelt speeches are going to make it any better. Since I don’t have any better ideas, I’m just going to have to wing it.

At exactly four o’clock, a light knock sounds on the door. I open it and there she is, her chin high and proud, her shoulders back. She’s wearing her baggiest jeans with a slouchy cardigan. It’s an armor of sorts, the kind that makes her invisible, the kind that says she didn’t dress up for me. She doesn’t care if I like how she looks, even though of course I fucking do. I know the curves Brinley hides under her clothes, and the more oversized her clothes are, the more I want to rip them off her.

If it were any other day, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.

“Hi,” I say dumbly in greeting. I move back, giving Brinley space to walk through the doorway. The clink of the door shutting behind her seems to echo in the quiet hotel.

“Nice room,” she says.

“Uh, yeah.” The room is beautiful, with the clean white bedding and the dark blue walls. Room service sent a small vase with a rose up on the tray. Nothing feels welcoming or comfortable, though. It feels like a stage set for something neither of us wants to perform.

I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets. Why does every part of this have to be so awkward?

“You’ve been avoiding my texts,” I say.

Brinley shifts her weight. “Yeah, well. You can’t exactly drop an I need to talk and expect me to be thrilled.”

I let out a long breath. Obviously, she thinks this is about Italy, about me telling her I love her. I can tell from the way she’s gnawing on her lower lip that she’s bracing herself, either for me to take it back or push her to answer. I can practically see her rehearsing responses behind her eyes. I might as well put her out of her misery.

“This isn’t about Italy.”

That throws her. Her mouth hangs slack as confusion replaces the script she’d prepared. “Then what?”

I meet her eyes. “I know you’re Peppermint.”

Brinley goes still. The deep, bone-level freeze of someone whose worst fear just walked into the room. For a second, I’m afraid she’ll forget to breathe.

Then the mask shifts back into place. Brinley laughs lightly. “Peppermint? The Toronto Tea blogger? Why would you think⁠—”

“Don’t. You don’t have to do that. I know, Brin.” I sound exhausted because I am. I’m tired from carrying this secret too long—from my friends, from Brinley. I don’t have the energy to go through the charade of convincing her.

Her eyes search my face, but it doesn’t take long for her to see the truth. Her feeble mask crumbles away, leaving us exposed. All the lies we told, the lies we thought could protect us, they’re gone now. We read each other well enough that deceit would be a waste of time. Brinley’s cheeks flush with rage, her shoulders square and determined.

“How long have you known?” she asks. Every word trembles, dripping with bitterness.

“For a while,” I admit.

“How long? Exactly?” she says again, like the answer might change.

“A while.”

She winces, her expression so betrayed I might have slapped her. I watch as she does the mental math. “Did you know at Cat’s wedding?”

I nod. I hadn’t been completely sure back then, but the only thing standing in my way was my own denial.