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lyrics have stabbed me and left me to bleed out. Yes, if I’m being really honest—and Keeley knows this too fucking well—I have hungered for Britta for a long, lonely time. A few lines later mirrors exactly what I’m wondering deep down. Is she still mine?
But I already know the answer. She must hate my guts. I unwittingly walked out on her when she was pregnant. Why wouldn’t she?
I turn off the music in the middle of the song. I’d rather drive in silence than fantasize there’s a smidgeon of hope for Britta and me while Bobby Hatfield croons on in his perfectly tuned whine.
But cutting off the audial distractions leaves me alone with my thoughts. Until Keeley and her goddamn playlist, my primary focus has been on Jamie, not the woman who gave birth to my son. Not the woman who once held my heart.
What if there’s any chance at all, deep down, that she is still mine?
Jesus, I have to stop this emotional shit. I can’t see Britta without my head screwed on straight. My only goal is to meet my boy. Focus there, dumb ass.
I turn on talk radio and tune out the political pundits. At least they aren’t trying to yank my heart out from between my eyes. I’m already intimately acquainted with that feeling. It set in after Britta and I ceased being a couple and hasn’t let up since.
Minutes later, I pull up in front of her house and examine it with a frown. It’s small but nice. Pale blue facade, clean white door, well-maintained yard. A glance tells me it’s under fifteen hundred square feet. I know this neighborhood. It’s decent and not terribly expensive—at least by Maui standards. I’m grateful Britta has given my son a solid home. I’m glad my brother—not her boyfriend—has been subsidizing this roof because there’s no way she could afford this place without one of them.
That’s going to change. In fact, everything is.
I park on the street. Despite the long driveway and carport, I have nowhere else to leave my high-priced wheels. Everywhere I look is packed with vehicles—sedans, sports cars, jeeps. Old and new. This many people couldn’t live in a house this small.
Is she having a party? On a Thursday night?
With a frown, I step out of my Porsche. The Hawaiian breeze has a hint of cool nip that reminds me it’s February. I try not to think about the fact that Valentine’s Day is next Tuesday. I’m sure someone invented this crappy lovers’ holiday to mess with single people’s heads. Every year, I find some random woman who also can’t bear the loneliness without someone to pretend with. Last year’s shitbaggery started in some tourist bar and ended up in a ritzy hotel with empty orgasms and regret. I was home by two a.m., in the shower and trying to wash away my sins.
As I climb the stairs to Britta’s porch, I focus on the here and now. Somewhere in that house is my son…and his mother.
With Keeley’s advice in mind, I draw in a calming breath and head to the cheerful front door. The little glow of the porch light illuminates the piece of paper someone has taped in the middle. WE’RE OUT BACK. COME THROUGH THE SIDE GATE. IT’S UNLOCKED.
The scrawl doesn’t look anything like Britta’s writing.
I grind my teeth together and head back down the stairs to find the side gate. Weaving between the cars strewn across the driveway, I find my way to the fence and see a break, the wooden door standing slightly ajar.
What the hell is going on? I have no idea as I push it open.
Across the yard, stretched between a pair of swaying palms, is a big, homemade banner that stops me dead.
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR ENGAGEMENT, BRITTA AND MAKAIO.
Holy. Fuck.
Maxon warned me this might happen. Still, I reread the sign, rooted in place. My body thuds. My head races. My blood boils.
I want to fucking kill someone despite the fact that, logically, I know she doesn’t belong to me anymore. But my reaction is purely primal.
It tells me that whatever we might have had is gone, along with my foolish hope.
Working to take my fury down ten notches, I breathe deep and tell myself to be practical as I scan the yard. I don’t see any children. Is Jamie already asleep? Maybe so. It’s ten thirty. Don’t little kids go to bed early? I didn’t consider that sooner. Damn it.
Now what do I do? I’m hardly in the mood to stand here and toast the bride.
Britta isn’t hard to find since she’s the only blonde among a sea of native Hawaiians in bright, tropical prints and sandals, clinking glasses and smiling.
