Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

brOOKLYNN

I'm drained. Not just because it's ten o'clock and I'm finally leaving the salon, but because my last client of the day was someone who drains the absolute life out of me every single time I see her.

If she weren't such an important person in the community, I would probably refuse her, and I have a feeling the only reason she sits in my chair is because other stylists have done just that.

Willow Creek isn't very big, and our salon is still new, so I have to play nice, even if it completely exhausts me physically and mentally. I close down the salon, making sure to lock the front door before I make my way to my car in the dark, alone.

Thankfully, downtown stays well lit at night, and nothing ever happens in this town. So I feel safe at ten o'clock at night, walking down the sidewalk completely alone. Still, I rethink my schedule and wonder how I'm going to fix it so this habit stops as I touch the button on my fob to unlock the driver's door.

Climbing into my driver's seat, I start the engine and head home. My stomach growls before I even reach the first stoplight. I haven't eaten since… the iced coffee I had when I got to work.

Shit.

Flicking my gaze to the clock on my dash, I let out a heavy sigh. I can't go home and cook anything because my roommates are all settling down for the night and probably don't want to hear or smell me cook, not that I can actually cook. I'm absolutely terrible in the kitchen.

Guiding my car toward the first fast-food place I can find, I do something that I'm seriously ashamed of. I pull into the drive-through and order a twenty-piece chicken nugget, a side of apples, french fries, and a chocolate shake.

With my food in my lap, I drive to the nearest dark parking lot and stuff my face. Closing my eyes, I lay my head back as I chew on a nugget. Even though this tastes amazing, I already regret the calories.

I'll definitely have to go for a run tomorrow. There's no way around that. And if I'm being completely honest with myself, I'll probably avoid eating for a day and then do this shit all over again.

Nothing about my life is consistent, including eating. Well… my inconsistent schedule and my horrible sleep routine are pretty steady. So, maybe I'm more consistent than I realize, but not in any of the good ways.

Once I gorge myself on nuggets, fries, and apples, and after I've sucked down all of my shake, I drive home. I shouldn't do this to myself, but I do it about every two days and hate myself on the third.

Over and over again.

Before I head home, I find a dumpster to throw the trash away in because there is no way I am going to show anyone that I've massacred this food. It's a secret thing I do to myself and then hate myself for later. I think sharing that part of me would be too much. I'm not someone who overshares when it comes to my own personal demons.

Pulling into the driveway, I shift my car into Park and flick my gaze to the rearview mirror. I have to look. There's no way around it. I have to see if he's there. And he is. His car is parked in its usual space, but as my eyes search the small rectangular mirror, I actually see him sitting in a chair on the porch, watching me.

Grabbing ahold of my purse, I open the door. I really don't know why I am so obsessed with him.

That's a lie.

I know exactly why. But I'm not sure why I allow myself to indulge in staring at him and lusting after him because I know I can't have him. And I won't let myself have him, either, even if he offered, which he never has.

Hitching my purse over my shoulder, I walk toward the front door. But before I reach for the handle, there is a whistle behind me. Stopping, I look over my shoulder in the direction of the noise.

It's him.

It's Forrest.

He's jogging toward me.

My breath hitches at the sight of his approach.

God .

He's beautiful.

FORREST

My father doesn't text, but my mother does, and after an afternoon at the Tipsy Tavern, my mother's text comes through and pisses me off instantly. Not just a little bit, but so much so that I grip my phone in my hand so hard that I hear it make a crackling noise.

I almost call her but decide against it. Instead, I reread her text, taking it in, soaking it all in before I respond.

MOM: Forrest, darling. I wish you wouldn't upset your father so. He truly wishes to give you everything that is rightfully yours. It hurts him like you would not understand when you continue to reject him.

IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH DAD. HIS LEGACY. OR WHATEVER THE FUCK. IT HAS TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT NOBODY RESPECTS MY CAREER.

Leaving the Tavern, I don't even bother saying goodbye to anyone. I need to be alone for a while and figure out what the fuck I'm going to do. If I stay here, I'm fucked. If I go and do what my father wants, I'm fucked in a different way.

By the time I get home, I have more texts from my mom, and as I read through them, I realize that I'm well and truly fucked. I run my fingers through my hair and close my eyes.

I'LL BE THERE. I'LL HAVE A DATE.

MOM: A date?

A DATE.

MOM: Is it serious?

Since I'm already on a roll of lies, I continue.

YES. IT'S VERY SERIOUS.

MOM: I simply cannot wait to meet this young lady.

Instead of walking into the house, I sink down on the chair that's on the front porch. It faces the girls' house. I don't know what I'm going to do. Then, the longer I stare at the house, the more I figure it out only because it's the only logical thing to do.

I just hope I don't fuck everything up.

The girls come and go, then come home again, and I watch as the lights in the house turn on and off, but the person I'm waiting for hasn't shown up yet. It doesn't surprise me because she's usually the last to arrive—everywhere.

Everywhere.

