Crashed by Elise Faber
Chapter Thirteen
Fanny
Fury washer companion the whole way home.
Through the traffic.
Through the stop for gas.
Through pulling into her driveway and going inside, accompanying her as she ate dinner, as she finished off her bottle of wine.
How dare he?
Seriously, how fucking dare he?
She should have run his ass over in the parking lot. Things would have been so much simpler and—
Her phone rang.
Sighing, she moved to the counter and picked it up, and no—fucking no!—that wasn’t disappointment sliding through her when the caller ID showed that it was Charlie calling her and not Brandon with more surprising sexy talk that he’d learned somewhere along the way.
Because he sure as shit hadn’t had it when they’d been together.
Which meant that he’d learned it somewhere that wasn’t with her. Which meant that he might have learned it from Angela.
That painful thought had her picking up the phone.
“Hey, beautiful,” Charlie said, his warm voice making the fury that had gripped her for the last hour dissipate.
“Hey,” she said, smiling as she leaned back against the counter.
“You feeling better?”
Ah. There was the pang of guilt.
She deserved it after her shenanigans in the hall. Or maybe, Brandon did. He was the instigator—and yes, she knew she’d been an active participant. Damn. She really should have run over the fucker.
“Fanny?” Charlie asked. “You there?”
“Yes.” She straightened as though he could see her, as though she were on her best behavior and not thinking about Brandon and running him over . . . nor about how delicious his sexy talk had been. Shivering, she forced herself to focus. “I’m sorry. I’m here, and I’m feeling better. Thanks for asking.”
“If this is a bad time, I can let you go.”
More guilt.
Fuck.
“It’s not.”
“So, it’s not a bad time, and you’re feeling better.” Charlie’s words were light. “Then it must be that you’re immune to my patented charm.”
She laughed. “Yes, it’s that exactly.”
“Damn.”
“Thanks for dinner last night,” she told him. “I had a really nice time.”
“I’m glad. I did, too. Now, stop with the niceties and give me all the gossip about my sister. What kind of trouble is Scar causing?”
“Your sister is an angel.”
“And now I know what your voice sounds like when you’re lying.”
Her amusement boiled over, and she found herself giggling—actually giggling. Like a little girl. Again. Charlie was just so . . . Charlie. A bright ray of sunshine in her life. “You’re just as bad as she is.”
“Oh really?” he teased. “Tell me more.”
“How dare you, good sir?” she countered. “I’d never betray my friends.”
“Hmm. So, you’re one of those.”
She picked up her glass of wine. “Those?”
“One of those rule-followers.”
“You got me,” she said dryly.
“Don’t worry, Scar and I will fix that for you.” A beat. “Did Scarlett ever tell you about the time she tried to push me out a second-story window?”
Fanny found herself laughing again. “What? No.”
“I was two. She was three, and she hated that all my cuteness usurped hers. So, she . . .”
And then he spun a wild tale about a three-year-old Scar somehow plotting murder because he’d gotten more hugs from their grandmother than she had that day. She called him on his bullshit, and he readily admitted that it was just that—bullshit—before telling her that it was a bizarre and terrible accident, but that luckily he hadn’t been seriously hurt.
As she listened to him, she had the notion that this is what it could be like with Charlie. He would make her laugh, and their conversations wouldn’t be filled with tension and the painful past, with guilt and wishing things would have turned out differently.
They would just be light and fresh and . . . easy.
They talked for a long time, and all the while it was tempting, so tempting to continue to lean into the feeling he created within her, to pretend that Brandon didn’t exist, and that she could be this woman, be the person she was with Charlie—whole, light, carefree—all the time.
But she couldn’t ignore Brandon, couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist.
And she knew that she wouldn’t ever be able to be fully present with Charlie, not in the way he deserved.
Which was why when he asked her out to dinner the following night, her answer was, “I can’t.”
Silence.
It wasn’t fair to him, for her to be hung up on another man. He deserved more, so much more than she could give him.
“Ah,” he said quietly, sober for the first time since they’d first begun talking. “Is it because of Scarlett? I promise I would never get in between your friendship.”
