Breaking Giants, page 6
“Yep,” I answer, closing the case and hanging the tongs on their hook. “My throat still feels scratchy from my cold last week.”
“Maybe a cup of tea would help?” he suggests, shifting from foot to foot, gaze bouncing around but not staying on my face more than a second or two.
My eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with you?”
He sighs, relaxing. “I suck at this.”
I laugh. “Lying? Yes, you do. You always have.”
He makes a valiant effort at keeping a straight face. “I just really think you should sing tonight.”
I cast a suspicious look over the crowded café, scanning from the front door to the stage where Greg and two helpers are handling setup. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary (for example, men in suits), I turn my glare on Owen.
“Spit it out.”
“Hi, Rose.”
Julian’s voice, coming from behind me, ricochets down my spine and electrifies the hair at the nape of my neck. My stomach does a five-second free fall, then slams down somewhere in the vicinity of my ankles. I have the absurd thought of crawling into the bakery case and sealing myself inside.
Owen winces and mouths, “Sorry.”
Clearing my throat—I’m a grown up, act like a grown up—I turn around and smile at Julian. I’m so blindsided by his arrival, I don’t really see him.
Tall, dark, and dangerous—Check.
“Hi, Julian. Great to see you again.”
I sound like I’m sucking a lemon. Julian’s lips twitch; he glances at Owen, then back to me. I can’t meet his gaze. Not quite. He’s wearing his glasses, which help. I stare at the black strip over his nose.
“Nice to see you, too.” He coughs lightly. “Um, can we talk for a second? In private?”
I realize the café has quieted. Some patrons are oblivious but most are listening to us while poorly pretending not to. I don’t bother speaking as I turn and walk quickly down the hallway to my office. Julian follows, entering as I’m tossing my apron onto a hook.
Oddly, after my initial response to his voice, I don’t feel the visceral impact of his presence like I did four months ago. Almost, I wish I’d never met him. I could have kept on hero-worshipping him.
But now he’s just a man, flawed like the rest of us. My biggest disappointment is that meeting him changed how I listen to his music. It’s still great, but it doesn’t transport me anymore.
Dropping into the chair behind my desk, I give Julian my best professional smile. “Congrats on the success of your new single. Do you have a release date for the album yet?”
“Rose,” he said softy. “Don’t be that way.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
He sighs, lowering himself gracefully into the chair opposite mine. No beanie. Windblown hair. Caramel, piercing eyes. When he starts talking, it takes me a few seconds to restart my brain.
“…to see you and apologize personally for what happened. I haven’t been in town much the last few months. I came as soon as I could.”
He sounds so earnest, a flare of not-quite-healed hurt cracks my cheery shell. I patch it up and wave a hand.
“It’s in the past. If we’d signed a contract, maybe I would have sued the shit out of you.”
His dimple makes an appearance. “No, you wouldn’t have.”
Irked that he’s right, I say, “Anyway, apology accepted.”
I consider asking him to perform tonight to make it up to me but fall short on courage. And suddenly I really need to get away from him.
Voice like hot water on cold toes;
Secrets in your eyes nobody knows.
Smothering the urge to swipe my notebook off my desk, I stand and grab my apron.
“Sorry, but we’re pretty busy out there.” I scoot toward the door. “Is there anything else?”
He stands. There’s abruptly not enough air in my small office. A hint of his cologne reaches me. Citrus and sandalwood. I have the unbidden memory of him wrapping his hoodie around my shoulders. His warm fingers on my forearm.
Julian takes an unnecessary step toward me, blocking my access to the door and crowding my personal space. I feel heat rising through my chest to my face, unstoppable. I shiver a little and there’s a betraying tingle in my breasts as my nipples tighten.
So much for being unaffected.
I toss my apron over my head, tying the straps behind me with jerky movements.
“Julian,” I say, a tad breathless, “You’re kinda in my space.”
“Are you performing tonight?”
I immediately recognize the clarity and darkness in his voice. Hello, rockstar frontman.
