Chapter 2

I haven’t had a lot of regrets in my life. I mean, yes, I was an angsty teen with a chip on his shoulder. Yes, I had secrets. Yes, I hogged the bathroom. Yes, I was an asshole sometimes—most teens are, which in turn bred mistakes. But since I’d become an adult and moved away from home to pursue my medical degree, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d cared enough about something to feel any sort of true regret.

The kind of regret that eats you from the inside out.

That makes you question things in a way you never had before.

Pins and needles buzzed at my fingertips as I finished washing my hands in the airport bathroom. Regret tasted bitter as the burnt coffee I’d had for breakfast. It clung like a film to my body, clogging my pores, and making my movements feel more sluggish than usual.

Because while I often acted like an asshole—and I was fine with that—for some reason…the idea that the small blond man I’d met on the plane might think I was one was…uncomfortable.

Ah. There was that pesky regret again.

I wasn’t normally the kind of man that ran away from things. I was stubborn and stalwart. Sturdy . I said what I meant. And I always did what I said I would. Promises were vows that were kept. And problems were meant to be dealt with when they arose. Not that the man had been a “problem”, because I certainly didn’t mean that.

The problem was my reaction to him.

My very visceral reaction to him.

This wasn’t who I was.

This wasn’t who I’d been raised to be.

So why had I run from him?

I wasn’t naive enough to think it was because I’d recognized who he was. It was something deeper than that. Something I wasn’t sure I was equipped to face right then, standing in the airport bathroom, my hands sweaty with anxiety.

So instead, I replayed our encounter.

When he’d stepped onto the plane it was like a bucket of icy water had been doused all over me. I had not been prepared for all that… gorgeous in high definition. And who could blame me? Seeing photos on the album I bought the girls for Christmas last year was not the same as seeing those pale green eyes up close.

Framed by bruises darker than the eyeliner he wore, smudged and grungy—like he’d done his best to cover them up. Like he was ashamed of his own exhaustion. Chapped lips, under-plucked eyebrows, a tiny, almost invisible scar on his chin. Frown lines by the corners of his lips that looked particularly kissable.

He was all sharp edges and harsh lines when he was awake. But the moment he’d fallen asleep, so sweetly, that changed. Slow and steady, he’d leaned more and more against me, tipping into me with each warm puff of his breath, his walls eradicated.

I’d been scared to move.

Terrified I’d wake him when he so clearly needed the rest.In a way, he reminded me of a sculpture I’d seen at a gallery in New York. Immortalized in glass, a crushed flower petal had sat on display for the world to ogle. It had been delicate once. Before its destruction had been celebrated. Perfect from a distance, in the way only the truly manufactured can be, but when you moved in close, its history became evident.

When he was asleep, he was vulnerable. Walls down, armor gone. Like he was an entirely different person than the man who had sat stiffly beside me, his head down, like he was afraid of being seen. Like the glass had melted away, and the petal was bare once again, bruised edges on display.

Truth be told, I’d had a lot of time to stare.

Eight hours.

Eight hours to admire the way Trashmouth’s hands were a little large for his frame. Eight hours to admire the veins that danced atop them. The broad swell of his knuckles. His chipped black nail polish—fresh still, like he’d painted them right before the flight and somehow chipped them anyway.

The moles on his throat, the insides of his wrists.

And the freckles that scattered across the bridge of his nose.

I’d never seen those in photographs.

Maybe he wore makeup to cover them? Or maybe they were photoshopped out. Treated like imperfections when they were anything but. The little flaws that the magazines edited away were the things that made him devastatingly perfect.

And…in a way, that perfection made him terrifying .

Because he made my pulse thrum like it never had before. He made my belly fill with butterflies. He made my palms slick with sweat. Made me want to pull him to my chest, tuck a blanket around him, and let him take a nice long nap.

He certainly looked like he needed it.

He must’ve been exhausted to fall asleep on a stranger’s shoulder.

What if I’d been a creep?

Something protective flickered inside my belly at the thought.

I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or grateful that my book had put him right to sleep.

