Bro Code(36)

Can't stop thinking about the other night.



It's Barrett. My heart trips over itself in an effort to speed up. My smile is immediate, but I can't help but tease him.



That bad, huh?



It takes him a second to reply, but my smile still refuses to fade as I watch the screen.



Best night of my life.



My fingers fly over the keys, tapping out a reply before my brain can filter it.



Mine, too.



I like that we're being honest, that we're not hiding behind the truth of what we did. And the truth is, it was a magical night. By far the best sex of my life, but it was more than that, too. When I was with him it was like nothing else in the world mattered—I didn't think once about the weight of my obligations, about work or my family. I could just be myself, and he liked me just the way I was. It was so easy to make him laugh, or smile, or to please him in bed.

And I'm not going to lie, there's something incredibly sexy about being with an older man, about letting him show me the ropes, the way he looked at me was almost worshipful, like I was pure sin but worth going to hell for every minute he was inside of me.



Well ... next time you're back in Indiana ...



I type the message, and stare at it for a full minute, then hit delete before I accidentally send that message.

It was a one-time thing. A flash of lightning in an otherwise dark night. Let it go, Ava.

But then another message pops up on my screen, and I realize, with my heart in my throat, it could change everything.



Come to Chicago this weekend?



Wouldn't that be like playing with fire, delaying the inevitable heartbreak this fling will surely result in?

When I don't reply three minutes later, he calls me. I let the phone ring twice, then take a deep breath before answering his call.

“Didn't scare you off, did I?” Barrett’s rich voice pours through the phone and straight inside me. I can hear him smiling through the phone.

My toes curl in my shoes, and I open my mouth to respond, but my breath wavers and, “Hi, Barrett,” is all I can manage.

“I had a great weekend with you,” he says, voice low and teasing.

Memories of our stolen kisses, of teasing him and fleeting glances shared across the room. Of his muscular body moving over mine, and the deep, sexy groan that tumbled from his lips when he finally pushed inside. My nipples pebble inside the lace cups of my bra, and my breathing grows ragged at the memory that’s still so fresh in my mind that I swear I can feel him.

“I did, too,” I admit, voice soft.

“Then you should say yes. Ava…come spend the weekend with me.”





Chapter Eighteen


Ava


I'm nervous.

I ease my car into a parking spot and crane my neck to look up.

Even from where I’m parked a few blocks away, the enormous silver tower that I’m almost positive is Barrett’s building stands taller than everything else around it.

Part of me still can't believe I'm actually doing this. The three-hour drive passed by quickly with an audiobook about the Nepalese people of Katmandu. But now I’m here, and the anxiety of highway driving in a large city like Chicago subsides to make room for a new kind of nervous, a Barrett kind of nervous.

Suddenly, the trip out seems a lot less scary than telling him that I’m here. I fumble for my phone, reminding myself that he is the one who invited me. He wants me here. He wants to see me. Just call him already. My fingers tremble, but I manage to press his name on my phone. Not even half a ring later, he picks up.

“Hello?”

I haven’t heard his voice since he invited me a couple of days ago, and just one “hello” is all it takes for my cheeks to heat up and my toes to curl. Keep your cool, Ava.

“Hey, I’m here,” I say, trying to even my breath behind my shaking voice.

“Great, I’ll come get you. Where are you parked?”

I list off a few of the names of the shops I’m parked by.

“Be out in a sec.”

Butterflies take flight in my stomach. It still doesn’t feel real that I’m about to see him again. And this time there will be no meddling parents—or my brother—in our way. The reality of it doesn’t completely hit me until I spot him across the street. I could recognize that sculpted frame from a mile away, his black jacket zipped tight so that the fabric stretches across his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a fitted pair of dark wash jeans cuffed just above a pair of dark brown boots, the same color as his hair, which is somehow untouched by the reckless Chicago wind. My heart clenches in my chest. I knew I missed him, I just didn’t realize how much.

When I step out of the car, Barrett shoots me a smile that lights up his entire face and makes my knees weak.

“You made it,” he says, pulling me in for a quick hug, which is all we can safely manage before the oncoming traffic starts laying on the horn. “Come on, let’s get out of the cold.” He takes one of my gloved hands in his and leads me down the block to his building, which seems even bigger up close.

“After you,” he says, gesturing toward the revolving doors, which officially make this apartment building fancier than a lot of hotels I’ve stayed in. The foyer of the building reflects that sentiment with its leather couches and marble floors.