If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(2)

Twin tears spill down my cheeks. My hands are fists, shaking as anger boils up inside me. What Bridget and Martina said is so unfair. But it’s also not unprecedented. I’m painfully familiar with this attitude, this perception that I’m juvenile and na?ve, some delicate innocent who can’t handle the real world.

My family babies me. My peers underestimate me. I’m tired of it, and I’m sick to my stomach, thinking about what this perception, if it sticks, could cost me—what it already threatened to cost me, but for Coach Mal ignoring Bridget’s warnings and putting me on the team anyway.

I’m mad that I have to deal with this nonsense on today of all days. I get why my brother Ren invited Bridget and Martina to his wedding. They’re local high-profile professional athletes who partner generously with his charity. But still, right now, I really wish he hadn’t.

“All right,” Martina says, her voice growing closer on the restroom side of the lounge. “That’s enough preening. I want to get my hands on those hors d’oeuvres. They looked damn good, and they aren’t going to last forever. This place is crawling with professional athletes; you know how much food they can put away.”

Bridget snorts. “Yeah, I do. I’ve seen you eat.”

Martina’s echoing laugh grows closer. They’re about to see me, and they’ll know I’ve heard them. Desperate to avoid that, I spin and rush out of the room, right into my sister.

“Whoa.” My oldest sibling, Freya, clasps me by the shoulders as I plow into her.

I duck my head, quickly dabbing my face, but Freya hasn’t missed a thing.

“Zigs, what’s wrong? Did someone upset you?” She curls an arm around me and tugs me down the hall. “Hey, talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t need your help!” I wrench myself away as we turn the corner in the hall, thankfully hiding us from Bridget and Martina. “I don’t need you to manhandle or womanhandle me or whatever, and I don’t need you to stick up for me.”

Freya blinks, her pale blue-gray eyes, just like Mom’s, wide with surprise. Slowly she lifts her hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m sorry. I get in mama-bear mode, you know that. I just want to take care of you. You’re my baby sister.”

I shake my head, scrunching my eyes shut. “I’m the youngest in the family, but I’m not a baby anymore, Freya. I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman.” Huffing a breath, I stare up at the ceiling and try to calm myself. “I vote. I got my driver’s license. I have a job and an apartment. I pay my rent. I take care of myself, okay?”

Freya lowers her hands, her voice quiet and hesitant. “Okay, Ziggy. I’m sorry.”

Guilt turns my stomach sour. I’ve hurt Freya’s feelings, and I didn’t mean to. I meant to be honest, to tell the truth, but I didn’t say it in a way that made her feel good.

So often, it feels like when I’m my true, honest self, I can’t do anything right.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry, too, I just…” Growling with frustration, I clutch my sandals tight in my hand. My underwear’s location in my butt crack is turning into my villain origin story. “I just need somewhere to lose these freaking panties!”

Storming down the hall and leaving my sister in my wake, I catch sight of glass doors opening out to a shadowy terrace, a steep roof shielding it from the last marigold streaks of twilight. Tall tropical plants cover the terra-cotta tiles and form a small, lush oasis, affording me plenty of privacy for what I need to do.

I drop my sandals and hike up my dress to reach the waistband of my underwear. With a sigh of deep relief, I hook my fingers on the waistband, then drag the offending fabric down my thighs. When it hits my ankles, I celebrate by flicking the horrible panties off my foot, into the air over my head. Then I spin around, prepared to catch them.

Except when I turn around, I see someone’s beaten me to it.

Someone lounging in the shadows, long legs outstretched…

One familiar, tattooed hand, holding my panties.





I take it back. It’s not the wedgie from hell or Bridget and Martina’s gossiping or my well-meaning-but-suffocating family that’s going to ruin this otherwise perfect day. It’s the sight of my underwear dangling from Sebastian Gauthier’s heavily tattooed index finger.

Heat crawls up my throat and floods my cheeks as my brother’s best friend stares at me from the shadows. Slowly, he sits up and leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Then he gives my panties a little twirl around his finger.

Somehow, my cheeks get even hotter. I’m going to die of mortification.

“Lose something?” he asks.

It’s the longest he’s ever looked my way, the most words he’s ever spoken to me. (We’ve bumped into each other a handful of times either at my brother Ren’s place or after their games, which is when I’ve only ever been the recipient of a terse nod followed by a chilly hello.) Any other day, I’d probably stand here, tongue-tied, stunned that Sebastian’s acknowledged my existence.

But today, I’m at my limit. I’ve been dealing with a noisy crowd, aggravating undies, petty fellow athletes, overinvolved family, and I’m done.

Cheeks burning, fire in my veins, I take the two steps between us and reach for my underwear as he swings it lazily around his finger.