“Nope,” I squeak, then flush a deeper red. Steeling myself, I look up at him. “Getting over a cold. You probably shouldn’t be standing this close to me. I don’t think I’m contagious anymore, but I don’t want to get you sick.”
His gaze drops to my mouth and his throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes darken.
What the hell is happening?
Tension sizzles between us, a palpable magnetism that feels reckless. And, if I’m honest, unbelievably good. He wants me.
But as heat spirals through me, my heart kicks harder, and my breath turns shallow, I realize it also feels unbelievably wrong. Julian Ashburn, according to the press and everyone else on the planet, is very, very taken.
“Julian, I—”
I don’t get another word out. His mouth is on mine, hot and possessive. I gasp, then grunt as my back finds the wall. There’s no thought—no consequences—just his hands under my thighs, jerking my legs around his hips. His body presses hard against mine. Warm and solid and real.
He tastes like he looks, earthy and spicy and addictive. I hold on, my arms around his shoulders, and give as good as I get. Because this is beyond.
Minutes or centuries later, Julian finally surrenders my mouth. It’s a damn good thing he’s still holding my legs, otherwise I’d be a puddle on the floor.
I’ve never felt so possessed by a kiss in my life. I can’t catch my breath.
My head drops against the wall with a thud. I’m drowning or dreaming; either way, reality is hurling toward me at a million miles per hour and the aftermath isn’t gonna be pretty.
Holyshitwhatjusthappened.
Skilled lips trail down my neck and back up, finding a sensitive spot beneath my ear. Drawing a deep breath, he whispers, “You smell like sunshine.”
I lift my head, then let it drop again against the wall. One more time, a little harder, while Julian nibbles on my collarbone. I’m pretty sure he gets the memo but he ignores it.
“Julian,” I say softly but firmly.
He sighs, forehead meeting my shoulder as he lowers my legs. For a final, long moment, we stand as close as we can. I greedily press my face into his shoulder, breathing his scent, luxuriating in his heat, and maybe twitch my hips a little to feel the bulge in his pants.
From the hallway outside, I hear Greg’s voice, “Rose? I saw you come back here—Oh.”
We move, but not fast enough. Greg’s wide eyes veer from Julian to me and there’s absolutely nothing to say. Julian’s lips are swollen, his glasses slightly askew, and below the belt… Ohmygod.
My expression is probably a mix of horror and embarrassment. “Greg, uh—” I start.
“What the fuck, man?” snaps Greg, blue eyes blazing with anger at Julian. “Aren’t you engaged? It was all over the radio this morning.”
Shock punches me hard in the chest, stealing my breath.
“What?” I whisper.
Julian’s expression is granite—all the answer I require. Greg glances at me and there’s sympathy in his eyes, but also hurt. A lot, lot of hurt.
“You can’t say anything about this,” Julian growls at Greg, “to anyone. If I hear even a whisper that you’re talking to a reporter, I’ll come after you.”
Silly me, I thought it couldn’t get any worse.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Greg bites out. “It’s your train-wreck of a marriage and you’ll fuck it up just fine on your own. But you’re not going to use my friend to do it. She deserves better.”
I close my eyes and press into the wall. My stomach turns, preparing to eject. I count my breaths until the nausea passes.
“I know,” murmurs Julian. “I’m sorry, Rose.”
I hear Julian move but only open my eyes when I know he’s gone. Greg watches me from just inside the door, his jaw clenched and head shaking slowly.
I want to apologize to him. But that would mean acknowledging that I know how he feels about me, and frankly, I’m selfish. I don’t want our friendship to change.
We don’t always get what we want.
“I’m done, Rose. I can’t keep following you around like a schoolboy with a crush.”
“Greg—”
He wards off my words with both hands. “You haven’t led me on. This isn’t your fault. I just… seeing you… You’re never going to look at me the way you look at him.”
I swallow hard, fighting flashbacks of the kiss. “You’re one of my best friends, Greg,” I say lamely. “I don’t want our friendship to end over this.”
