Page 59 of Tied Up in Riches

She glances up from where she was staring at her fingers running over the seam of the comforter. “What about you?”

“Me touching you. Pushing the line you set for us.”

She chews on the corner of her lip. “I hate seeing him. I was wrong. I think it’s worse than seeing my mom.”

It takes everything in me to refrain from a smirk at the way she immediately decides talking about me is actually the harder path. “Why do you think that is?”

She sighs. “It makes me hate myself a little–that I let myself be controlled by someone for so long.”

“But you left. Not everyone is strong enough to do that.”

She shakes her head. “You didn’t see me earlier. At the store. I shouldn’t have even let him near me, let alone fix my stupid dress. It’s like being in his vicinity activates a spell where any respect for myself immediately disappears.”

“I didn’t get that impression when we were downstairs.”

Her eyes fall back to the comforter. “Because you were there. I don’t know, that gave me courage or something. You and your stupid pep talks about confidence and self-worth. Sometimes I truly can’t believe I thought I loved him.”

“Did you?”

“I’m not really a fan of the whole ‘I love you’ thing.” The way she sighs makes it seem like she thinks the entire concept of love is made up.

“The ‘I love you’ thing . . .?”

“Love is such a simple word that should hold so much power. But it's overused and abused to the point where it feels like it’s lost all meaning. Things you do embody love far better than the word ever could, anyway.” She shrugs.

“But ignoring the word doesn’t make the feeling cease to exist,” I argue.

“No. I guess what I’m saying is that I’m the one who abused the word. I said it back to Beau whenever he said it even though I know he did it out of obligation. I said it in an attempt to convince myself it was true.”

“Did you ever believe it?” Shut the fuck up, man. The last thing I need to do is talk about falling in love with a fake and temporary girlfriend if she doesn’t feel like there’s potential here for her.

“You know when you see a word too many times and it feels like it’s spelled wrong? Or say it too much and it doesn’t sound like a word anymore?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“That’s how loving Beau felt. Confusing, unclear, made-up. But someone tells you it’s right, so you stick with it. The next time I fall in love . . . The words aren’t what makes the feeling clear. I’d like to think I’d know if someone loves me regardless of if they say the words or not.”

“You will.”

Every time she shares her perspective on some aspect of life, I’m stunned. She makes me think about things in ways I’ve never considered before. It’s engaging in a way I’ve been craving with every single girl I’ve taken on a date.

“Yeah.” She picks at the hem of my shirt she’s wearing, revealing her inner thigh but not noticing.

Not knowing what else to say–and in an attempt to keep from ripping her clothes off–I reach my arm out. The motion raises her gaze. She looks at me like I grew an extra limb, scrunching her face at my unspoken demand. “I’m not Maci, but I am her favorite, so I’m the next best thing.”

She chuckles, hesitating.

I motion to her with my fingers in a way I wish I could do inside her again. What the fuck was that thought? She continues to make it clear she doesn’t want that from me. I’m just her fake boyfriend and only option for a friend right now, and that makes me her temporary safe space. Fucking hell. It’s going to be a long week. Hoping she doesn’t magically have access to my thoughts, I give her a pointed look. She holds it for a moment, then scoots down on the bed, twisting her body sideways until her head is on my lap. The blanket pools mostly in front of her as she curls up, her backside covered by nothing but my shirt. She takes a deep breath and readjusts a couple of times before she’s comfortable.

When she stills, I drop my hand to her soft blonde waves, noting the faint smell of coconut and ocean. She stiffens for a moment at the touch but doesn’t move away. Instead, she reaches up, locking her fingers on my thigh where my shorts have slightly pushed up as I run my hand over her hair repeatedly.

Reaching over her for the remote, I flip the TV on and scan a few channels. Junk. Click. Trash. Click. Stupid. This is why I hardly watch TV. Click. Black and white fills the screen, an iconic face and voice filling the screen as Lucy shoves chocolate into her shirt. Brooke glances up at me, and I set the remote down, this time moving my hand to her back. I scratch in small circles, resisting the urge to feel our skin touch.

Before the episode ends, Brooke’s breathing levels out, and not long after, I drift off to sleep too.

Chapter twenty-four

Brooke

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