If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(28)

Somewhere in our laughing, that tug in my chest from watching her cry dissolved. Looking at her now, I feel something new, something there’s only room for since I cussed my way through yoga beside her in a space that felt big and real enough to hold my mess. Since I told her things I was so sure would cost me even this farce of a friendship. Since I laughed in a way I haven’t in as long as I can remember.

That something new, weighty and warm, spreads through me, a hunger for… What did she call it last night? Nourishment. Something filling, sustaining.

Something good.

Slowly, I lift my menu, scouring it with fresh eyes.

With thorough satisfaction, I watch surprise strike Ziggy’s expression as I tell the waiter, “I’ll have what she’s having, but for the smoothie and muffin, scratch the berries, make it chocolate.”

This time, Ziggy doesn’t have to remind me. As I hand the waiter my menu, I add with a smile: “Please.”





“You’re not walking me back to my place,” Ziggy says, the car’s engine ticking in my garage as it cools.

“Why the hell not?”

She raises her eyebrows.

“I just said ‘hell,’ Sigrid, in the privacy of my own home. Relax.”

“It’s a habit, though, Sebastian, and you’re trying to break it.”

“‘Appear’ to break it,” I remind her.

She sighs wearily.

It makes me wonder how long it’ll take before my stubborn intractability pushes her away, makes her realize I’m not even worth a fake friendship.

“It’s broad daylight,” she says, opening her door. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“How do you know?”

“I walked to your place yesterday evening and this morning and lived to tell the tale.”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. I rack my brain, searching for some justification for the jaw-clenching need to see her home safe. I shouldn’t need to see her home safe. But I do.

It’s because she’s Ren’s. Because, while she’s with me, I’ll be damned if she’s ever not safe—from me, from the world, from anything that could hurt her. For once in my life, I’m determined to see this situation through with a spotless record, to be able to look Ren in the eye and tell my best, my only, friend that I had nothing but good intentions with his sister and nothing untoward ever happened.

“Sebastian.” Ziggy’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I glance over at her where she stands, arm draped across the driver’s side door. Her hair’s mostly out of its braid, fiery wisps framing her face. She looks so fucking lovely, it’s obscene.

I swallow roughly. “I should walk you home,” I tell her. “Because…the reformed Seb would.”

“But your foot—”

“Fu—I mean, forget my foot. It’s fine. It hardly hurts.”

That’s a lie. It aches a good bit from how I pushed it at yoga. But that’s nothing to the discomfort I’ll feel, sitting here on my ass, stomach knotted, waiting like some anxious, hand-wringing boy for her to text that she’s back safe.

Ziggy arches an eyebrow, skeptical. But surprisingly, finally, she says, “Fine.”





“Well, Sir Seb, thank you for your escort.”

I frown at Ziggy. “Sir Seb? What on earth did I do to deserve that name?”

She smiles, swift and bright. It feels like a punch to the gut, it’s so lovely.

Don’t look at her like that, an admonishing voice hisses in my thoughts. You don’t even deserve her smiles, let alone her friendship—fake or not.

I glance down and brush off lint from my joggers.

“It had a nice ring to it, ‘Sir Seb,’” she says. “You were being chivalrous.”

“Chivalrous.” I roll my eyes. “Okay. Get inside. Drink some water. You’re dehydrated and delusional.”

Ziggy’s quiet for so long, I can’t keep my gaze down anymore. When I peer up at her, my heart skips a beat. Her head’s tipped, those piercing green eyes fixed on me. I have the uncomfortable sensation of being seen right down to my marrow.

“I’m starting to wonder,” she says, “if Ren wasn’t totally off the mark. If you’re kinder than you want to admit you are, Sebastian Gauthier.”

“Ziggy—”

“Hug,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.

God. Her smile was a gut punch, but this hug is a blow that knocks the wind right out of me. I stand rooted to the pavement outside her apartment building as she holds me, not a drop of air in my lungs.

“Hey.” She squeezes tighter. “Where’s my hug? You hugged me at yoga, why can’t you hug me now?”

“That wasn’t a hug,” I mutter into her hair, because the wind’s slapped it into my face, and fuck, does it smell good—like sweet, clean water, a purifying pour of goodness that I don’t deserve. “It was a…supportive…hold.”

“A supportive hold.” She snorts, an adorable sound in the back of her throat, chased by a bright, bubbly laugh. “Okay, sure. Well, it didn’t kill you, and this won’t kill you now. Besides, friends hug.”

“Not this friend.”