Page 8 of Reckless Vow

And in the eternal beats of time—that I’m pretty sure amount to mere minutes in reality—I have to relearn how to breathe, how to think, how to walk, how to human.

And since I can’t find my sass, or the English language, and all my paralyzed efforts are consumed by the last remnants of common sense that are stopping me from the primal need to flee, I decide to channel my hatred for him.

The most uncool of my feelings, but desperate times and all that…

Sufficiently equipped with that sentiment, I jump down from the counter and saunter toward him. Yes, I saunter, and based on his darkened expression and set jaw, he’s affected.

It feels like a win. Not that there’s a competition.

“Tokyo,” he rasps.

I swallow a whimper, most of my confidence deserting me. Showing up here after nine years is dreadful, but how dare he use that name with me?

For the benefit of the others, I mirror my sister’s welcome and I half hug him.

My body betrays me.

Even that excuse of an embrace sends my cells into high alert, immediately recognizing what they want. What they need. What they crave.

His touch. His caress. His attention.

Him.

Goddammit.

To stop myself from kicking him in the crotch—because yes, that’s where my survival instincts go—I immediately turn and dash to the glass door that opens to the backyard.

I stare into the darkness.

Ignore him.

Ignore your body.

Ignore the pain in your chest.

My breathing almost finds a rhythm. It’s chaotic, but it’s something. I can do this. He must be here for a brief visit.

I mean, he came unannounced, I’m sure of that. Mom would have mentioned something. She looked surprised, so that means it’s perhaps an unplanned visit.

He was in the neighborhood. Okay, not reasonable, but I’m adjusting.

And then my gaze collides with his in the glass’s reflection, and for the love of every murder, why is he still here?

I whip around, but don’t look at him. “When are you leaving?”

A part of me is marginally aware that it’s a fucked-up question.

But that part is shut up by all the other parts that don’t care about being a well-adjusted human, but rather focusing on the next minute. A minute that is so fucking hard in his presence.

“Brook!” Paris warns.

Her tone suggests everything she—and probably everyone else—is thinking.What’s wrong with you? That’s not polite! How could you?

“I’ll take the tea upstairs,” Mom says. “You’ll be here?” She looks at her long-lost son and I feel like the worst person ever.

Go figure—there’s still room to sink lower after all the surprises of the day.

That’s it. It’s not so much him as the will and marriage looming over me. No wonder I’m out of my element. I’m not normally a bitch.

---