He sighs. “Me, either. But I’m gonna need some time, okay?”
I say the only thing I can. “Okay.”
7
the worst is yet to come
I somehow survive the rest of my shift and drive home with the singleminded focus of someone who isn’t sure they should be behind a wheel. I make it safely into the garage and go through routine on autopilot. Car off. Collect keys and purse. Garage door down, house door open. Hallway light on. Turn deadbolt behind me.
I’m not the type of person to self-medicate, but once in the kitchen the first thing I do is grab a bottle from my small wine cabinet. As the daughter of an addict who was in and out of rehabs and twelve-step programs most of my childhood, I’ve always had a special awareness for my own consumption. I don’t do drugs. Ever. I do drink, but only occasionally and never to excess.
Tonight, I’m making an exception. Julian-effing-Ashburn kissed me to within an inch of my sanity, and Greg, one of my very best friends, dumped me right after. Oh, and Julian is apparently engaged. To be married. To his starlet country love.
I’m working on glass #4 when eleven p.m. rolls around. Knowing Greta will be off work by now, I call her.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey, I was about to call you.”
“Did Owen ask you to check on me?” I ask, speaking slowly to avoid slurring.
She makes an affirmative sound. “He didn’t tell me anything specific, only that you seemed off tonight. What are you doing right now?”
“I’m drunk alone at home.”
There’s a pause. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The line goes dead.
“Perfect.” I squint at the bright screen of my phone. “Just enough time to do something stupid.”
I pull up my contacts and scroll through the ‘A’ section. Selecting desired number, I put the phone to my ear and listen to the ringing.
I’m not sure how many times it rings before he picks up. I might have blacked out for a second or ten. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. Soft voices murmur in the background, then fall off. A door closes.
“Rose?”
Remorse aplenty. I think there’s longing, too, but it might be the wine talking trash.
Speaking of talking…
“Oh hi, yeah, it’s me. I just wanted to tell you something real quick. You suck, Julian Ashburn.”
A slow exhale. “I know. I’m so sorry. Today shouldn’t have happened. I completely lost my mind. There’s so much craziness going on, and you’ve been in my thoughts the last few weeks, and today I suddenly had to see you. And then—”
“Whoa, cowboy!” I interject, refusing to be charmed by his babbling. “This isn’t your confessional. This is me, a girl you know next to nothing about, telling you that you’re an asshole for kissing me when you’re marrying some other girl—who is smoking hot, by the way, and according to your latest single, really swell—and there’s no excuse for your deplorap—deporal—
“Deplorable?” he offers.
“—bad behavior. You’re a dirtbag. The end.”
I hang up.
My phone vibrates with a call. I answer immediately with, “I’m not talking to you ever again!”
Aunt Katherine says, “You’ve been drinking. What’s wrong?”
I slump back in my chair and stare blearily across my dark living room, waiting for my racing heart to slow. I don’t feel better for having chewed out Julian. I feel worse. Now the sound of his voice is fresh, and yes, I’m still charmed by his damned babbling.
“Things were so good for a minute, Aunt K,” I finally whisper. “I had my head on straight, I was moving in new directions, focusing on stuff.”
She doesn’t comment on my drunken vagueness. “Things are still good,” she says in her equally vague, gypsy-like way. “Every moment is a blessing, each challenge an opportunity for growth.”
I peer into my wine glass, then take a sip. I can’t even taste it anymore.
“I love you, Katherine, but I’m really not in the mood for one of your pep talks.”
“Mmm. I did a reading for you.” For the first time in memory, she doesn't bother asking if I want to hear it. “The Prince of Swords in a disadvantageous spread. Confusion, lust, dishonest living.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I mumble, ignoring the goosebumps rising on my arms. “Why am I so sideways about him, then?”
What I’m really asking is, Why did he kiss me? but apparently the spirits can’t read minds—or they don’t exist!—because Katherine launches into mystic-babble.
