Page 9 of Entwined With You

“Are you sure you’re okay?” She took a tentative step toward him, her brow furrowed with concern.

He took a corresponding step back. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just—”

“I know.”

“—you look like her,” he said, speaking over her. His words were soft. Barely audible. But he knew she understood.

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

He drew a breath, confusion mixing with guilt. “No. You don’t have anything to apologize for. We’re both—well, I guess we’re both hurting.” That was true, but it was still hard to look at her, so he turned away to walk toward the kitchen. “I’ve got mixers. You want a G&T?”

He cringed. Gin and Tonic had been Sabrina’s drink. But she answered right away, telling him that sounded great. If she understood why the question was awkward, she didn’t show it.

The kitchen was separated from the dining area by a breakfast bar. She stood by the counter to fix their drinks. He mixed hers the way Sabrina had liked it, shocked he actually had a few scrawny limes in his fridge for garnish.

He passed her the drink, then poured himself two fingers of bourbon, neat. His back was to her, and he closed his eyes for just a moment to gather himself before turning to face her again.

He should have taken longer.

She’d taken a seat at the breakfast bar, both hands curled around the glass, her elbows on the faux granite. Her head was tilted to the left, her hair on that side hanging down, while the other side was tucked behind her ear.

He froze, unsure if he was in the now, or if he’d somehow fallen backward into the past. Sabrina had never seen this apartment, much less been in it, and yet he knew that pose. The way she held her glass, the way she tilted her head. Those green eyes that missed nothing, taking everything in.

Brina.

He heard a soft noise, like a startled gasp, then realized it came from him.

She straightened, her body stiffening and losing that sense of being utterly comfortable in the moment. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “I—I was about to ask you why you didn’t tell me you were alive. Why you waited so many years.”

Her eyes widened as she leaned back, and he felt like an ass for saying that out loud.

“Then I remembered you’re not her,” he added quickly, silently ordering himself to get his shit together. “I’m sorry. This is harder than I expected. And you look so damn much like her….”

“Not my hair,” she said. “She dyed hers,” and for some reason the statement made him laugh.

She joined in, and for a moment, it was all fine. Strange, but fine.

Then the laughter died, and once again she asked if he would prefer that she leave. “It might be easier if you sleep on it. We could meet somewhere for breakfast.”

“Do you really think I’ll be able to sleep tonight?”

“You miss her that much.”

It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway. “I miss her more than I could ever say.”

“And you really loved her.” Again, the words were flat, and he couldn’t tell if she was speaking to him or herself. Or maybe to the universe at large.

“Desperately,” he said. “I’ll always love her.”

“Our father always said he loved us, too. Some days, I even believed him. It didn’t matter. Even if it was true, it didn’t matter.” She shrugged. “That’s what they say, isn’t it? You always hurt the ones you love?”

“Just because they say it—whoever the hell they are—doesn’t make it true.” He heard the edge in his voice. Sabrina had told him about her father—most of it, anyway. And there were no parallels between him and that vile man at all.

“Besides,” Brax added. “He didn’t. Love her, I mean. Not from what Brina told me. That son-of-a-bitch didn’t love her at all.”

Samantha’s shoulder rose and fell, but other than that, she made no comment. For a moment, silence hung between them, and though he knew it was rude, he used the time to study her face—a face she shared with Brina. A face he knew so damn well.