Page 9 of Be My Wife

“They were hippies.”

“My point stands.”

He chuckles. It’s restrained. Rusty. He looks uncomfortable, like he’s not used to laughing anymore.

“I like your name.” I wink. “It suits you.”

“I appreciate that.”

I unhook my heels from the rung of the stool and try to set them on the ground, but I lose my balance halfway and start to teeter forward.

Brogan grabs my upper arm and steadies me. I catch a glimpse of his hand. They’re reddish-purple. Almost like someone spilled wine over the back of them and it left a permanent mark.

Pretending I didn’t see it, I jerk my eyes back to his and smile. “Thanks. I swear I didn’t ask them to spike my milkshake.”

This time, he doesn’t even try to smile.

There’s something in his eyes. A fresh guardedness.

It’s soul-deep.

It’s pained.

He knows I saw his hands.

My heart hurts for him.

Whoever he is.

And whatever he’s been through.

Even though it’s clear we both have rather… unflattering opinions about love and attraction, I hope he’ll be proven wrong.

“It was nice meeting you, Brogan.”

“You too, Elizabeth,” he says.

As I leave the café, my phone rings.

I groan when I see Novah’s beautifully plump face filling my screen.

My cousin inherited the Thompson ‘blow-up’ genes and the weight has been persistent despite all her dieting. I, on the other hand, got my dad’s genes. Which means I’m skinny as a stick. With twice the personality.

Novah constantly bemoans the fact that I can still fit into the clothes I owned at thirteen.

I constantly bemoan the fact that my body froze at the very earliest stages of boob development.

“What do you want, Novah?”

“Are you at the office?”

“No.”

“I need you.”

“I’m busy.”

“They said you were taking some personal time.”

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