“It’s—” She broke off before she blabbed her entire sob story. “It’s not about Scar,” she said.
“I see.”
“It’s not you, it’s . . . damn”—she sighed and shook her head—“I don’t mean it like that. I’m just not in the right mental headspace for a relationship. There’s someone from my past, and it’s complicated, and I can’t be with anyone while it’s still so unsettled.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “No hard feelings.”
“Would you—” Cutting herself off before she could ask. It wasn’t fair.
“Would I what?”
Another shake of her head, even though he couldn’t see her.
“Fanny,” he ordered. “Just ask.”
She winced then blurted, “Would you want to be friends?” God, that sounded stupid and juvenile, and she wanted to grab the words out of the air and shove them back into her mouth.
Silence for a heartbeat too long, then, “Of course, I would.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You’re a cool chick, Fanny. Gorgeous, funny, and talented,” he said, and she felt her cheeks heat. “So, even if you’re not interested in me, I’d love to be friends.” A chuckle. “Plus, if I can keep you nearby, I might get a second crack at dating you.”
Laughter had her shaking her head. “You’re—”
“Unbelievable in the best way possible?”
“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking.”
Unfazed, he said, “Let’s go to dinner. As friends,” he added when she began to protest.
“As friends,” she agreed.
“Perfect. That means I still have a shot to squeeze out more dirt from you about Scarlett.”
By the timeshe got off the phone with Charlie, she was pleasantly buzzed.
They’d chatted and joked, and he’d given her several good blackmail stories about Scarlett that had Fan nearly in tears and looking forward to her newfound friendship.
Charlie was good people.
Eventually, though, she’d yawned, and Charlie had told her he’d see her in a few days at the charity raffle then had ordered her to get to sleep.
She was tired but not sleepy, so she went to the kitchen for more wine, topping off her glass and parking her ass on the couch. There was a new horror show she wanted to jump into, and tonight seemed as good a time as any to start.
The knock came when she was fully immersed in the show and at a particularly tense moment.
She jumped, nearly upending her wine, her heart pounding like a motherfucker.
“Shit,” she gasped, clamping her free hand over her chest then glaring toward the front door.
The knock came again.
Probably, someone trying to sell her something.
Well, good for that person. She wasn’t getting her ass off the couch. Lifting the remote, she turned up the volume and kept watching.
Whoever was on the other side of the door didn’t get the hint. They knocked again. Louder and longer. She sighed, glanced at the clock, and realized it was late. Really late. Of course, it wouldn’t be someone selling something. This was a different kind of visit.
And considering the persistence, as the knocking continued, she had a suspicion who it was.
“Fuck,” she muttered. So much for not getting off her couch. Sighing, she hit the button to pause her show and stood up, making it to the front door just as there was yet another knock, this one near-pounding, instead of the medium-level tapping from before.
She whipped open the door.
And sighed.
In annoyance, not in pleasure. Not because the man looked fucking delicious standing on her porch in a pair of low-slung jeans that looked as soft as butter along with a tight blue sweater. He was holding a large basket, and she could see an inch of taut, golden skin exposed by his sweater having risen up.
“Hi, beautiful,” he murmured, and she snapped her eyes up to his. Away from the temptation of the shadows of squares she could just barely make out, away from that peekaboo of his flat abdomen.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have something for you.”
She frowned, wondered exactly why the hell he’d show up on her porch bearing gifts after . . . “I nearly ran you over with my car,” she blurted.
He grinned, the fool. “Maybe I like that.”
“You’ve lost it,” she muttered, backing up, intending to slam the door closed.
But the fucker stepped forward instead, striding over the threshold and into her house, saying, “Thanks, I will come in.”
And for all that she talked and instructed for a living, Brandon barreling his way into her entryway had her sputtering. “I—I—“
He walked right by her, disappearing into the kitchen.
“I—”
A car drove by, the headlights flashing past her front yard, and Fanny realized that she was just standing there, staring at the empty hall, the open door. Blinking, she closed and locked the door then turned and followed Brandon.
