I lean back, letting my head fall against the apartment door. “I’d invite you in, but”—I glance down at Brady’s hand, where it has left my back and come to rest on my hip—“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“Why?” Brady uses one finger to tip my chin to the ceiling. My throat is exposed, and he leans in, his lips hovering just above my skin.
“Lines,” I manage to say around my galloping pulse, my tangled thoughts.
“Lines…” Brady repeats, his breath hot on my throat. “Crossing lines?”
I attempt to nod, but find I can’t, not with my head tipped up that way. “Yes,” I breathe.
The tip of Brady’s nose touches me, and he lets it slide down to the hollow space at the base of my neck. He runs it back up the other side of my throat, careful to touch me with nothing more than that.
“Tell me, Lennon, do you like this?”
“Mmmm,” I answer. I can’t say yes, and I can’t say no. The truth is that I like it, very, very much, and I fear how much I like it. It makes me uneasy. Once we cross this line, it can’t be uncrossed. But really, isn’t it already crossed? The second I chose to wear this black dress I knew I was toeing the line. The second we stepped into that elevator and the air changed, we’d crossed the line. The truth was that we didn’t need to cross the line physically; emotional line crossing was enough to alter us.
Brady’s mouth moves lower, until I can feel his breath on my cleavage. My hand finds his hair, winding through it. He still isn’t touching me, and damn if it isn’t the most erotic and frustrating thing I’ve ever experienced. I lower my gaze to watch him, sneaking a glance down the hall. If anyone came out right now...
“Has Finn ever touched you like this, Lennon?” Brady’s hand slips from my hip, traveling down the outside of my thigh until it reaches the hem of my dress.
“No,” I say sharply, gruffer than I intended.
“Good,” Brady growls against me. “Do you want me to stop?”
No.
God, no.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. The word bounces around my body, zinging past my heart and out into the air, halting the scene like a wrench thrown in a system of moving parts.
Brady straightens. His confidence turns to apprehension, his eyes crinkling with concern.
“Lines,” I say, trying to explain something I don’t understand myself.
He nods. “Right. Lines.” He steps back from me. “I better go.”
My hand flies out to stop him, but he’s already turned, striding for the elevator. When he gets there, he turns back to me.
“I’m sorry for what I did in high school, Lennon. I’m sorry I didn’t make you mine. I’m sorry for it all.”
Then he’s gone, stepping on the elevator and disappearing.
12
Now
Brady
There was a time in my life when I thought I would never move away from this town. I was a kid who lived in an affluent area with influential parents. As if that wasn’t enough, I discovered I had a natural talent for baseball. Tri-fucking-fecta. With my two best friends by my side, I didn’t think life could get any better.
That feeling turned out to be true.
Life could not get any better; but, it could get worse. One day, as I was nearing eighth-grade graduation, my mother came home and announced I would not be going to the high school I always assumed I’d be attending.
Not good enough, she’d declared.We’re going private.
I argued, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Nothing I could say would change her mind, and I wasn’t the type to force my hand. No running away from home or throwing a wild kegger. I operated on the belief that my parents had a shitty enough time dealing with my older sister, they didn’t need me compounding their problems. Plus, I really liked being the easy one. It was a source of pride for me.
Thank God we have you, my mother would say, ruffling my hair. I read her message as clearly as if it were written on paper:we can’t have two children causing problems. And truly, I understood. My father was a federal judge, and he’d extended his reach as far as it would go to get my sister out of trouble. Two DUIs, and found in possession of drugs (it was only weed, but still, it was against the law).