I’d been prepared to walk away the moment he escaped off the plane, running as far and as fast from me as he could. I’d been prepared to write off my feelings as a passing crush—but then…but then…The nail in the coffin had been the way he’d talked to that damn kid.

I’d seen him.

And while Trashmouth hadn’t looked comfortable in the slightest, there was no denying how careful he’d been when he encouraged the child. He’d been rudely stopped while out in the wild—which had to be annoying, my god—and yet…he’d still been so gentle with him.

Just like when I’d seen him enter the plane I’d frozen, unable to look away. Unable to get my feet to move. Unable to follow the plan that I’d made—to let this be an odd chance encounter, and leave it at that.

I shouldn’t have stopped him too—I knew that.

Especially after the way he’d run off.

But the second we were alone again, my mouth had opened before my brain could catch up. And then I’d run—just like he had. Which, again, was not like me. Not at all. And now…I needed to figure out what to do. Because I didn’t want to seem like a total creep, but it also didn’t sit right with me—the way we’d left off.

Not when I kept replaying the confused, almost hurt look on his face, over and over in my mind.

No, no. He most definitely deserved an apology for that.

He was a person . And I’d been less than kind by walking off when he was mid-sentence.

“I’m sorry for molesting your bicep, man.”

He’d looked so…defeated when he said those words. Paranoid almost. Like he expected me to get mad at him for borrowing my shoulder. To be fair…if it had been anyone else I would’ve found a way to politely excuse myself from the situation.

I’d never liked being touched as a general rule.

I’d always thought I had very few exceptions.

My daughters, Rosie and Jane, my mother—because she’d always been my closest confidant—and begrudgingly, my best friend, Trixie—the mother of my children. And on the very rare occasion I left town for a medical conference or to visit my publisher, I would sometimes tolerate the hands of the random men I’d pick up.

Though, admittedly, it had been years since I’d felt inclined to scratch that particular itch—despite having just arrived home from a conference today.

Apparently, I’d been wrong—about my limitations, that is.

Because…while my bubble remained small, today I had learned that it was still large enough to accommodate a tiny, black-clad emo twink.

An emo twink that I was going to need to find, so that I could properly apologize. And perhaps…maybe thank for reading my book. Which I still couldn’t believe had really happened. It felt surreal at best.

Drying my hands, I sighed and pulled the men’s bathroom door open with my foot using the lever near the floor. I wasn’t about to touch the handle. Absolutely not.

Speak of the devil.

Apparently, I didn’t need to hunt him down to apologize, after all.

“Oh,” Trashmouth stood outside the door, his hands raised like he’d been about to reach for the handle. His movements were clearly sluggish, another hint at the sleep deprivation I could see written all over his face. He had to tilt his head back quite a ways to meet my gaze, the difference in our heights even more obvious up close. “Bicep guy.”

Bicep guy?

Now I was met with a very awkward situation. I could…wait for him to use the bathroom so I could apologize for acting rude. Or…we could have this conversation in the doorway of a public restroom.

Neither option was good.

But which choice would frighten him less?

Best to rip the Band-Aid off now.

I had no idea what kind of people he interacted with back in California—or why he was here in Vermont at all, but I didn’t want to frighten him by lurking.

“I’d like to apologize to you,” I said, the door still awkwardly positioned on my foot.

“Apologize…to me?” Trashmouth—god, that was an awful name—looked confused, head cocked to the side as his eyes narrowed. “For what?”

He had a scratchy voice, lower than one might expect. Almost like he was a smoker, even though I was fairly certain—given his career—that he wasn’t. There was something effortlessly sexy about it, all low, crackling amusement.

“I’d like to apologize for running away,” I clarified.

“What?” He stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

“I was embarrassed,” I added on because I wasn’t sure—at this point—he even realized I’d been running. He deflated a little, shrugging a shoulder as he nodded along.

“I tend to get that reaction from people,” the light in his eyes dimmed, closing off, and I?—

“No.” I stepped out into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind me. “I just…” I ran a hand through the back of my hair, cheeks heating. Damn. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this…off. “You were reading my book.”

And you’re gorgeous.

Really fucking gorgeous, I thought but didn’t say.