He was unpacking the basket on her kitchen counter.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Here,” he said, thrusting the basket at her.
She scrambled to take it, the contents within rattling, and she glanced down to see they were all wrapped. Then repeated her question. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing?”
A smile, before he spun away and began searching through her cabinets until he located a vase, plunking a large arrangement of sunflowers into it after he’d filled it with water.
“Cooking you dinner.”
“It’s after nine.”
He lifted a brow. “Have you eaten?”
No, she hadn’t. She’d been on the phone through dinner with Charlie, and truthfully, she was never great at eating dinner. She never had been. Oftentimes, she got lost in some task or show, and then she forgot to eat.
Plus, it was nearly bedtime. It was never good to eat at bedtime.
She was more of a breakfast person, mostly because she sometimes got so busy on the ice that she forgot to eat lunch, too. But anyway, that was beside the point. Breakfast was the shit. Give her a donut or a muffin or a croissant, and she was a happy girl.
“Right,” Brandon said, turning back to the bag and continuing to unload what looked to be way too much food for two people.
“Do you think I have a hollow leg?” she muttered.
“I’m hungry. You’ve always been the type of girl to eat,” he said, pulling out a package of chicken breasts. “I’m guessing that hasn’t changed. Plus, you’re too thin.”
Her mouth dropped open, her gaze sliding down her body and making her realize that she was still holding the basket. “I am not!” she snapped, tossing the basket on the island.
“You’re thinner than when you were skating.”
Jaw clenching, she said, “I don’t have that extra muscle.”
“Bullshit,” he told her. “You’re plenty strong. You just don’t remember to eat, and you don’t have someone to take care of you.”
“I—”
He set down a head of lettuce and crossed to her. “This is me telling you I’m going to take care of you.”
She inhaled. Sharply.
He was close. Really close.
Which meant her inhale had the disastrous effect of bringing her breasts flush against his chest. Worse. Her inhale had her nipples brushing against his chest, heat scorching down her spine, moisture flooding her pussy, and making her suck in another breath.
Which just made the cycle worse.
Breathe. Brush. Pleasure.
And not once did Brandon back off.
His hand came to her cheek, cupped it gently, lightly running his thumb over her lips. “You’ve spent too many years without someone to take care of you. I’m not letting any more time pass without doing that.”
Her lips parted.
A breath shuddered out.
Brandon’s eyes went hot, his thumb pressed slightly more firmly against her bottom lip. His head came down . . .
He straightened, nudged her back, and returned to making himself at home in her kitchen. “Open your presents,” he said as he bent and pulled out a pan.
Fanny blinked.
A long, slow blink.
She turned back to the basket, which was indeed filled with presents.
Another blink, her gaze rotating to Brandon again.
Who was still there, now pulling a cutting board out and getting busy with the lettuce.
“Fan?”
He’d moved on to the chicken, using a different cutting board as he coated them in some seasoning he must have brought because she didn’t have anything in her house aside from olive oil, salt, and pepper.
“Yeah?” she asked, watching him put some oil in the pan.
“Open the presents.”
She nibbled at the corner of her mouth, hesitating, but then, ultimately, she reached into the basket and picked up the first wrapped package. For one, she loved presents. For another . . . she loved presents. Smiling, she carefully began peeling back the tape, slowly removing it so that she could savor the experience. She didn’t receive presents. She hadn’t shared her birthday with her friends, and her parents . . . well, celebrating that day wasn’t on their agenda.
The Gold went all out on Christmas, but she always timed her vacation for then, making sure to be out of sight and mind for the celebrations.
Actually thinking about it now, the last time she’d received a present from anyone was when Grace had sent her a pair of cozy pajamas for Christmas before she’d passed away. The memory had her fingers faltering, the present resting on the counter as she blinked rapidly.
Fingers on her chin. “What is it?” Brandon asked gently.
She should have lied, pretended she was fine. But, for some reason, the words came anyway. “I miss your mom,” she whispered.
He went quiet and still.