“Because you are, and have always been, the Princess of Cups. Warm, compassionate, and creative, but you crave harmony and are easily overwhelmed by sorrow and conflict. The Prince of Swords in his bright aspect is a steady, capable, intelligent man, with a brilliant mind and creative passion to match yours. Together, the two of you are powerful, magnetic, and there is potential for lifelong love. But…” she pauses with uncharacteristic hesitance, “maybe not this Prince of Swords, hmm?”
I take a noisy gulp of wine. “Ugh. Stop.”
“I’m receiving the answer to a question,” she whispers, and I roll my eyes out of habit. “He kissed you because of… fear? Doubt? Hope? Hmm. I’m sorry but I’m not getting a clear message.”
Luckily my glass is already on the table, otherwise shattering would have been imminent. My skin is crawling, and when my phone vibrates with a new text message, I yelp.
“Hang on, Aunt K.”
I stare at the three-word message until the letters blur.
Let me explain.
“Aunt K? I’ve gotta go. Don’t you or your spirit guides worry ‘bout me. Greta’s coming to keep me company. Minor setback. Everything will be A-okay.”
“Okay, honey,” she says skeptically. “I love you.”
There’s a knock on my front door. “Greta’s here! Love you, too.”
I hang up, make it into the small foyer with only minor injuries, and yank the door open. Greta blinks hugely, her mouth dropping open.
“You’re wasted!” she says, pointing at me in case I’m too drunk to understand.
“Pshha,” I agree, snagging her arm and hauling her inside. “Grab a glass. We’re going to watch movies and have a sleepover like old times. Is that okay with Owen?”
I’m fiddling with my phone—what’s my damn passcode again?—and run smack into a wall.
“Uhh,” says my best friend, “I’m honestly not sure what to do right now. I haven’t seen you like this in ages.”
I laugh, rubbing my offended forehead. “I forgot to eat. That’s the problem.”
I finally unlock my phone and pull up Julian’s text message. What I type isn’t my best work, but it gets the point across.
You explain not. Interested
made album spite you
don’t know meeee
Greta grabs the phone but I’ve already pressed the final Send. Her eyes scan downward, then lift and narrow.
“You’re drunk texting Julian Ashburn. What the hell happened today?”
With her help, I make it to the couch. My head lolling against an armrest and my legs askew on the coffee table, I spill my guts about the most mind-blowing, toe-curling, dream-coming-true kiss of my life, which went so far sideways so fast I can’t cope.
By the time I’m done dumping my emotional garbage, I’ve veered away from the cliff of blackout drunkenness and back into the realm of feeling-things-I-don’t-want-to-feel.
Staring miserably at the chipped polish on my right big toe (I lost my shoes sometime recently), I mumble, “I guess I thought, just for a second… it was the way he held my face, maybe… that there was something, a chance he…”
Cue tears.
Greta wraps me in a hug that would make a bear proud, especially given her diminutive stature.
“Oh, Rosie, there’s nothing wrong with feeling hurt and disappointed and even a little heartbroken. I know right now it feels super shitty but trust me, someday we’re going to look back on this and laugh.”
“I gave Julian Ashburn a giant erection,” I say, testing the theory. “Nope, not funny yet.”
Greta snorts into my hair. “It’s kinda funny.” She leans back enough to see my mascara-streaked face. “Seriously, you made out with Julian Ashburn.”
I take a mental step back and ponder her words.
After considerable thought, I manage a watery smile. “I guess that’s pretty awesome, huh?”
She nods. “Something to tell the grandkids.”
My emotional storm clears. I sigh with the beginnings of relief. “Seems I’ve been harboring a giant repressed crush on Julian the last few months. How pathetic am I? I only recorded songs because he dared me.”
Greta says firmly, “Even if he’s scum for kissing you while engaged to someone else, I could kiss himself for that.”
Greta knows—better than most—what a number my parents’ deaths did on me. And the conditioning my sick, addict mother embedded in my young mind. If I ever drum up the courage to try therapy, I’ll be stuck in a chair for the rest of my life.