“Reading your…” Trashmouth’s brow furrowed. His eyebrows were darker than his hair, maybe dyed? Or maybe naturally that way. I wasn’t certain. One unruly hair near the front of his right brow was off-kilter, sticking slightly to the left, and I had the oddest urge to reach out and stroke a finger over it. “What?”

Stop ogling him, Ben, and answer the question.

“My book,” I shrugged, uncomfortable—the butterflies in my belly rioting. “I enjoy your music. I wasn’t expecting to see you reading my book.”

“As in…you’re the author of the book I was reading?” he asked, staring at me like he was ready to call bullshit.

“Unfortunately.”

There was a pause as Trashmouth’s guard wavered, threatening to fall. His eyes were wide, like he genuinely hadn’t expected me to say that. Which was fair, I hadn’t meant to say it—it had just slipped out.

It was like when he was around, my body and mouth betrayed me.

“ What ?” He laughed, clearly surprised. “What does that mean?” I’d apparently done something right because the warmth bled back into his gaze. “Why unfortunately ?”

Only I was glad I’d slipped up now, because he’d laughed.

I made him do that.

I got the feeling he didn’t laugh often.

“I’d be happy to tell you when you’re finished,” I jerked my head toward the bathroom, figuring I’d monopolized enough of his time. “If you have time, of course.”

Trashmouth stared at me, head cocked, a thoughtful hum buzzing in his throat.

He has a lip ring.

I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t noticed before.

But I certainly did now.

After a moment of serious deliberation, he seemed to decide that I was, in fact, not a threat. Maybe it was the awkward way I was standing, staring at him. Or maybe it was the sweat on my upper lip? I’m not sure.

“Yeah, sure. My ride’s not supposed to be here for another forty minutes,” Trashmouth hummed. His lips twitched up at the same time that his pale green eyes narrowed playfully. “How do I know you’re not fucking with me?”

How odd, my ride was due to arrive at about the same time.

“I guess you’ll just have to find out.” I hadn’t really meant to flirt. I mean, I had. Of course I had. He was fucking adorable. But it just kind of slipped out?

Trashmouth snorted—amused. And I made a mental note to find proof of who I was before he returned so he’d know I wasn’t lying. So that I could put him at ease once and for all. And as I stepped aside and let him through, I tried to tell myself that the butterflies would fade. That this was a fluke. It had to be.

Talking to him would prove that.

Only…that felt like a fucking lie.

Robin—because after a quick Google search, it was easy enough to find his first name—returned from the bathroom, looking marginally better than before. His hair was a little damp, like he’d washed his face and gotten it wet. The pale, nearly white strands dripped onto his forehead before he brushed them out of the way, only for them to fall back down again.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, eyes guarded, shoulders hunched as he hunted the empty terminal for me.

The moment he spotted me he relaxed a little, taking a few strides my way, his black combat boots thudding with every step. Right now, there wasn’t a thing about him that wasn’t on guard. He wore his clothing like it was armor, carefully picked so you couldn’t see the chinks.

The sleepy-soft cuddly man from the plane was notably missing.

If it hadn’t been the strangest, most surreal, most rewarding moment of my life I would’ve thought I had made it up.

Fortunately for both of us, I was a doctor and a father, which meant I’d grown pretty adept at reading body language over the years.

I saw right through that prickly exterior.

Robin was hiding, and I couldn’t blame him.

He was in uncharted waters.

I gestured for him to take a seat beside mine. While he’d been splashing his face, I’d settled at the gate across the hallway. We were in the middle of the airport so we’d have some walking to do to get to the pickup zone, but I figured we had time. Plus, it was a small airport.

Coincidentally, our rides were coming at the same time, which meant if this went well we could chat while we walked.

And if it didn’t…well, I’d already planned for that too.

I’d pretend I dropped something at our original gate and politely say my goodbyes to give him a head start so he’d never have to see me again.

I’d already apologized—which had been the original plan.

So I wasn’t sure what I wanted from this.

Only that…it had been a long time since I was simply excited to talk to someone else. And despite my best efforts, the butterflies were still rioting in my belly.

