Page 95 of The Bridges I've Burned

His loyalty to Elena surprised and delighted me. It was annoying as fuck, but I was glad to see someone stand up for her.

Even if it was against me.

“So, what’s your plan with all this, Zander? ’Cause I know where you live and I know where she lives…”

I shifted in my seat. Okay, whose big brother was he? Hers or mine? I thought I liked Hendrix’s just go for it form of advice better. These pointed questions were making me squirm.

“Hell. I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Up until yesterday, I had a solid plan of steering clear of starting anything with Elena.”

“So, what changed?”

“Fuck if I know,” I said. “I can’t think clearly when I’m with her. She’s…” I stalled.

“What?”

“Different. She’s different, okay? God, I sound like a fucking tool.”

“You kind of do.” He grinned. “But hold that thought.” He got up and headed for the counter to grab our food and drinks.

I sat back in my seat and waited, letting my mind wander for a moment. Okay, not exactly wander. It was definitely going back to a specific moment in time—when I’d had Elena pinned up against that mirror. The skirt of her dress had shifted, baring her legs and her black lace panties.

Jesus.

It had taken all the willpower I possessed to keep my hand from slipping underneath them and finding out just how wet she was for me.

“Oh my God, is that Zander Green?!” someone shouted behind me.

My whole body stiffened as I remembered those parting words Asher had said to me this morning.

“Enjoy your brother’s wedding. And the last few moments of peace.”

Were they already over?

My eyes shifted downward as I tried to burrow into myself like some sort of damn turtle.

Then, my mind finally caught up to the actual words that had been spoken.

Zander Green. Not Zander Tate.

I swiveled around to see Millie McIntyre walking up with my brother, looking like she’d just flown in from Milan or some shit. I’d thought Elena dressed to impress. Millie looked like something out of a magazine ad with mile-high stilettos, a trendy floral dress, and a matching purse.

My gaze darted over to the cash register and I let out a breath of relief when I saw the Manic Fanatic employee was somewhere in the back, out of earshot.

It wasn’t like our Mama gave Macon and me common names like John or Robert.

“Millie McIntyre,” I greeted her, standing to give her a hug.

“Damn, you grew up nice,” she said, blatantly checking me out. “And it’s Millie Fisher now.” She grinned, showing off the giant rock on her hand.

“That’s right.” I nodded. “The artist?”

She beamed, taking a seat next to us as Macon handed me my coffee and did the same. “Yep. Somehow, I managed to move back here and bag the only British guy in a hundred miles. Fucking hot, too.”

“A hundred miles? Did you conduct a survey?”

She punched my arm affectionately. “Oh, shut up. But enough about me and my amazing life. How are you? Marin told me you’re a musician?” She eyed me intently.

“Yep, I’ve done all right for myself.”

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