Now, I don’t need to avoid her. I just need to find her.
Where the hell did she run off to?
I take the stairs two at a time and burst through the door, stepping out into my loft. After turning on the nearby lamp, I swipe my phone off the table and dial her number. It rings until her voicemail clicks over. My eyes pinch shut.
For fuck’s sake, Brooke.
Worry pricks at my encouraging mood. Is she having a minor freak out? Over-thinking things again? And so soon . . . I was at least hoping for a few days of bliss with her before I had to talk her off another ledge.
I shoot her a quick text, asking if everything is all right, then strip off my shirt and toss it onto a chair.
I step into the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face. I run my wet hands through my hair and along the back of my neck. My reflection stares back at me, one I recognize from the past two days. Laden with uncertainty and tension.
Fucking hell. She ran out of here. She ran away from me.
As I debate on taking an actual shower to keep myself here and not pacing the streets, a habit I’ve acquired as of recently, a knock sounds on the front door, startling me. I move swiftly through the room and tug on the handle.
Brooke pushes past me the second the door swings open. I inhale a lung full of soft vanilla.
She’s here. That’s a good sign. I begin to breathe a bit easier, my anxious mind starting to settle.
“Hey. You had me worried. I thought maybe you were changing your mind.” I close the door and watch her move into the kitchen.
She sets a bottle on the table. Tall, amber in color. Tequila.
Our eyes lock.
All right. Instead of pulling away, I’m now driving her to drink? Not sure this classifies as progress or not.
“Everything all right, Brooke?”
A small laugh bubbles on her lips. She unscrews the bottle, bringing it to her mouth for a taste. “I am so mad at you right now.”
I watch her take a sip, then another. “Why?”
“Why?” she echoes, pointing at me with the bottle in her hand. Her eyes narrow. “You know exactly why.” Taking another sip, she moves around the room with the bottle, gesturing with her free hand. “How long have you been planning this for, Mason? Since that first day, in front of your studio? Or maybe in the alley when I made you lay it all out there for me? Was this always your motive?”
She takes another sip of tequila as she paces in front of the window.
I rub my jaw, moving closer to the bed. I have no idea what she’s referring to. “Brooke, what exactly . . .”
“I mean, you knew!” she yells, not in anger though. Disbelief maybe? Her voice breaks with a short burst of laughter. “You knew from that first day what I wanted out of this. From that first day. It wasn’t a secret. Then you go and convince me to try things your way, with false intentions, I might add.”
She lifts her head, stopping, staring at me from across the room. Her shoulders relaxing with the breath she expels.
“I only wanted to have sex with you. That’s it. But the more time we spent together, the less I thought about what I wanted. And you, your entire argument was you wanted us to know each other before that happened. To really know each other, right? But you knew me when we went camping. You knew me then, Mason, didn’t you?”
I think about how close I felt to Brooke that weekend, including during her unfortunate tick encounter and the mess that followed. Our talk in the tent before we crashed that first night, and our adventure together the next day.
She’s right. I knew her. Well enough to take things where we both wanted.
“Yeah,” I reply, nodding.
There’s no point in lying about this.
“And you didn’t give in. You didn’t take me that weekend.”
She doesn’t allow me to respond. I don’t really need to anyway. We were both there.
“That’s not all you were waiting for,” she concludes with a keen arch of her brow.
“No.”
“This was never just about us knowing each other.”
“No.”
Shaking her head through a tight laugh, she takes one last swig of the tequila before setting it on the window ledge. “Who else?” she asks quietly, facing away from me.
I know what she means. I don’t need to ask for clarification on this.
When all of this started with Brooke, I told her I didn’t do a meaningless fuck anymore, but I never told her I didn’t plead for this with anyone else. Or that I never wanted it this bad with someone before.
“No one,” I confess.
I see the quick jerk of her head. I hear her mutter something that sounds an awful lot like “good.” Her voice sounding slightly pacified.
Spinning around, with a steadiness in her eyes, she holds her hands out in front of her. “Well, you did it. Congratulations.”
My eyebrows draw together. I search her face for understanding.
She sighs, staring me down. “I love you, you fucking perfect bastard. You got what you wanted. I’m completely and absolutely in love with you and your little ‘yeahs.’ They kill me. And for the record, I’m pretty sure I loved you that night in the tent so,” she waves her hand. “Opportunity missed. You totally could’ve fucked a cheerleader.”
I feel my lips part, a rush of fervency pitting in the center of my chest and blooming there.
She loves me. My Brooke . . . fuck. Finally.
With a quick exhale, she runs her hands down her face, pressing her palms flat to her cheeks. “Holy shit. Wow. That’s what it feels like to say it.” She blinks, her teeth gnawing at her lip. “Wow,” she whispers.