Page 23 of Never Say Yes To Your Brother's Best Friend

He tenses up even more. “I’m…I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

“You can try.” Goodness, he smells so freaking good, and my nose is having a total nosegasm being so close to him.

“I was a soldier. Soldiers do things. I’m not clean anymore,” he mutters.

I sigh. “Jesus, Rick, I know what you’ve done.”

“No, you don’t know. You’re never going to know. No one is. We don’t talk about it.”

“If it’s PTSD, you have money. You can get help. I’m sure there are people you can talk to, even if you can’t really talk about much of anything. It’s the aftershocks that you’re having a hard time dealing with, and you can’t be alone in that.”

“It’s not PTSD,” he grunts, letting out a huff. “Maybe a little. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

I let him go because he asked me to, even if it was for the wrong reasons. I’m not here to force something on someone if it makes them uncomfortable. I walk around to the front of the swing. He’s so still on it. He looks up at me as I look down at him. I really want him to see that I’m utterly sincere in this.

“I think someone needs to tell you that you’re great, Rick. You’re not dirty, and you’re not a monster. I never thought of my brother that way, and I knew he’d done things. Probably some of the same things you’ve done.” I crouch down and set my hand on his knee. He jerks back, the swing chains rattling loudly. “Okay.” I put both my hands up where he can see them. “Okay, Rick. I won’t touch you. But seriously, you can’t like osmosis this shit off on me through touch.”

He jerks upright and walks away. I chase after him, feeling very much like an annoying little kid tailing after someone whowants to be left alone. Does he? I don’t think he truly does. Not in the sore spot in his heart that is probably larger than he’d like to admit.

“Rick,” I call out.

He doesn’t turn. He circles past the swings and heads toward the playground equipment. He walks past the monkey bars, the slide, the rope and net contraption for climbing, and a set of plastic tunnels that connects one piece of equipment to another high above the ground.

“Rick!” I call out louder.

“What?” He spins around, his eyes blazing. He’s a little bit scary but a whole lot magnificent, and right now is probably not the best time for my knees to go weak.

It’s not the best time at all for my body to realize it’s very muchattractedto this man.

There’s no good time for that.

“You’ve spent a long time being told your body is a weapon, but it’s not. You’re not this thing that causes destruction. It was just your job. It wasn’t you. It’s not who you are anymore. You can let it go now. If you’ve done things that bother you this much, then you absolutely need to talk to someone. It’s not healthy to keep it all locked away. You need to be able to put all that emotion into words and then get it out. And you need to sleep. Staying awake is probably making your brain squirrely.”

“I know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. I know you want to fulfill the letter and make Jace proud, but you can’t get close to me.”

I hold up my hands and wriggle my fingers, breaking into a goofy grin. “I grabbed your bare bottom earlier and didn’t die. That’s probably as bad as it’s going to get, so I think we’re going to be okay.”

His eyes narrow. He looks badass and dangerous and a little bit lethal, and it takes my breath away. “Let’s never, ever talk about that again.”

“Alright. As long as you promise to never do anything that dumb again.”

“It wasn’t dumb. I had the angle perfectly calculated. I just didn’t think the stupid fucking painting would be stuck into the wall with the same kind of anchors that are used for bridge moorings.”

I walk over to the end of the plastic slide and sit down. Then, I kick off my chunky boots and dig my toes through the sand. Rick stands where he is, preternaturally still, watching me like I’m the one who is doing something risky and dangerous. I weave my fingers together on top of my knees and look at them because I feel like not staring him directly in the eyes takes some of the pressure off.

“If you don’t want to be touched, that’s okay. I respect that. But you have to try to let me help. You have to let me in. I can’t just leave here in ten days knowing you’re not okay.”

“I’m fine,” he says insistently.

“You’re not! You just said you’re dirty. That’s not okay. It hurts me to the bottom of my soul, Patrick McDonald.”

“It’s not your problem, Aspen Oak.”

It’s the first time he’s said my last name, and it doesn’t sound silly like when other people say it. Still, I’m frustrated. He is my problem. He’s so, so, SO my problem.

“Argh!” I yelp as I dig my toes too hard into the sand. Something catches—something sharp and nasty—and I gasp.

Rick is in front of me instantly, and I meaninstantly. He’s on his knees in front of me, lifting up my foot and looking for injury. He holds up a small, sharp rock and tosses it aside, then spreads my toes and runs his fingers over each one.

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