Page 9 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I manage a shrug. “I left Derek. I’m holed up in my brother’s apartment. My face is on three gossip sites, and I haven’t cried.”
Graham places the fork gently on the counter. “That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know how I feel yet. I just know I don’t regret leaving.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he pulls me into a side-hug, rough and warm.
“My place is your place,” he says, voice gruff. “Always.”
I nod into his shoulder, feeling the familiar steadiness of him. My older brother, the only person who’s never needed an explanation to understand.
We eat in relative silence, picking at Lo Mein and cold dumplings. Graham mutters something about a client call and disappears into the guest room he’s turned into a makeshift office.
Before he closes the door, I stop him. “Graham?”
He pauses.
“Can you cancel the wedding? Officially? Call the planner, the venue, everything. I can’t do it. Not today.”
He nods, no questions asked. “Consider it handled.”
I change into jeans and a sweater, then wrap a scarf around my neck like armor. The hallway hums with a muted stillness, the kind that makes you feel watched even when you’re alone.
Jack appears at the end of the corridor, coffee in hand. He’s dressed in black slacks and a dark coat, sharp enough to pass for a magazine spread. His gaze lands on me like a touch.
“They’re out front. Photographers,” he says.
“I figured.”
“There’s a back entrance. It leads through the service alley. No one will see you.”
He says it like an offering, not an order. Like he’s giving me the out I’ve been craving. I hesitate, then nod.
We walk side by side, not speaking. His presence hums at the edge of my senses. Every step feels heavier with the silence between us. The service door creaks open, and cold air rushes in. I pull the collar of my sweater tighter, even as the warmth of his hand lingers on the doorknob. He doesn’t ask about the articles.Doesn’t mention Derek. Just holds the door until I step through. It’s more grace than I know what to do with.
***
Later, after the sun has dropped low and the sky is streaked with copper, I knock on his apartment door to return the spare keycard.
He opens it wearing a plain T-shirt and joggers, like he hasn’t been in a boardroom all day. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, just tired, and handsome, unfairly so.
“I won’t need this anymore,” I say, holding out the card.
He takes it, but his fingers tighten around it for a beat too long. On the kitchen island, a tabloid lies open. My face stares up from the page.
I stiffen. “I didn’t expect to find that here.”
He glances down. “Didn’t buy it. It was already here when I got back. PR leaves copies whenever there’s a media fire with the family name on it.”
“I didn’t ask if you did.”
Tension hangs in the air, stretched thin. His apartment carries the low hum of the refrigerator and the ambient murmur of distant traffic, but beneath that, there's a stillness weighted with something unnamed.
He doesn’t offer an apology, and I don’t ask for one, though the space begs for something. A flicker of acknowledgment. A shared admission neither of us is brave enough to say aloud.
I tell myself it’s better this way, safer, yet when I catch the way his eyes track mine, the barely-there shift of his jaw, I feel the lie of that thought settle under my skin like a bruise.
My hand lingers at my side longer than it should. I turn to go. The keycard still warm from his hand. He stays rooted where he is, not moving, not speaking, offering nothing to stop me, but not quite letting me go either.
