Page 20 of Branson's Promise

“It all makes sense now,” I said, shooting a cold glare at Noel.

“What makes sense?” Branson asked, subtly pushing Noel’s hand away from his crotch.

“The big ass car haphazardly parked outside the building. It’s his, isn’t it?” I pointed to Noel who, infuriatingly, was smiling at me. Why the fuck was he smiling? He wasn’t going to win me over with his perfectly pretty smile, he could take it and shove it up his perfectly toned ass.

“Correct. I asked Raymond to stay close while Branson packed.” Noel gestured behind him to where a large silver suitcase stood against the wall. “And then we got a little sidetracked waiting for you to get home, little artist.” His lips twitched and the movement, along with the nickname, sent heat simmering along my skin.

Coughing to clear the sudden dryness in my throat, I asked, “Where are you going and why are you waiting for me?” I went to rub at an itch on my forearm before remembering the new ink my boss, Zachary, had put there.

Branson got up, sitting on the sofa on his knees, a huge, excited smile on his face. “Noel is taking me to The Hamptons for the weekend. He has a house there.”

“Of course he does,” I huffed, and Noel smirked. No matter how hard I glared at him, metaphorical daggers flying from my eyes, he didn’t even flinch. Smug fucking idiot.

“Two actually, but who’s counting?” Noel winked at me and the heat I’d felt earlier bubbled into an inferno. We had a family home in the Hamptons too, not that I was planning to mention that. Nor did I actually ever go there - some of the worst nights of my life were in that house.

“Anyway, Noel is taking me, and we want you to come with us. You’ve been working so hard this week, you deserve a break.”

A weekend watching these two grope at each other? Not happening. I shook my head. “Ha, yeah. Nope.”

“Oh, okay.”

My stomach sank at the sudden look of disappointment on Branson’s face. Dark emotion swirled in Noel’s eyes as he moved his gaze to the man next to him. Noel pulled him into his arms and kissed the side of his neck, offering him comfort. Was Branson really that upset that I didn't want to go with them?

Maybe my answer had been a little curt, so I added, “I have plans with Mia this weekend.”Oh, you sneaky little liar.

Branson’s face lit up and he sprang off the sofa with all the energy of a labradoodle. Clapping his hands together, then coming over and placing his hands on my shoulders. His touch sent little fissures of electricity through me. He smelled like a dessert, sugar and vanilla mixed with something a little citrusy - sweet and delectable - and it was near impossible not to lean in closer to him.

“Bring Mia with!” Branson exclaimed. “She will love it. I’ll text her right now.” He spun around and ran down the hallway, presumably to message my sister who, no doubt would say yes.

I hung my head, taking a deep, steadying breath when Noel approached me. He didn’t touch me but instead stood a few steps away. Lifting my head, I flipped the strands of my dark hair out of my eyes and took in Noel’s tall form. He was bigger than me, but not by much. He wore tailored khakis, designer shoes and a Tom Ford shirt, the top few buttons of which were left undone, showing off a sprinkling of hair on his chest. The shirt was tight, tight enough that I could make out the shape of his nipples underneath. My eyes honed in on his right nipple and what appeared to be the outline of a barbell or some piece of jewellery.

The man was a constant surprise and for a split second I considered asking him if he had any ink on his body but thought better of it, opening my mouth and then slamming it shut again.

Dressed in ripped jeans and a white t-shirt from Target, my hair gelled into spikes save for a few floppy strands, with arms covered in tattoos, and a small piercing through my right eyebrow, I was his complete opposite. While Noel exuded confidence and swagger, I was withdrawn and sullen. My boss had to keep reminding me to smile at customers. I had no business acumen, no charisma and as of today, having paid next month's rent, no money.

Noel took a step closer to me, reaching out and gently pulled my arm straight, turning it so he could see my new tattoo. Through the transparent adhesive protecting the design, you could make out the text underneath. It readNot Brokenin curly handwriting.

“Interesting choice of words. Does it mean something?” Noel’s thumb rubbed over my naked skin, being sure to steer clear of the plaster. Abruptly pulling my arm away, I wrapped it around my waist. His warm hands felt too good, too comforting for someone I wanted to dislike.

“No, they’re just words. They don’t mean anything,” I lied.

“If you say so, little artist.” He tilted his head in that way he did that said he was assessing me. I got the feeling that was how he was in his business life. Always appraising the people he was talking to, scenting out their weaknesses. You didn’t run a multibillion dollar empire without being able to read people.

“Don’t ,” I hissed, feeling tiny under his scrutiny.

Noel took a step back, pulling up his sleeve to look at his watch. “I’m going to guess your sister will jump at the opportunity to tag along and Branson wants you there. Are we really going to play this game where you pretend you don’t want to come with, or are you going to go pack?”

“I don’t want to come,” I bit out, and a second later I heard the words I had just said - the double entendre. Noel was fast, a salacious glint in his eyes.

“Are you sure about that, Milo? I’d say you’d love to come, right along with our dear, sweet Branson.”

My fucking brain and my dick and my cheeks all betrayed me, and I stumbled over my words. “That’s not… I didn’t… I meant…. urgh, fuck you, Noel.” I stamped my way down the hall towards my room but didn’t miss his response as I kicked open my door.

“That’s not off the table.”

“Woah, this place is epic,” Mia stated as she swept her gaze around the spacious entrance hall of Noel’s holiday home, “So much nicer than D-,” I nudged her with my elbow, giving her a stern look and effectively cutting off her words. I’d told her a few times that I didn’t want Branson or Noel (or anyone in my new life for that matter) knowing about our father. Didn’t want them to know what he had, who he was, or the shame I carried at how weak he made me. In short, I wanted him erased from my memory altogether.

But memory could be a stubborn thing. The more you pushed away parts of it, the more it pushed back. Set off by sounds, smells or any tiny trigger, memories had a way of holding on to you, tight and unforgiving. As I stepped further into the house, breathing in the ocean air pouring in through the open sliding doors, a sharp, painful reminder of my past surged to the forefront, knocking the breath from my lungs.

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