Brant guiltily tugged at his short, wavy hair and quickly changed the subject. “Weren’t you the one worried about me?”
“Being worried is one thing—change is good. But you’ve done a complete one eighty, what gives?”
A certain masseuse.
The job.
A challenge.
Life.
The past.
So many things.
“Is there another reason you called?”
“I was thinking about visiting this weekend—especially since, when Grandfather told me where you were, he had a twinkle.”
“A Twinkie?”
“Twinkle. Keep up. His eyes did that creepy twinkle thing. Are you sure this isn’t a setup?”
“I just got pushed into the pool by the concierge, nearly got impaled by one of the hairstylists because she prefers two types of scissors, and had a massage that was so painfully deep I walked funny for hours. So no, I don’t think it’s a setup, though my reputation apparently hasn’t faded in the last four years. The employees are either pissed off at me or they’re too terrified to say hi.”
Bentley chuckled. “You were a hard-ass when you worked for Grandfather. You fired two people for not getting coffee fast enough.”
Brant groaned. “They were interns, and I was making an example. Plus they’d been lying on their time sheets for weeks.”
“Right, but everyone thinks it was the coffee.”
“Not my fault.”
“You were good at your job.”
Past tense. Brant didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. He knew where it would end.
And the last thing he wanted to do was talk to Bentley about his feelings, about his sadness, about his hate.
God, it was hard enough living with it on a daily basis.
“Hey, I gotta run,” Brant lied.
Bentley let out a long sigh. “I know you’re lying, but since I heard you laugh at least once in the last few minutes, I’m going to let it slide.”
Brant would probably regret his next words. “You should bring everyone down this weekend…maybe even invite Brock and Jane. It would be fun.”
“Damn.” Bentley said in a stunned voice. “Was it the death massage or getting pushed into the pool?”
“Huh?”
“You sound”—Bentley hesitated—“nonsuicidal.”
“Nice. Real nice, Bent.” Brant pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Look, I’m fine, I’ve always been fine, just…”
He didn’t want to say it.
But apparently, he didn’t need to, because Bentley added, “Sad.”
“I was going to say angry.”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
“I gotta go.”
“You said that.”
“Bye, Bentley.”
He disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the opposite chair.
Maybe the biggest step was just admitting that you had a problem. Even though you weren’t so sure you wanted to even solve it.
“Shit.” Brant tugged at his wet shirt and wrung it out. Two days, a few hours, and Nikki was twisting him up in knots.
Just like she always had. Just like she always would.
He squeezed his eyes shut, mentally preparing himself for later that evening. He had two choices. He could ignore the tension right along with the chasm of mistakes that separated them. Or—he braced his hands on the chair as pain sliced through his chest—or he could just kiss her again.
Chapter Thirteen
Holy shit.” Cole ran his massive hands up and down Nikki’s arms, finally stopping at her hands as he twirled her around and then pulled her against his chest. “You look amazing.”
“Don’t I always look amazing?” she teased, nervous that she had no idea what she looked like and had to rely on everyone else to tell her she was passable. But judging by the heat emanating from Cole, she was more than passable. Really, all she wanted was to look pretty. Anxiety washed over her whenever she thought about what she looked like.
Because sometimes it was hard to remember. Not the full picture.
She knew what color her hair was—a jet-black that was often shiny and bouncy. Her eyes were more golden than brown. And her Hispanic grandmother had passed down her amazing golden skin. Full lips, a petite curvy body. But it stopped there.
It was the little details that killed her, like what her teeth looked like when she was laughing. Did her eyes crinkle at the sides like they used to? Was her expression blank like most people’s were when they were struck with blindness?
And why was it, when she thought of herself, that the image was blurry at best?
But when she thought about Brant, it was clear as day. As if she could actually see him.
She closed her eyes for a few minutes and gave herself permission to imagine the man she’d married—not the one who’d stomped out of her life yet again only to yell at the first employee he’d seen, and continue on his tirade.