From a distance, I see she’s wearing a pencil skirt in a sedate gray that clings to a curve in her hips she didn’t used to have. Her ass looks lusher, rounder. Her hair, though wrapped up in some classic twist, looks longer or thicker—something.
The lust that hits me is stronger than ever.
Jesus, when am I going to stop wanting her?
She’s talking to a pretty brunette who’s about her age. The striking woman hugs her, joy evident in her huge smile. Britta replies. I can tell because she still talks with her hands. She’s graceful, as always. Not surprising. She entered college on a dance scholarship.
I remember watching her move on stage for the first time. The beauty of her movement stunned me, the way she was aware of her every muscle, the complete control she had over even her smallest gesture. Pale tights and a flowing scrap of chiffon flirting with her thighs gave me a hard-on from hell. I was her boss at the time. She’d just begun to work for Maxon and me. I appreciated her smarts in the office and her talent on stage, sure. But more than anything, I wanted those slender thighs wrapped around me while I fucked her. I told myself to back down. She was still young. Everything about her screamed hands off. I didn’t listen. I corrupted every bit of her purity. Then I walked away, leaving her with a pregnancy she hadn’t planned for, and myself with a mountain of fury and regret.
I wonder how much she’s changed. Maxon told me that I broke something in her. Fuck.
Is she bitter now? Withdrawn? How much does she hate me?
How many beds has she slept in since mine?
I swallow the question down. I have no right to ask. Besides, do I really want to know?
I keep staring at her, watching her slender shoulders as she laughs gently. I hear the sound rising above the din of conversation. It’s good to hear her happy even though I’m so fucking sad.
No one has noticed me. I need to approach her, think of something rational and non-confrontational to say. Or turn around and come back tomorrow, when she doesn’t have a whole bunch of company who will gawk at me the minute I demand to see my son. When she isn’t celebrating her pending union to another man.
But I can’t make myself leave. I just stare, willing her to look my way.
Suddenly, she stiffens. I see the moment she becomes aware of my presence. She tilts her head toward her right shoulder. The cock of her ear and the jut of her chin follow. She pauses for a sliver of a second, as if she’s not sure she truly wants to know if I’m just beyond her line of sight, making her senses flare.
“Britta,” I call out to her.
At the sound of my voice, she whips her head around, as if she’s heard a ghost and is eager to dispel the notion I could be standing ten feet behind her.
Our eyes meet. My breath stops. God, she’s still so fucking beautiful to me.
In that moment I know one thing: no matter what’s happened or how long it’s been, I want her back. Whatever Britta thinks, she’s still mine.
A gasp falls from her lips. She drops her drink, her face going pale in an instant.
The woman she was speaking to frowns in concern and grabs Britta’s shoulders, shooting me the evil eye.
Yeah, I’m the bad guy here. Everyone knows it, even me.
I take a step toward her, and that seems to pull her from her daze. She waves off her concerned friend and darts in my direction, bearing down on me with something between shock and fury.
Her eyes are still a stunning shade of blue, almost turquoise, like the warmest ocean waters near the shore. They’re the first thing I n
oticed about her. Blue-eyed blondes aren’t terribly unusual, especially in Los Angeles, where I spent my childhood. But everything about Britta is different. Her eyes are slanted and slightly far apart, framed by heavy lashes. The effect is exotic, sexual. Her pillowy mouth sucks me in next, bent with an exaggerated bow on top and a puffy curve on the bottom. I still dream of that mouth. I remember every time I kissed it, every pleasure it ever made me feel. Tonight, she’s exaggerated her pouty lips with a soft gloss that makes me want to tell everyone else at this gathering to fuck off so I can eat it from her now.
No one else has lips as enticing or soft as Britta Stone. Believe me, I’ve looked. A lot. I can’t un-remember the way her eyes flared wide for me when her mouth opened to let loose the gasp of orgasm she could no longer keep in. It was one of the sexiest things ever. Even now, I sometimes close my eyes and stroke my cock to her memory.
Any wonder seeing her in the flesh is making me harder than hell?
