He turns as he speaks. “Mornin’, Mr. —” He stops. And stares. His mouth goes slack and his eyes widen. “Johnson?” The word comes out as a whispered question, a crease appearing between his brows.
My chest heaves, oxygen unable to reach my lungs, and my eyes fill with tears. I always thought my body would ignite with blistering heat if I ever laid eyes on him again, but it’s the complete opposite—I feel bitterly, frightfully cold. Standing before Brendan, I tremble, goosebumps rippling up my arms like an unstoppable tide.
If I ever doubted that I still love him, that doubt is now completely obliterated.
Brendan steps back, and I know he’s about to run. How many times did I see that look in his eyes when we were boys?
I desperately want him to stay. But, even if he doesn’t, I know I’ll chase him a thousand times over a thousand lifetimes for a chance to have him back.
“Bren,” I say softly, taking a tentative step forward and reaching for him.
“Kyle…I—I can’t.” He takes another step backwards. “I didn’t know—your husband—James? He said I was meeting with Kyle Johnson.”
“I changed my name when I got married.” I ease myself out onto the front step. “You look good.”
Bren’s eyes roam all over my face, then up and down the length of my body. I’m doing the same thing, trying to take in what has changed and what remains of the boy that once consumed my every thought.
My eyes settle on his full lips and flashes of a life we could’ve had,should’ve had, flit through my mind… Lazy Sunday mornings in bed, warm summer nights at the beach, heated kisses and loving smiles.
I briefly close my eyes, trying to hold onto the fantasy, or perhaps, stop it. Pain and pleasure tangle together, regret threatening to swallow me whole.
“I changed mine too,” Bren says, as if that might explain everything.
I frown. Brendan Walker. So Bren is somebody else’s husband?
Bren should be a Davies.
Ishould still be a Davies.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” I gush, frantic to keep him talking. “Your own company. I’m happy for you, Bren.” I smile, my fingers fidgeting at my sides, battling the desire to caress the sharp angle of his jaw.
“Kyle…Johnson?” Bren says, still caught on my name.
But his guard is up now, and his face composed. His eyes turn cold, and I know I’m losing him.
“Hey, this isn’t gonna work for me. I’ll send over my second-in-command—Jeff—he’s great.”
Bren begins backing down the path and I have no choice but to let him go for now.
“I’ll cue up a time with your husband. James, right?” The way he says James, clipped and harsh, makes me recoil. Bren turns and strides urgently towards the front gate.
“Bren,” I call out, but I know it’s futile.
“Not doin’ this, Davies!” he yells without even a backwards glance.
And then he’s throwing himself into the driver’s side of his black Ute.
Back inside, I stare out my front window, watching Bren sitting in his vehicle. I can’t stop shaking, my emotions so heightened that I feel almost manic.
Five minutes pass, and he still doesn’t drive away. Instead, he collapses over the steering wheel, then, just as suddenly, throws himself back against the headrest, bringing his hands up to cover his face. Is he furious or upset? I can’t make it out from this distance.
I want nothing more than to run out there and take him into my arms, tell him everything will be okay and that I never stopped loving him. Tell him how eternally sorry I am for what I did. But I’m not stupid enough to think that it would work. I’ll need to start from scratch and peel back the layers like I did once before. Bren was always guarded. Always fearful behind the mask he wore for the world.
When he finally drives away, I sink down onto the floor, exhausted, and let myself cry. It pours out of me, an endless well of grief. I’m relieved Bren is out of prison, safe and successful, but I’m also devastated, knowing that he is most likely married. It never entered my head that he would marry anyone but me.It’s a wake-up call that gets me off the floor and wiping my cheeks.
In the kitchen, I find Bren’s business card and enter the number into my phone, along with the address for Beautiful Bathrooms. I make a coffee and sit on the sofa, trying to collect my messy thoughts. The youthful, boyish version of Bren I once knew so well is long gone, replaced with a mature, ruggedly handsome man. He is more muscular and toned, with silver strands of hair peppered through the dark brown. The fine lines around his eyes and on his forehead only add to his appeal. Bren’s eyes are still the warmest brown I’ve ever seen, and I long to press my mouth to his full lips. He’s undeniably attractive, even more so than in his youth.
My temperature rises, heat flushing my cheeks, and warmth pools low in my gut. Eyes fluttering closed, I fantasise about having him once again. It ignites something inside of me that has laid dormant for far too many years. A spark, a fire, areason. Something I’ve only ever felt with Bren.
