My breath seizes in my chest.
And then she presses her lips . . . to my cheek before saying, “Good night, Breaker.” Then she turns back around, snuggles into her pillow, and that’s that.
Nothing else.
I squeeze my eyes shut for being such a goddamn fool, for even wanting more.
She’s fucking engaged, you moron. Best you remember that.
ChapterEleven
LIA
The apartment is quiet. Breaker is still in bed sleeping while I sit on his couch, coffee in hand, staring out the window at the view, the same view I have from my apartment. Yet, I feel more comfortable here.
More at home.
It’s why I wanted to come over last night. I felt so out of control, and I needed that comfort.
And that’s exactly what I got.
Despite our fight this week and things being awkward between us—that whole “I stubbed my toe” thing was really weird—I can still rely on him. He held me last night, told me how much he appreciated me, and didn’t let me feel lonely for even a second.
I take a sip of my coffee and then glance down at my list. With my mind racing, I woke up early, came out here, and started writing down the things I wanted to do before I got married.
I wanted to be thoughtful in my check-off list, not just write things down to write them down. So I’ve narrowed it down to five items.
Do something that makes me feel pretty.
Create a circle of trust.
Spend a day saying yes.
Stand up for myself.
Follow my heart.
I stare down at the list, a large smile on my face as I realize this is exactly what I need to get out of this rut, this dark pit I feel like I’ve been sinking into. And I already have some ideas on how to check these off.
“What do you think, Mom and Dad?” I whisper. “Think this is a way to jumpstart my life again?”
A warm sense of comfort rushes through me. It might all be in my head, but I almost feel like I can sense their approval.
“Good morning,” Breaker says as he steps into the living room, scratching his chest and looking like he needs at least two more hours of sleep. “How long have you been up?”
“About an hour. There’s coffee warming if you want some. The raspberry kind of course.”
“As if you need to say anything, I could smell it from the bedroom.” He stumbles over to the kitchen, his feet scraping against the tile as he makes it to the coffee pot and pulls down the Jack Skellington mug I got him one year for Christmas. It was one of his favorite movies growing up. Since buying presents for a billionaire is incredibly hard, I decided to go the sentimental route. He uses it often. Once he pours his coffee, he turns toward me and nods at my paper and pen. “What are you writing?”
“The next greatest novel. It’s about a dragon who slays . . . on the dance floor and out on the battlefield.”
He sips his coffee and then says, “Does the dragon dress in drag?”
“Obviously.”
“I’d read the hell out of that, especially if it’s as riveting as Lovers, Not Brothers.” He walks over to where I’m sitting on the couch and takes a seat as well. “Does your dragon have a name?”
“Anita Sparkle Claw,” I answer.
