Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(81)

Until I know that, what business do I have asking Oliver for more? What do I risk saddling him with—a sore, sour fucker with a handful of grandpas for friends who have better social lives than me, an ornery cat who pisses in my shoes, and, barring some unforeseen early death, another forty-some years of me twiddling my fucking thumbs?

I watch him, standing in my kitchen, tall, shoulders back, whistling quietly to himself as he slides bacon and eggs onto a platter which already holds a massive stack of thin pancakes that smell like heaven.

“Gotta tell you, Hayes,” he says, sliding one last over-easy egg onto the platter. “I feel your eyes on me like an X-ray, so if you’re trying to be subtle about staring at my ass, I have news for you: you’re not.”

Heat fills my cheeks. I clear my throat. “You should go home and get some sleep.”

“And you should be resting in bed,” he says, flashing me one of those dizzying smiles that make me want to crush my mouth to his. “But you can’t always get what you want.”

“Do not start singing.”

The smile deepens. “Who, me?”

I glare at him as he finds the loophole and starts humming the Rolling Stones song, trying very hard to resolve myself to find some way to get him to go without scaring him off for good. What do I say? Hey, Oliver. Mind just waiting in the wings while I figure out if I can be with you without feeling like my heart’s being ripped out of my chest? If I could love you the way you deserve, if I’m worthy of even asking you for everything I want?

But Oliver’s holding my gaze with that same quiet, sure confidence he had the first time he ripped off my clothes and made me come undone, when he strolled in tonight with his arms full of food and looked into my eyes and told me with his body and his touch that he is not always the easygoing man he often seems to be.

“I was going to bring you breakfast for dinner in bed, but here you are, so let’s eat outside,” Oliver says, pointing to my outdoor dining table out back.

I peer out the glass panes of my back door, seeing a bright starry sky, a mellow spring breeze swaying the first blossoms in Oliver’s colorful garden. Sighing, resigned, I tell him, “Fine.”





25





OLIVER





Playlist: “Yellow,” Frankie Orella





Gavin’s grumbling under his breath as I slip a pillow behind him when he eases down to his chair and leans back. There’s something wrong with me, wires crossed in my brain, because his foul-mood muttering just makes me smile.

I’m not happy he’s in pain or struggling with me seeing him like this. I am relieved that he’s okay enough to get clean and shave, to grumble and gruff; that he’s hungry and willing to indulge me as I set our places, light a few votives, then sit across from him.

I know he wants me gone. I know he only thinks he’s safe to hurt and heal on his own.

But I can’t leave. I can’t stop replaying that moment when I realized he was on the ground, writhing in pain. I can’t stop the panic that tightens my throat again, that makes my heart fly in my chest all over as I remember how scared I was. How it felt like the world was collapsing and all that mattered was reaching Gavin, holding his hand, feeling how hard he squeezed back, his eyes screwed shut against the agony making him writhe on the field.

I stare at him, lit by candlelight as he peers down at his food, his frown tinged with confusion and vulnerability. I look at his dark hair, flopping into his face, his beard that’s neat and sharp once more, because he let me in, let me close enough to do that for him.

I look at this man who I held on a pedestal for so many years, idolizing; the man who became a reality rather than a myth and shattered the illusion I’d created, who I vilified for disappointing me so deeply. Now, I don’t see my idol or my enemy. I see him. Scared, hurting, angry, lost, a man who clings to those jagged edges and wields his sharp tongue, who’s so practiced at pushing away anyone who wants to be close.

And I see someone who’s shown me, in so many ways, that isn’t the heart of who he is; it’s his protection, his survival. His armor, shielding his heart.

I stare at him, so damn scared yet oddly relieved to admit it: how much Gavin matters to me, not the soccer legend or the sullen captain of my team, but the man. The man who makes my niece guacamole and colors with her. The man who holds me when I’m panicking, who believes in me when I have belief enough for everyone but too little for myself, who sees through every happy-go-lucky layer of my bullshit straight to the heart of my own aching fears and wants.

I promised myself I wouldn’t end up here again, falling for someone whose life is tangled with mine, whose world and career I share. And yet here I am, worse off than I ever was back in college.

I stare at Gavin, begging him with my mind: Show me. Show me how you’re different from him. Show me how this can work.

I don’t know what to do. Does Gavin want me the way I want him? Is he just as scared of this as I am? Or maybe all he’s ever wanted was to bang my lights out, then send me on my way. In which case—

“Bergman.”

I blink, forcing myself to give him an easy smile. “Hmm?”

He examines me, brow furrowed. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” I sit back, picking up a strip of turkey bacon and biting into it.