Robin sank into the seat that I’d indicated. He crossed his ankle, left over his right knee, closing himself off—a clear sign that while he was willing to chat he still hadn’t decided whether he could trust me or not.

I didn’t blame him.

So I pulled up my phone, cheeks hot, and offered it to him.

He accepted it, black polish flashing, his brow furrowed as he stared down at it, probably trying to figure out why the fuck I’d handed it to him.

“I took the liberty of gathering some proof,” I told him, ears burning as he scrolled through the photo album on my phone, expression pensive. “So that you would know that I am who I say I am.”

Robin scrolled past photos of me with my publisher. Photos of me signing at book conventions. Screenshots of a few contracts that had both my written name and my pen name upon them. I’d blacked out the confidential bits while I’d been waiting, and hoped that this was enough to set him at ease.

“Huh,” he said, handing me back my phone. His legs remained crossed. He scrubbed his ring finger over his eyebrow, humming thoughtfully, expression far away for a moment. “You put this together?” He blinked, staring at me, eyes searching mine. “Just now?”

I nodded.

“Why?” Robin looked confused. “I mean, I believe you—” Oh, thank God. “But why go through all this trouble?” His cheeks flushed. “You like…a super fan or something? Not to be an asshole, but like…dude. That’s a lot of work to put in for a stranger.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“You like my books,” I settled on, burning from the inside out. “It’s not often I…” God, I wasn’t sure how to say any of this. I felt like an idiot. I probably looked like one too. This wasn’t like me. I always knew exactly what to say.

I felt wrong-footed, tripping over myself to get him to like me.

He was so damn pretty it was distracting.

“You…” I tried again, annoyed when my hands began to shake a little. They hadn’t done that for years.

“Okay,” Robin said, ending my suffering. His legs uncrossed. The pensive expression on his face bled away, replaced instead by a sunny but wicked grin. “I’ll stop torturing you.”

I laughed— way too loud. My shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t realized I’d gotten that tense—fuck.

“Sooo…” Robin ducked his head, meeting my gaze. That pale lock of hair stuck to his forehead. I had the weirdest urge to lean down and lick his eyebrow. It was right there. Right there. And it looked very lickable. Just like the rest of him. This was way worse than the eyebrow-stroking urge. And way harder to ignore.

“So?” I countered, skin hot.

“This is weird,” Robin hummed, shrugging a shoulder.

“It is,” I agreed, because it was. “I’m fucking it up.”

If Rosie had been here she would’ve made me put a dollar in the swear jar. And that thought made me crack a smile. Robin smiled back, and while it was still a little guarded, it was far warmer than before.

“You’re not fucking it up,” he disagreed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re just…super fucking awkward dude. But in a cute way. I mean…the photo album was pretty extra, but I super appreciate it.”

“I don’t want to be creepy.”

“The fact that you don’t want to be creepy majorly helps toward the not-creepiness,” Robin laughed—all scratchy soft—and it was the prettiest sound I’d ever heard.

“Ugh.” I covered my face with one hand, embarrassed, and then I dropped it—because if I was only ever going to have this one conversation with this stunning, beautiful, talented man, I wasn’t about to block my view of him while I did it.

“Why’d you say being an author was unfortunate?” Robin asked, repeating my earlier words. My cheeks burned even hotter. I’d always been an ugly blusher, and I was certain it was that horrible splotchiness that made Robin take pity on me.

“That is a…recent development,” I admitted.

“Care to elaborate, big guy?” he asked, obviously amused.

“I don’t,” I shook my head, face still blazing. “Because it’s horrible .”

“Is it?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I like laughing.”

I cracked a smile. “My mother’s book club started reading one of my books,” I confessed. I hadn’t told a single soul about this. I was more than a little surprised at how easy it was to talk to Robin.

“ Supportive , that’s not a bad thing.” Robin’s lips looked very soft.

“She doesn’t know they’re mine.”

“Oh?” Robin blinked, head tilting curiously to the side.

“She…” Oh no. “This is too awful to say.”

“Say it anyway.”

I laughed, unable to help it. “She and her group of rowdy, knitting buddies have all decided my books are…” I couldn’t help but die a little on the inside, “ tantalizing .”

