If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(19)

Because what I felt, watching her naked silhouette through the curtain separating us before I spun away and shut my eyes; after that, kneeling at her feet; then, standing behind her as she looked at herself in the mirror, is bad, bad news.

I’m painfully attracted to her. To this delicious contradiction of shy quiet and sheer courage, tender feeling and tenacious fire. She’s a goddamn knockout, and she has no fucking clue. She doesn’t know that sheer white top draped across her dewy skin is jaw-clenching torture, that her hips sway when she’s feeling confident, and the freckles on her legs dance as she walks.

She will never know that from me. Because that kind of conversation is never going to happen with my best friend’s sister.

Who only wants to pretend to be my friend.

And who’s very obviously on the precipice of losing her shit in this syrupy-sweet diner.

Her legs bounce frantically under the table. I wedge a knee around each of them and pin them together, making her legs go still. She glances up and takes a deep, slow breath, something like relief warming her eyes. Her shoulders settle from where they’d crept up to her ears.

A rare, bone-deep satisfaction pours through me, better than the best high, more potent than the smoothest whiskey. I did that. I made her feel better. Fuck, could I get hooked on the rush it gives me.

Even more reason to agree with Ziggy that this idea was an epic mistake. I should throw down some cash, drag her outside, and put an end to this.

But instead, inexplicably, I say instead, “Why?”

Ziggy slides her fingers around the edge of her menu. Her hands are shaking. “The whole idea of this was to be looked at, to be seen. I’m not used to that, though, being noticed. It freaks me out.”

“You’re six one with flame-red hair. How the hell are you not used to being ‘noticed’ by now?”

She bites her lip and ducks her head, so her ponytail becomes a curtain of hair that shields her from the curious eyes turned our way. “You said yourself, I’m good at hiding in plain sight.”

My chest aches. My jaw creaks, I’m clenching it so hard. Who the fuck made her feel like this? What made her decide it was best to hide herself away and dim her fire?

She glances past her hair, inspecting the room, then winces. “I can’t do this.”

“The fuck you can’t.”

“Watch your mouth,” she whispers, glaring at me. “Some public-image overhaul you’ve got underway, dropping all these f-bombs in a family restaurant.”

I lean in and tell her, “If I’m expected to look like I’ve reformed myself and talk like a good little boy, you can sit tall and let people see you.”

She shuts her eyes. “It’s hard. Change takes…time for me. I can’t just snap my fingers and make myself suddenly comfortable with that.”

I stare at her, a sharp knot forming in my chest. “Then let’s take a step back. Ease you into it.”

Her eyes meet mine, curious and guarded. “Ease me into it?”

I lift a hand to grab our waiter’s attention, holding Ziggy’s gaze. Stevie, as he introduced himself, is at our booth very quickly, as if he’s been waiting for this moment. “Need something?” he asks.

“We’ve decided we’ll take our food to go,” I tell him. For Ziggy’s benefit, when she widens her eyes at me, I flash Stevie a grin that’s gotten me exactly what I want more times than I can count. “Please.”

Ziggy watches Stevie blink at me and turn bright pink. “S-sure,” he says, tucking back a lock of brown hair behind his ear. He pushes his glasses up his nose, from where they’ve slipped. “Absolutely. No problem.”

Ziggy’s eyebrows lift as Stevie turns, walks into a table, then slowly steps around it, fidgeting with his hair again, throwing me a dazed smile over his shoulder. “That charm, Gauthier,” she mutters bleakly. “It’s a dangerous thing.”

I smirk as I slouch back in the booth. “Don’t I know it.”





“Man, this is good,” Ziggy moans around her food. “I didn’t even think I’d be that hungry—I already ate dinner—but there’s something about Betty’s burgers.” Another happy moan leaves her as she chews, then swallows.

Ketchup seeps from the burger, landing with a splat on her thigh. “Oops,” she mutters.

I watch her slide an index finger across her skin to wipe up the ketchup, then bring it to her mouth, licking the ketchup clean off the tip of her finger with one swift flick of her tongue.

I bite the straw stuck in my milkshake so hard it cracks.

It’s bad enough that I’ve had to sit right beside Ziggy, listening to each appreciative groan as she bites into her burger. Now I have to watch her lick her fingers.

I need to get laid.

But that’s pretty damn impossible when I’m on virtual house arrest and under strict instructions from Frankie not to fuck around with anyone. My hand’s been getting a workout, and it’s barely taken the edge off. It’s been that way even before I got myself into this latest bit of trouble. I’ve been restless, annoyed, frustrated. No one’s pleased me, no one’s drawn me in. There hasn’t been a single person I’ve enjoyed debauching in weeks.

Now, sexually frustrated, stuck in the longest abstinent streak of my adult life, I have to listen to Ziggy moan over diner food on the hood of my car.