If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(29)

“C’mon. Hug me. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Sighing, resigned, I wrap my arms around her waist. She’s so strong…and yet so soft. I feel the long, hard muscles in her back and torso, the smooth curve of her hips. My teeth clench.

“Thank you,” she whispers against my ear.

A shiver runs through me that I barely suppress, but if Ziggy notices, she doesn’t let on. She just pulls away, flashing another one of those smiles that rips out the air I’ve just managed to draw in.

“Your turn,” she says, pulling her keys from her leggings’ pocket.

“My turn?”

“To come up with something friendly to do.”

I frown. “What would I know about that?”

As she opens her door, Ziggy smiles her widest yet. “You’ll figure something out. I have faith in you.”





10





SEBASTIAN





Playlist: “Good Luck,” Broken Bells





Ren looks as surprised to see me as I’m surprised to be at his doorstep. Damn Ziggy and her parting words.

I have faith in you.

I stood outside her apartment, as aggravating, frustrating urgency crawled through me. I tried to shake it off, to lose it, as I turned from her place, hoping walking away from her would wrench me free from it, pull me back into my old self.

But instead, I got to my house, showered, and walked the short distance to Ren’s.

Because absurdly, I seem to want to deserve Ziggy’s faith in me. And apparently, that starts with paying a confessional visit to the person who led me to her.

“Seb?” Ren’s expression morphs from puzzled to pleased as he opens his front door and steps back. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” I shut the door behind me and follow Ren, grateful Pazza doesn’t seem to be around to harass me. That dog lives for my torture. “Sorry for coming by without a heads-up.”

“You’re always welcome, Seb.” Ren smiles over his shoulder as he leads me into the kitchen. “Something to drink? Water? Tea? Coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Drumming my fingers on the counter, I grit my teeth. I hate this. Caring. Trying. It makes me feel like I’ve unzipped my skin and let it drop to a puddle at my feet, leaving me unnaturally, terribly exposed. I’m long past deluding myself that I don’t care or try with Ren, even in my limited capacity. So, I do my best to breathe through my discomfort and search for the right words. “I need to say something,” I finally grit out.

Ren turns slowly, his expression growing pensive as he faces me and searches my eyes. “Okay. I’m listening.”

Clearing my throat, I stare down at the ground, then force myself to look up and meet his gaze. How do I say this in a way that’s honest but doesn’t betray Ziggy’s trust and reveal her plan? “At your wedding…”

Ren tips his head, and the gesture’s so like Ziggy, I squeeze my eyes shut, then scrub my face with my hands. “Ziggy and I bumped into each other, and…talked…in a way…we haven’t before.”

So far, this is entirely honest. Am I leaving out crucial details? Like the fact that our talking at all was a novelty, since I’d pointedly avoided more than a cool hello since I met her? Or that as I watched her hike up that dress, all I could think was how much I wanted to fall to my knees, spin her around and bury my face in those freckled thighs? Or that when I dragged her into the light, and her eyes locked with mine, there was a moment I nearly wrenched her into my arms and kissed her?

Yes. I am leaving out those details.

Not because I’m trying to get around a truly uncomfortable confession—well, not primarily because of that—but because they’d undermine our pretend-friend ruse, and more importantly, they’re irrelevant; I will never act on those impulses.

I will never have her all the ways I’ve fantasized about having her. I will never taste her, kiss her, until I’m lightheaded from favoring her soft, lush mouth over the intrusive need for air. I’ll starve those unspoken truths inside me until they wilt and die. No need for Ren to know something that will one day be obsolete.

Ren’s quiet, watching me, waiting, kind, patient, steady, as always, as I search for the words to further explain myself. “Since then, we’ve…sort of hit it off.”

The terrible truth is that’s not a lie, either. I’ve only spent an evening and a morning with her—cornered on my rooftop patio, eating beside her on the hood of my car, undeniably bonding with her somehow at yoga, seated across the restaurant table for breakfast—but we have hit it off. I like her, dammit. Worse, I think she likes me, too. At least, the version of me that’s trying to appear to behave myself.

“Only as friends would hit it off,” I add, very deliberate in how I phrase that. It implies we’re friends without explicitly saying we’re friends. I haven’t lied to him.

Ren leans a hip against his kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed over his chest, and smiles. “Seb, that’s great.”

My stomach knots. “I wasn’t sure you’d think that.”

A furrow settles between his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I think that?”

“Because I’m a jackass with a horrible reputation and Ziggy is…the opposite. She’s kind. Good. Angelic.”