“Oh my god,” Robin’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“Yes.”

“Which is why…you said it was unfortunate .”

“It’s been on my mind, yes,” I admitted, though all of this felt slightly less terrible now that Robin was laughing because of it. “Every day. All the time.” I laughed, unable to help it. “She texts me.”

“Oh, dear god.”

“She wants me to read them.”

“Oh my fuck,” Robin cackled. “What do you even say to that?”

“I told her I’m too busy,” I replied, more than a little shocked that this conversation was going so well. Especially because we were airing out the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me.

“And she…?” Robin waited.

“Bought me the audiobooks.”

“This is gold,” Robin’s eyes were dancing. “Sorry, not to be an asshole or anything. But—shit dude. Look at you! Indoctrinating a bunch of old ladies into your gay-werewolf-porn cult.”

“I know.”

Robin slid a few inches closer. Close enough I could feel his heat, his thigh only a few scant centimeters from mine. “Your books are my favorite,” Robin confessed after a second, voice dropping low and personal and sweet. “For the record.”

“Thank you,” my voice cracked a little. “They bring me joy,” I frowned. “ Brought me joy,” I corrected. “Before my mother ruined them.”

“That’s good.” Robin’s eyes flickered dark for only a moment before the light bled back in. “Joy is good.”

“It is.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, sure that now that my humiliating story was over, the easy camaraderie would end. I’d never just…conversed with someone else like this. Effortlessly. It felt like a fluke.

“Music used to do that for me,” Robin told me, a sad little twitch to his lips.

“Yeah?” My heart ached for him then, as I watched a metaphorical shadow flicker over his face. The dark crept forward before flitting away just as quickly.

“You know that part when Beckett left his pack?” Robin changed the subject deftly, obviously not ready to delve deeper into the topic of music. “In your last book,” he added, in case I didn’t remember my own books. Which I thought was…adorable.

I didn’t mind the question. It wasn’t often I got to openly talk about my characters.

Now that my mother and her friends had decided my work was hot shit, I had made myself a vow that I would never reveal my identity. It was far too late for that. Old women—that I’d known since I was born—were getting off on my werewolf porn.

I would die before I let anyone know that “little Ben Montgomery” was responsible for the epidemic of primal kink in Belleville.

Last week, I’d seen Martha Berry—one of my mother’s friends— growl at her husband while I was at the grocery store. Playfully yes, but…no. Nope . I was still doing my best not to think about it.

And that wasn’t the first time either. Trent, my younger brother, had told me that he’d had to chase a few college-age kids off of the tree farm he ran because they’d been playing wolves in the woods. Just the thought of that made my face hot all over again.

“Yes,” I replied to Robin, hoping I hadn’t paused too long—remembering Martha and the horrors that my mother’s book club had bestowed upon our small mountain town. “I do.”

Beckett’s story was near and dear to me. While it wasn’t exactly what had happened to me, I could relate to his need to leave. To provide for his family while he kept them safe from a distance. Because that was what he’d done. In the next installment of the series, I planned to let Beckett meet his end. It’d be a noble death, and a fitting end for a character drenched in tragedy.

“He gets to go back, right?” Robin asked, voice oddly small.

“What?” I blinked, surprised.

“In the next book?” He waited patiently, green eyes beseeching. Like he wasn’t asking for insider information that literally no one, not even my agent, knew yet. “He gets to go home?”

“I…” I didn’t want to tell him I planned to kill Beckett. So instead, I just winked and shrugged, doing my best to play it cool—even though the movement felt odd and unnatural on my face. “You’ll see?”

“ Bitch ,” Robin thwacked my arm. I was so surprised all I could do was laugh. “Tell me right now or I swear to god I’ll?—”

“You’ll what?” I asked, cheeks hurting from the force of my grin. “Paint my nails?”

Woah. I had not expected something so smooth or flirty to come out of my mouth.

“Yes . ” Robin looked as surprised as I felt by my words. “I will. I’ll fucking paint your nails. And that’s a threat .”

“Uh-huh,” I agreed, hot all over. “To be an effective threat it’d have to be frightening .”

