Chapter 11

Bridgett

Simple

Sitting at the counter in Noah’s kitchen, I nibble my bottom lip as I answer the third to last question on my official realtor licensing exam. As my palms begin to sweat, I click on one of the multiple-choice answers I think fits best, then move on to the next question and the next.

On the last and final one, I hold my breath as I click on my answer…and then close my eyes after the screen changes and it says I passed. The relief I feel causes tears to fill my eyes instantly, and I cover my face as I start to cry.

I’ve felt like I’ve been trying to swim upstream in a raging river for weeks, and each time I’m sure I’ve grabbed hold of something solid that will allow me to get to shore, a wave crashes into me, sending me under all over again. But with this, I’ve finally got something that will one day lead to me being completely independent. I won’t need anyone to take care of me ever again.

“What the fuck happened?” Noah barks, and I uncover my face and find him standing in the entryway to the kitchen, dressed in a suit—something I never imagined seeing him in because who the heck would make one in his size?

“Nothing.” I sniffle, using the sleeve of my sweater to dry the tears on my cheeks. Not that it actually helps since tears continue slipping from between my lashes.

“You’re crying, so something happened.” He comes around the counter to where I’m sitting and then spins my computer around so he can look at the screen. “What is this?” His eyes lock on mine, and I shake my head as I swallow.

“It’s…it’s my realtor test.” I wipe my cheeks again. “I just took it and found out I passed.”

As he studies me, I shift on the stool. Since the day Conner showed up here, things between Noah and I have been awkward, and I no longer know if it’s him avoiding me or me avoiding him.

“You took a test to become a realtor?” He looks at the screen again before focusing on me once more.

“Yeah.”

“You never mentioned you were doing that.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Babe, it’s a big fucking deal.” He straightens and begins to loosen the tie around his neck.

“Why are you so dressed up?” I eye him as he takes off his suit jacket and places it on the back of one of the barstools.

“I had a meeting with my captain.” He moves into the kitchen and goes to the pantry.

“Wait, did you find out if you made detective today?” I ask, getting off my stool to follow him.

“I did.”

“And?” I watch as he comes out of the pantry, holding a bottle of very expensive champagne covered in a layer of dust.

“I got the promotion,” he says, so casually I would assume it doesn’t mean anything to him that he got the job he’s been vying for. But I know that’s not true.

“Oh my God.” I rush him and wrap my arms around his waist, resting the side of my head against his chest. “I’m so happy for you.” I tip my head back and find his chin dipped and his gaze soft. “I had no doubt you would get the job.” I smile. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, and I realize where I am and that he might not want me wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. Letting him go, I step back and rub my palms down the front of the leggings I put on when I got home from work this evening.

“Sorry, I’m just happy for you,” I say. His eyes roam over me from head to toe before he clears his throat and holds up the bottle of champagne between us.

“I’m sure this tastes like shit, but a friend bought it for a special occasion. ”

“That champagne is one of the best on the market. It does not taste like crap,” I inform him, and he laughs, the deep, rumbling sound making my belly feel funny. “Give it to me before you ruin it with your negative energy.”

I take it from his hand and then grab a rag to wipe it down before starting the task of carefully removing the black-and-gold metal foil around the cork and unscrewing the casing over the top.

When I’m done, I hand it back to him, noticing he now has the first button of his shirt undone and the sleeves rolled up, exposing his throat and muscular forearms. “Here, you can pull out the cork.”

Taking it from me, he places his thumb under the edge, and my eyes widen. “Wa—!” I open my mouth to tell him not to open it like that, but I’m too late. The cork flies out, cracking against the ceiling in the kitchen, and champagne bubbles out from the bottle, spilling onto the tile at our feet. “You just twist it off,” I whisper, and he looks at me before his eyes go to the very obvious indent in the ceiling above us, then to his feet. “I’ll clean it up.”

“I got it. You can pour.” He hands me the bottle, then grabs some paper towels to clean up the floor.

“Do you have champagne glasses?” I ask, and the moment he looks at me, I know that’s a dumb question because the guy doesn’t even have matching drinkware. “Never mind.”

I go to the cabinet where he keeps his glasses and coffee mugs and grab two of them. Then, unwilling to drink warm champagne, no matter if it is some of the best out there, I go to the freezer, get some ice cubes, and put a few in each of our cups before pouring the clear bubbly.

By the time I’ve got each of us a glass, he’s done with the task of cleaning up the floor. I hand him his drink, then hold up mine. “To you becoming a detective.”

“And to you passing your realtor test.” He touches his cup to mine, and our eyes lock as we take a drink. For me, the bubbly liquid hits my tongue, making me want more. But he obviously does not feel the same, which he makes very clear by the expression of disgust on his handsome face.

“Fuck, how can you drink that shit?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s delicious.” I giggle, taking another sip while he shakes his head and sets his cup down.

