Page 20 of The Promise Of You

Or it could be because of him. Of us.

I go over what he told me about the girl and the accident. He probably heard a thousand times that he wasn’t to blame. But I get it. He has survivor’s guilt. “Where does your brother fit into all this?”

“She was with him. I had no business driving her home.”

“But you found her—”

“I had no business doing that,” he bites.

Screw that. “You said you found her crying…”

“And I took advantage.”

More like, came to the rescue. “I bet it didn’t take much convincing for Audrey to get into your car.”

“I was always trying to one-up him.”

“So what? Seems like what any little brother would do.”

“It was selfish.”

“You were eighteen. You saw your chance to hook up with a beautiful twenty-one-year-old girl. I bet you already had game, back then.”

A sad smile shadows his face. “I saw her crying at the party, my brother nowhere to be found, and I saw my chance. I offered her my shoulder to cry on. Then I danced with her. Then I took her home, hoping to get lucky.”

“I don’t think she was that into him anymore.” It’s obvious to me his brother had just broken up with her.

“Doesn’t matter. She died, and the next day he enrolled.”

My throat tightens. His loss, his misplaced guilt, all that he’s bottled up. He has it way worse than I do. What could I possibly say or do right now, right here, to help him through this? “Maybe it’s time to let all that go,” I offer.

His soulful eyes meet mine, gutting me. “Yeah, maybe. Someday.” He shuffles his legs. “Looks like we’re in this for a while. You cold?”

“No. But I should get off you.” I start to wiggle, but his arms keep me right where I am.

“Not if I can help it.” Lifting himself on his heels, he slides us to the corner of the elevator and arranges me so I’m stretched out on him, my back to his muscular chest, his legs stretched under mine, his arms encapsulating me, my head leaned back against his throat, his chin on top of my head. His heartbeat is slow and steady, and his voices rumbles into my own chest when he asks, “Comfortable?”

“Never been better,” I whisper and close my eyes.

A flutter of lights blink on and off, waking me with a start. My eyes lock onto dark fabric, I register the inebriating smell of spice and soap, and I latch onto the arm holding me tight. I push myself up on him, and he lets me.

He blinks. “Did you get some rest?” He chases a stray hair out of my mouth and traces my cheek with his knuckles. Not ‘Hey, power’s back.’ Not, ‘Finally!’ No. He wants to know if I got some rest.

“I did.” I push myself off his chest and smooth his shirt. “You?”

His gaze roams my face, and his voice comes out raw when he says, “Best night of my life, Clover.” He doesn’t say it like it’s a joke.

He means it.

“Me too,” I whisper.

We should probably stand and get ready for the elevator to start, so I get up and hold the handrail while he stands and stretches. He puts his key card against the elevator panel, but nothing happens.

I take a shaky breath, needing to say what’s on my chest before the night gets away from us. “If we don’t get to sleep together. As in, you know…”

He takes my waist in his hands and brings me to him. “Still the best night of my life. By far.”

“Yeah, me too.” I swallow, a lump forming in my throat. “Umm… if we don’t, you know…. Does your rule still stand? The no names thing. The never seeing each other again. We could be just friends?”

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