Robin cocked his head. “Most men that look like you would be terrified,” he tried to convince me.

“Of nail polish?”

“Yes,” Robin nodded.

“I have two little girls back home. You’d have to do a lot more than paint my nails to frighten me.”

“Is that a challenge?” Robin puffed up, looking oddly excited. We were never going to see each other again, so I figured there was no harm in agreeing to his little game.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Deal.” Robin held a hand out, waiting expectantly. I hesitated for only a moment before taking it within my own and giving it a tight squeeze. He was cold. That was the first thing I noticed. Poor baby needed gloves or a warmer coat if he was going to survive Vermont.

Maybe this was just a layover for him?

No, no. He’d mentioned a ride.

Still. Maybe he was only spending a night here before heading off somewhere with brighter lights, and fewer men in flannel.

“If you can scare me I’ll tell you what happens to Beckett,” I promised, still holding his hand. I could feel the calluses from his guitar where they pressed to my skin, and that gentle scratch made my pulse thrum. I licked my lips, trying not to stare too hard at his collarbone where it peeked out of the sloped collar of his black, half-sheer shirt. His overcoat—over jacket , really—slid open a little, enough that I caught a glimpse of his nipples.

And god…fuck.

They were pierced too.

Made me want to pull on them just to make him yelp.

Which was not…a very appropriate thought to have when one was making a deal, but still.

Robin nodded seriously, accepting my terms. “And if I can’t scare you?” he asked, obviously waiting for the other shoe to drop. A pessimist, the way I’d always thought I was.

“You owe me a cup of hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate?” Robin blinked, clearly shocked. Then he laughed, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, biceps. Fine. I’ll buy you cocoa, you big weirdo.”

I dropped his hand, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want to be a creep.

My phone buzzed, signaling that Trent was here more than likely, which meant our time was up…unfortunately. It seemed there wouldn’t be much time for Robin to scare me, after all. I patted my shoulder to make sure my satchel was still in place, and Robin did the same with his backpack.

Regret—a new flavor—simmered in my belly as I rose to my feet and offered Robin a hand up. “Anyone ever told you that you have gigantic hands?” Robin asked, accepting the help. His guard went back up a little, but this time, the armor wasn’t aimed toward me but toward the rest of the airport as we made our way down the hallway. He ducked his head toward me, like he was hiding from the scattered families that littered the different gates as we passed by them.

“Yes,” I admitted, because it was true. Men often made comments about my hands when I had my fingers inside them. Not that I thought that was an appropriate thought to share.

“Bet they feel real good inside somebody,” Robin hummed thoughtfully.

I choked.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “Bet your cock’s big too.”

“Jesus Christ.” I pinched my eyes shut, face bright red.

“Bet it blushes just like your cheeks do,” Robin was clearly having fun at my expense again. And I couldn’t even be mad about it. “Bet you walk in a room and the first thought anybody has is, “Woah, that dude looks like a ride and a half.’ Especially size queens. You ever heard of size queens? You’re like a size queen’s wet dream.”

I realized what he was doing a second too late.

“Are you trying to scare me?”

The doors that would lead out of the airport were fast approaching.

“Maaaaybe?” Robin grinned, and I glanced down at him. Quite far. Because he was incredibly short. Barely came up to my rib cage, actually, when we were both standing. “Is it working?”

“No,” I replied because it wasn’t.

He blinked, eyes narrowed. “So you’re not afraid of nail polish or size queens,” he nodded playfully. “Hmm.”

“Gay sex of any kind doesn’t scare me.” I stared down at him as we reached the doors. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

It took me a second to realize what I’d just admitted, but Robin took it in stride easily.

“What about spiders? You afraid of spiders?” There was approval written all over his face, like I’d passed some sort of unspoken test.

“No.”

“Snakes?”

“No.”

“Needles?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” A brisk breeze assaulted us the second we stepped outside. I could see Trent’s truck at the end of the procession, slowly approaching. Relaxing a fraction, I twisted to look at Robin. Took him in, every last beautiful detail because I knew our time together was coming to an abrupt end.

