Page 12 of The Best You've Ever Had

With a closed fist, I playfully tap his nose, “Bam. Got you. Told you I could. Now put me down.”

“Nope. You jumped up here first. Now you’re stuck with me.”

“Benjamin Brooks. Let me down this instant.”

“You’re the one who attacked me. Consider it payback.”

In a way, I like this. I like being manhandled and having someone tell me what to do for once, instead of me being the one giving out orders. In any other situation, I’d roll along with it. But only twenty feet away, his father drunkenly bumbles around on the piano, and our mothers and Mick are tearing up over some Hallmark holiday movie disaster.

I tilt my head toward the forgotten glasses on the counter. “C’mon. The wine. Everyone is waiting for it.”

“Okay, fine. You can leave.” He sets me free, but the way I slide, agonizingly slow, down the length of his body is almost unbearable. Why does it have to feel like this? So frustratingly sensual and over-the-top, like we belong in some steamy eighties movie scene.

The way he lets it happen, awareness tensing his body, lets me know he feels it too. The air between us should be cracklingwith the sharpness of dislike, but instead, it’s filled with sparks. We clear our throats, as if we can clear away this new sexual tension that has somehow sprouted up. I circle back to the family room with wine in hand, leaving him behind in the kitchen, before I do something stupid like suck his dick or tell him he’s unfairly handsome.

Handing a crystal glass to Mick, he takes a small sip, his ears already turning red. “Sure tastes better when you know it might be your last.”

I sure as shit have no clue how to respond to that, which is probably what he’s aiming for. Mick is a lot like Ben in the way that he’s silent and watchful one minute, then dropping a comment just for the shock value the next.

He eyes me, a twinkle in his eye as he waits for my response. Like he’s a tennis player that just launched his ball to my side of the court and is waiting to see how I’ll react.

I bite back the lump in my throat and force a grin. As I watch him sip the drink, my heart tugs at the thought of what’s to come.

After a five minute attempt at watching the cheesy holiday movie, I admit defeat and slip back into the kitchen. Ben’s still there, loading the last plate into the dishwasher.

“I didn’t know you knew how to wash dishes,” I quip, hopping up onto the counter beside him. “Guess you’ve come a long way from the boy who used to hide out in the bathroom to get out of doing chores.”

He dries his hands on the snowflake towel and looks at me with a smirk. “Bold words coming from someone who used to swear she was ‘too short’ to reach the sink. Looks like we’ve both evolved.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, I still try to use that excuse.”

“Hey, how come you haven’t come back to Havenbrook until now?” he asks, his back turned as he starts the dishwasher.

My stomach tightens. I’m pretty sure he already knows why I avoid this place, but he’s not too afraid to ask point blank and confirm his suspicions.

“Bad memories,” I say, keeping it short. I don’t want to seem weak, though he already knows what those memories are. It shouldn’t still hurt after all these years, but it does. Being here is a constant reminder of the season when everything fell apart.

“Then make new ones. Better ones.”

I shrug, trying to deflect. “I didn’t realize psychoanalysis was part of the package deal tonight.”

He leans in, hands braced on either side of me. “Just curious, really. I’ve always wondered what it would take to bring you back here.”

If it wasn’t for his family and Mick, I wouldn’t have. I’d be perfectly content buying my mom first-class tickets to visit me in the city instead, avoiding my dumpy, yet still charming, hometown where everything changed.

“All I hear is that you’ve thought about me,” I tease.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “How could I not? The real question is, have you thought about me?”

Of course I have. Pictures of him and his family have come up on my social media feeds. But until now they seemed like a part of my past life, one I didn’t foresee ever knowing or seeing again.

A strand of his dark hair falls loose onto his forehead. Before I think twice, I reach out and finger comb it back into place. When I realize what I’m doing, and who I’m touching, I pull my hand back as if he’s bitten me. But my simple touch has turned his gaze from light-hearted fun to a full-on blaze.

“Have you thought about my proposition anymore?” he asks, voice low.

“I don’t like lying,” I whisper.

His face inches closer to mine. If anyone was to walk into the kitchen at this exact moment they’d have no idea what to think of this spectacle.

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