Page 11 of Reckless Vow

What I didn’t anticipate was the sense of loss and longing that this visit has stirred in me. And that was all before I even lay eyes onher.

She was the last person I wanted to face.

The one who got away. The one who stood me up.

With her blonde hair up in a messy bun, wearing a tank top and a cardigan, comfortable and not sexy at all, she still looks like a vision.

I don’t allow myself to dwell on what isn’t, what would have or could have been, but Brook Lowe has been my obsession for way too long.

And while I’ve toned down the obsessive behavior lately, I still think of her more than I should.

I’ve never let her go completely. But I also never planned on seeing her again. That’s why I’ve stayed away for years.

What are the odds she’d be here the night I decide to pay my mother an unannounced visit? I haven’t even been to New York since I left that night.

And she has been in the UK for the past nine years. So what the fuck is she doing here now?

And what am I doing proposing? She stood me up and chose her dad over me, and I come back almost ten years later and offer her marriage?

I’m certifiable.

“That’s actually not the worst solution,” London offers.

What the fuck? No, it is the worst solution. One that should have never been on the table.You put it there, asshole.

Brooklyn looked so desperate and lonely. So lost. The fire that burned in her all those years ago is missing. I wonder what or who doused it.

A perverted part of me wishes it was because of the way we parted.

So beautiful and fucking sexy with her defiant glower, practically shooting daggers at me. So maybe some fire is left. Full of hatred, as if I wronged her somehow.

And yet, even filled with venom, she’d be the poison I’d want to take. Or the woman I’d want to marry, apparently. Fuck.

She barely touched me when she greeted me, and yet I swear my cock twitched.

I can’t stop watching her. Her nails are battered, looking so sad on her slender fingers.

When she held her glass to her face, practically hiding, something snapped in me, activating an outlandish need to protect her, to make the situation—her life—better for her.

“Wouldn’t that be incestuous?” Paris scrunches her face.

I finally glance at Brook. She’s standing there, pale and paralyzed, tapping her fingers on the counter, staring at the tiny lines in the marble’s pattern. Fuck.

“It’s not like they’re actually related.” Sydney shrugs.

Why are we not putting breaks on this? I should just take it back.

“And it would be a nice fuck you to ourbelovedgrandmother.” Does London sound excited about the idea?

“Don’t you live abroad?” Hunter asks.

That’s right. My way out. My mind offers that thought, but my mouth asks, “Where do you live?” As if that matters. As if I don’t know.

Brook looks up and our eyes meet. “I live here.”

Does she? Last I heard she was in London.

I can live in London.What? What the fuck?

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