"What?" She mutters under her breath, her hands leaping up to cover her face. "What the hell?"
"Brynn?" I reach out to touch her shoulders, but she backs up. "I'm trying to fix this. You're obviously pissed at me so I'm going to kiss you and then we can finally leave the past where it belongs."
She throws her head back as a hearty laugh escapes her. "Seriously? You might be a great kisser, Smith, but it's not a magic eraser. You can't undo the past with a kiss."
What the fuck? Does this woman want me to get on my knees? Do I have to beg for her forgiveness because I stayed loyal to my girlfriend and passed on the chance to make out with her in a cramped kitchen uptown?
"You're making a bigger deal out of this than it is," I say gently, trying to defuse the situation. My sister had a broken heart when she was fourteen. I get that it can stay with a person for years, but this is ridiculous. Brynn was engaged to another man. She fell in love with someone else. She needs to move on and forgive me. "You need to get over it. Let it go already."
"Shut up," she says hoarsely, her voice breaking. "How can you say that? It was a big deal. It will always be a big deal."
I don't try to stop her as she turns and walks away. There's no way in hell this is about what happened in Julian's kitchen years ago. I broke her heart in two. I wish to fuck I had a clue how I did it.
CHAPTER TEN
Brynn
It's beenan hour since I saw Smith at the gym. I'm on the sidewalk across the street from the brownstone that I once imagined would be my home. I haven't been here in years. I couldn't bring myself to walk down this street, so I avoided it, tearing my way through Manhattan as if East Sixty-Seventh Street never existed.
Years ago, I'd make a point of walking this block at least a few times a week. I'd daydream about the dinners I'd cook there and the holiday gatherings that would take place in the grand sitting room.
In every single dream, there would be a familiar face beside me. She'd be there when I got home from work each day. She'd help me pick out which accessories complemented the furniture pieces I'd chosen for my clients.
Those dreams died the day my broker told me that the seller had accepted another offer. I knew it was Smith who had sealed the deal. I'd insisted on speaking to the seller myself, but Otto, my broker told me that the contracts had already been signed.
Smith Booth bought the townhouse I planned on bringing my grandmother home to. It was the same place her mother had wanted to live but her time inside was restricted to ten hours a day when she took care of the household needs of the wealthy family that lived there.
My grandmother spent her summers in that house when she was a kid. She sat on the floor playing with wooden puzzles and reading books as my great-grandmother peeled potatoes, washed windows and ironed the clothes of the people she worked for.
A loud cough behind me startles me enough that I turn. It's a friendly face; older and distinguished.
"Are you lost, Miss?" The man I'm looking at touches the lapel of his white suit jacket. "We don't get a lot of folks standing on this block for so long."
I have no idea how long I've been here. It's been long enough to notice the front door of the brownstone is now painted a dark brown. It once was blue; the same shade as my eyes, my mom's eyes and my grandmother's too.
"I once knew someone who spent time in that house." I wave my hand toward the brownstone I thought I'd be living in. "I was just remembering the stories she told me."
"I take it they were good? If they weren't, I doubt you'd be standing here staring at the front door."
I manage a faint laugh. "They were good. I wish I could hear them again."
I'll never be able to. My grandma is gone, just like my chance to live in that house and build my own memories.
"I tell my wife all the time that every crevice of this city has its own story to tell. If the walls of that home could talk, you'd hear those familiar stories and more."
I nod as my gaze catches on the tall man walking up the street. He's carrying a shopping bag filled with groceries in one hand. The other is cradling his phone next to his ear.
He's not dressed at all like he was at the gym. Smith is wearing jeans, a dark T-shirt and sunglasses. His gait is easy and relaxed.
"That man right there could tell you a story or two about that place." The white-suited man points in Smith's direction. "He worked his fingers to the bone restoring that townhouse. He's on the news. He's a big shot. Booth Smith is his name."
Close enough.
"He didn't work his fingers to the bone," I correct him because my great-grandmother was the one who worked her fingers to the bone in there. She worked every single day, including Christmas Day and Easter Sunday to provide a stable income for her two daughters after her husband died.
Smith made a few calls, ordered a latte and let the professionals bring that four-story building back to life while he soaked up the sun in Los Angeles. "That man hasn't done a day of manual labor in his life."
"I hate to disagree." The man next to me taps his chin. "I watched him work alongside the contractors almost every weekend for more than a year. He can wield a hammer with the best of them."