That should probably bother me, considering it was literally beaten into me to be on time. But it doesn't because, for whatever reason, I think it's cute. And maybe I think it's cute because my upbringing was so strict on the matter.

Glancing at the clock on my phone, I arch a brow at the time. It's eleven in the evening. I can't help but wonder what she was out doing at this time. It's not my business, but that doesn't stop me from wondering.

I watch as she turns her car off, grabs her purse, and then unfolds from her vehicle. I just stare for a moment because of that ass, those long, lean legs, combined with that blonde hair. It's so fucking mesmerizing. Everything about her is.

Just as she reaches for the front door, I jump up from my place, jogging toward her as I whistle, hoping she'll stop. Thankfully, she does. Her head whips around as she looks over her shoulder at me.

Continuing to jog toward her, I clear my throat as soon as I'm standing in front of her. Brooklynn slowly turns around to face me fully, tipping her head back as her eyes lift to meet mine. I can see the question in them, but she has no fucking clue what I'm about to ask her. And I have no clue how she's going to respond.

Instead of easing into the conversation, I just blurt out my question. "I'm going to ask you something weird. You can say no, but it would seriously help me out big time if you agreed."

She blinks but doesn't respond immediately, so I decide to continue. "My parents are ridiculous. I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend."

Her breath hitches at the same time, and her eyes widen. I can tell she's shocked as shit. And honestly, I'm shocked as fuck that I have to ask her. That I'm actually asking her. I should have asked one of the other girls. I should have asked someone who I didn't want to fuck into the mattress.

Goddamn.

I didn't think this through because I don't think I can pretend anything when it comes to her. I want her. I've wanted her. I don't think that's going anywhere. My dick twitches against my jeans, knowing where it wants to be.

"Your girlfriend?" she asks in a whisper.

I hum, dipping my chin in a single nod. "My parents are having this party. I need a date, and I refuse to be set up with one of their friends' snotty daughters again."

"A party?" Her voice is still whisper-soft.

Rocking back on my heels, I almost laugh because I know she doesn't understand what I'm asking of her. It's a hell of a lot.

"Not just a party," I murmur. "A whole fucking production."

"Forrest?"

I know she's confused. I would be, too. Clearing my throat, I shake my head a couple of times and then lift my gaze to meet hers. "It's not just a single party," I say. "It's a four-day event at their estate."

Her eyes widen, and she takes a step backward. "A four-day event?" she asks. "What are you asking me, Forrest?"

Without hesitation, I answer her. "Come with me to my parents' villa in the Hamptons."

I can tell she wasn't expecting me to say the Hamptons, but at the same time, she doesn't balk at the location. Brooklynn comes from a little new money, but I come from old money, and it's a whole other ballgame.

"Why me?" she asks.

I could tell her the whole truth. But I decided against it. She doesn't need everything, and she wouldn't want to hear it all anyway. All she needs is the minimum information. So that's what I decide to give her.

Just the minimum information.

I learned that shit from my dad. Nobody needs the whole story, just enough so you get what you want.

"Because you're my friend, and I know you're the one who could deal with their level of extra better than anyone."

She looks down at her feet, then slowly lifts her gaze to meet mine. "You want me to pretend to be your rich-bitch girlfriend?" she asks.

I snort but answer her because she's probably right. If anyone can put on the bitch persona, it's her. But she just looks like she could pull it off. Inside, I know that she's nothing like that. She's probably the nicest girl in that whole house, and that's saying a lot because they're all really fucking great girls.

"Yeah, I can be your rich-bitch girlfriend. I'll do it happily. Let me know when so I can move my clients around."

Taking a step toward her, I ball my hands into fists at my side in an effort to keep from reaching out and touching her. I want to cup her cheeks and slide my thumbs across her undoubtedly soft skin. Take her in my arms and kiss the absolute shit out of her.

"Two weeks," I murmur. "It's an annual Labor Day extravaganza. The last hurrah before summer is officially over, and right before my season starts hard."

"I'll do it," she whispers.

I almost kiss her out of pure gratitude, but I don't. Instead, I give her a smirk and drop the hammer. "There are fucking theme parties, too. I can transfer you some money if you need it for clothes."

Brooklynn laughs, reaching out. She wraps her fingers around my bicep and squeezes. Gently. "I appreciate it, but I got this. Theme outfits are totally my thing. Send me the themes, and I got this."

"I really appreciate this," I murmur. "More than you know."

"Do I want to know why you really need a fake girlfriend?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

Humming, I shake my head and clear my throat before speaking. "It's family dynamics and money," I state. That's the fucking truth of it, too. That's exactly what this shit is.

Family fucking dynamics.

Money.

"Then I'll be the best girlfriend you could have, Forrest. I get family drama, so I'm here for you."

Her words are kind and beyond nice. I'm just not sure if they'll keep me from fucking her. I don't think I can stay with her at my parents' house for days and not be inside of her. There is something special about Brooklynn. Her body, her mind, whatever the fuck it is, it calls to me.

I need to be around her, and I ache to be inside her.