Page 50 of Reckless Roses
“Please tell me you didn’t drive here.”
He shakes his head. “Ubered from the bar.”
I step aside, letting him through. “Went out with your brothers tonight.” He walks into the center of my kitchen before turning to face me. “You told me you moved on. You’re with someone, right?”
“Yes,” I whisper, shutting the door and leaning against it.
“Why don’t your brothers know anything about it then? I asked them how they felt about your new boyfriend, and they had no fucking clue who I was talking about.”
“Let’s go sit down.” I reach toward him, intending to take his hand and lead him to the couch, but he steps back.
“What secrets are you hiding, Elena?”
I tilt my head. “Why does it matter to you?”
A faraway look casts over Zach’s eyes. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head, beginning to pace. “I don’t know, and I hate it. I fucking hate it.”
“Hate what?” I ask softly.
He stops abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he looks at me, brown eyes burning holes through my soul. “I can’t stop feeling like you’re mine, wondering who the fuck else has been touching you, if they’ve been loving you in all the ways I never could.”
I swallow through the swelling in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. I force my way into Zach’s space. “You’re drunk.” I take his hand, pulling him toward the hallway. “You can sleep in the guest room, and we’ll sort all this out tomorrow when your head is clear.”
He sighs, defeated, dragging his feet as I bring him to Leo’s old bedroom and softly push him onto the bed. He lies back, placing a hand over his eyes as I take off his shoes and throw the comforter over him.
Leo has been living in one of the studios above the surf shop, since they spend so much time there—and I no longer rely on his income to pay my rent. I’ve turned his old bedroom into an office, but I kept a bed for nights my brothers stay over late and need a place to crash.
“Any chance I can get you to lie down with me?” Zach whispers as I shut off the light.
“Not anymore. Goodnight, Zach,” I murmur back, closing the door softly.
“Is it my brother?”
His voice startles me, coming from behind where I stand at the kitchen counter. Dread barrels through me, afraid he’ll see the look on my face and read my every thought, I don’t turn around.
“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning nonchalance as I pour two mugs of coffee, his with a small splash of milk and mine with a heaping dump of oat milk creamer.
“The person loving you in all the right ways—is it my brother?”
“Zach.” I sigh, chest growing tight, sadness rushing through me like a rogue ocean wave.
I turn around, holding his coffee out to him like a peace offering. He doesn’t take it.
“You were wearing his shirt last night. And you smelled like his cologne.”
Rain and pine. The scent has soaked into all his clothes, and it’s the reason I keep them.
I stare at the floor, not bothering to offer a response. There’s nothing to say. I don’t owe him anything, but that doesn’t mean I’m rooting for his pain.
“How long?”
“Since January,” I whisper.
A snide laugh leaves his mouth. “Kind of repulsive, no? His hands. Mouth. His dick. Touching and tasting all the places I’ve already been?”
My skin crawls at his insinuation—that I’m something to be owned, that he marked his territory, that any other touch is a desecration of an object he already claimed.
“We haven’t?—”