“A doctor?” Robin grinned. “Big hands, big dick, not afraid of gay sex, would wear nail polish, writes smut, and is a doctor .” His cheeks grew a little pink, like it took him repeating what he’d said out loud to realize how blatantly he was flirting—if he was even flirting at all. Maybe he simply didn’t have a filter? “Your wife is very lucky.”

“No wife,” I corrected as Trent’s truck pulled even closer.

“Husband?”

“No husband.”

“Boyfriend?” Robin’s eyes danced. “Girlfriend?”

“No and no.”

And then, because he was apparently gorgeous and a shithead, loud enough to frighten the birds hopping along the sidewalk, Robin shouted, “Commitment!”

I stared at him, flabbergasted.

Trent pulled up, the truck parking as he moved to hop out. I only had my backpack on me, so I didn’t need help carrying anything. But I couldn’t do anything more than stare at Robin as I tried to figure out what the fuck he was doing.

“Still not scared?” He frowned. “Damn, thought that would’ve gotten you for sure.”

“Oh my god.” I couldn’t stop staring.

Had he been trying to frighten me with the word commitment ?

Who does that?

Robin, apparently.

“Ben,” Trent addressed me with a grin. Trent was my little brother—but not by much, at least size-wise. Wider than me, and only slightly shorter, Trent towered over Robin as easily as I did. It wasn’t until Trent said my name that I realized I hadn’t properly introduced myself.

“You must be Robin,” Trent said, turning his attention to my small companion.

How did he know ? —?

Was he a fan of Robin’s music too?

Trent’s easy smile was welcoming, and it took me a solid ten seconds to get past my shock and realize that there was a second reason Robin looked so damn familiar.

Oh.

“I’m Trent,” Trent said, holding a hand out to him. “It’s so great to meet you. Miles has been so fucking excited you’re coming home to visit.”

Oh my god.

It was taking me a bit, but yes, my brain was finally connecting the dots. Wow. How the hell had I missed this?

“Nice to meet you too, man.” Turning his shit-eating grin away from me, Robin took Trent’s hand and gave it a shake. His hand didn’t linger like it had when we’d touched. When he dropped Trent’s hand, he even went as far as to take a half-step in my direction.

His shoulder brushed my arm.

My heart fluttered.

“Commiiiiiiitmeeeeent,” he repeated again, low and spooky, like a platform-wearing ghost. It was honestly nice that Robin wasn’t acting any different now that Trent was here. But I was too shell-shocked to properly respond.

“I see you’ve already met Ben,” Trent laughed, eyes crinkling. “Ignore his face. He’s got a permanent stick up his butt. I promise he’s a secret softie.” A dark lock of black hair slid across his forehead like it always did, and as the sun lit him up from behind I had a weird urge to reach over and mess it up. He looked too good. It pissed me off. I kind of wanted to strangle him.

“There is not a stick up my butt,” I glared at Trent, cheeks hot all over again. I didn’t deny the “softie” comment. Because that was true.

Robin cracked a grin, obviously noticing that. I suppose I had betrayed myself by apologizing and immediately making a photo album to set him at ease.

“And I’m not afraid of commitment,” I told Robin directly because for some reason, I needed him to know that.

“Damn,” he shrugged a shoulder, eyes dancing, tone mockingly disappointed. “What a shame .” He batted his lashes up at me playfully. He did not sound disappointed by this at all, even though it was obvious he was teasing.

“So, you…know my brother?” Robin added, watching me curiously. If he was as shocked as I was by this turn of events, he didn’t show it.

“Yes.” My cheeks were hot. “I’m his brother-in-law.” Oh, dear god. What had I gotten myself into?

“And you’re from Belleville,” Robin added.

“Yes.” My cheeks burned and burned and burned.

“Cool.” Robin looked pleased, and that made me…well… That made me super fucking happy. “Cool, cool, cool. Small fucking world, am I right?”

Relief, unlike anything I’d ever known flooded my system as I finally processed what this meant. Because if Robin was Miles’s brother…we’d get to play this “scare” game again.

I’d get to see him.

A lot, apparently.

And I was…embarrassingly excited about that.