“It’s garbage.” He goes to the fridge, grabs a bottle of some dark liquid from the cabinet above it, then looks back at me. “So, what’s your plan now that you’ve got your realtor license?” He pours himself two fingers of whiskey.

“I was going to work under a realtor, but my dad wants me to work for Bender and Sons as a realtor at one of the properties he owns.” I lean against the counter behind me, my body already feeling relaxed from the little bit of champagne I’ve had.

“What do you want?” he asks, leaning his hip against the counter opposite me.

I drag in a breath as I think about how to respond to that question. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I like the idea of working for my family’s business, but I don’t want anyone thinking I haven’t earned whatever job I’m given.” I lift one shoulder.

“Someone made you feel like that?” he asks, once again studying me. For once, I don’t feel uncomfortable, probably thanks to the alcohol filling my empty stomach.

“Everyone in my dad’s office hates me.” I laugh before taking another sip of my drink, and he gives me a doubtful look. “It’s true. I’ve overheard them talking about me more than once. None of them wants me there, and none of them thinks I should be there regardless of the fact that my dad owns the company.”

“What the fuck?”

“I don’t blame them.” I wave a hand out between us. “I have a degree in business that I never used, and until my dad gave me a job, I never worked a day in my life. If I were someone who walked in off the street applying for the position I have, even if it is just secretarial work, they wouldn’t have hired me.”

“That might be so, babe, but them talking shit about you is fucked up.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I turn to pour myself another cupful of champagne, this one much fuller than the last. “My dad wants me to keep working for him. And, honestly, I like the idea.” I turn back toward him. “I don’t know what will happen with Aiden once Dad is back on his feet, but if he leaves and I stop working there, the business will likely be turned over to the board, and I don’t want that. I know how much the company means to my father and what it meant to my grandfather, and none of the people my dad has on the board are emotionally invested in the success or failure of the business.”

“So you want to run the company?”

“No. Absolutely not.” My nose scrunches. “My dad was never around when I was growing up, and someday when I find the right guy, I want to have kids and focus on the whole Mom thing.”

“You wanna be a soccer mom?”

“If my kids are in soccer, sure.” I smile, and he chuckles. “I just want to be available if my children need me, and running a company like my dad’s wouldn’t allow me to do that.” I let out a breath. “Honestly, I just want a simple life. I want to make enough money to support myself so I never have to depend on another man again. I also don’t want my job to be my entire existence.”

“I get that,” he says quietly, then looks at my stomach when it growls loudly. “Hungry?”

“Yes, I didn’t eat today because I was nervous about what would happen when I took the test.”

“Let’s get you some food.” He grabs his cell out of the pocket of his suit. “How does pizza sound for dinner?”

“Good, but I’m buying.”

“Not happening,” he denies instantly, and I narrow my eyes. Since I’ve been staying here, he hasn’t let me give him any money, and the only way I’ve been able to help out is by picking up groceries when I see things are running low—and he made it clear that he doesn’t even want me doing that.

I’ve found cash tucked into my purse that I know I didn’t put there more than once or found money on the counter with a note labeled: Grocery Money . Each and every time, I’ve given it back to him by leaving it somewhere he would eventually find it. But that hasn’t stopped him from continuing to be high-handed when it comes to paying.

“I want to pay.”

“Next time,” he mumbles, focusing his attention on his cell. “What kind of pizza do you want?”

“You know, you’re really annoying.”

“Yep.” He looks up from his phone. “Now, what kind of pizza do you want?”

“Everything.”

“My kind of girl.” He grins, and my belly flips.

As he places the pizza order, I head into the living room, needing a minute to get myself together because him saying that I’m his kind of girl makes me feel things I should not be feeling. He’s my brother’s best friend and the guy who was nice enough to let me stay with him, nothing more .

Not to mention, I’m still technically married and should not even be interested in someone else. I mean, there must be a time limit on how long you have to wait after a divorce to start lusting after another man. And with Conner still dragging his feet regarding signing the divorce papers, it will likely be a few more weeks before that clock starts ticking.

“What are you thinking about?” Noah walks into the living room after getting off his phone.

“When I can start dating again,” I answer without thought, then cringe. “Not that I’m interested in anyone. I was just wondering when a person would do something like that,” I blabber. He sits on the couch next to me, not on the other side of the sofa where he should be.

“Whenever you’re ready.” He leans his head back against the cushion and closes his eyes.

“What?”

“You should start dating whenever you feel ready. There isn’t a time limit.” He stretches out his long legs, and when his thigh rubs against mine, I bring my knees to my chest.

“I’m still married.”

“You don’t have a ring on your finger.” He rolls his head my way and pins me with a stare. “You going back to your ex?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s what I thought.” His gaze drops to my mouth for the briefest of seconds, causing my heart to pound. “Life is way too fucking short to live on someone else’s timeline, babe. Do whatever the fuck makes you happy.”

“As simple as that?”

“As simple as that.” He holds my stare, and I nod. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps I need to stop caring what other people think and just live my life in whatever way makes me happy.