And then his arms slipped around her, tugged her close. “I know,” he murmured. “I do, too.”
He held her for a few moments and then stepped away, returning to the pan, putting in the chicken. As it sizzled, he went to the sink and washed up. She focused on the present as he turned to continue with whatever else he was making, and she finally made some progress on the paper, getting all the tape off and then slowly peeling it open.
“Oh,” she breathed, touching the soft blue ombre scarf that reminded her of the bright cerulean, cloudless sky meeting the turquoise waves of the ocean.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said truthfully, running her finger over the delicate material. “I—” She broke off, unsure what she wanted to ask.
Okay, that was a lie.
She knew what she wanted to ask.
She was just too much of a coward to say it out loud.
Brandon wiped his hands on a towel, came over, and plucked another present from the basket. “Open this one next.”
She didn’t hesitate this time, just carefully pulled open the paper, revealing an expensive box of sea salt caramels. “How—”
He was there again, reaching into the basket, handing her an envelope.
Fanny didn’t have the same compunction to save envelopes that she had to save pretty wrapping paper, so she tore into it and tugged out the card.
I have ten years to make up for. This is just a start.
“I’d planned on making sure you didn’t open that before I left,” he murmured, tugging out the paper that she hadn’t realized was taped inside the card and handing it to her. “But I decided I wanted to see your face when you do.”
Frowning, she unfolded the printout and felt her mouth drop open.
It was a reservation to a winery north of them. The same winery they’d planned on getting married at.
She didn’t know how she felt about that.
“It’s for two,” he said, moving to the pan and flipping the chicken. “But only if you want it to be. It can just as easily be for one.” He glanced up, but she couldn’t decipher his expression, not when she was so surprised, not when her mind was swirling. “I just thought that you might want to wipe the slate clean and start over. A fresh start. Something we can experience together and—”
She put her hand up.
He stopped talking.
Her mind continued spinning.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I love you.”
If she’d thought her mind was swirling before, then she had no notion of the idea. Because now her mind was swirling, spinning faster and faster until her head felt like it was going to ratchet right off her neck. Her emotions were all over the place—joy and fear, hope and terror, desire and longing. They were all twisted up, and yet, the one thing she couldn’t stop from coming to the forefront of her mind, the one emotion that overshadowed all the others, was love.
She had never stopped loving this man.
But she couldn’t say that. Just the thought of being that vulnerable to him had her throat constricting, her pulse pounding in her veins, sweat breaking out on her upper lips. Her fingers clenched on the paper, her gaze unseeing as she tried not to hyperventilate.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, shock and panic roiling just beneath her skin, but the next thing she was aware of was warm fingers stroking down her arm, tugging the paper from her fingers, a gentle hand nudging her toward the counter where a plate of food now sat.
“Eat, honey,” he said. “I’m sorry about the trip. That was too soon.”
The vise on her lungs eased slightly. “Brandon,” she said. “I don’t think we can start over. I’m not sure a clean slate will ever be possible. There’s just too much between us.”
“Then we don’t start over, we move forward.”
She scoffed. “It’s not that easy. I—” She faltered, not knowing what she wanted, whether she wanted to keep moving forward with Brandon, or to cut things off once and for all. To give in to the longing, or to shore up the walls around her and stay safe.
He cupped the side of her neck. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
“But—”
“All of this will hold.”
Her eyes flew to his. “I—” She shook her head, knew that she wouldn’t come to any conclusions tonight. The answers weren’t simple. They never would be, and . . . she sighed because he was right. All of this would hold. She could take some time to think, to sort out what she wanted to do, or time to admit to herself . . .
Not. Tonight.
“Right,” she murmured.
He smiled, and it filled her stomach with butterflies. Then he lightly pressed on her shoulder, coaxing her onto the stool. “Food.”
She sat.
He passed her a fork. She scooped up a bite.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, kissing her temple and sitting down next to her. On her left side, because he was a leftie, and sitting there meant that he could lace their hands together and they could both still eat.
Fanny held her breath, wondering if he remembered.
But a heartbeat later, she wondered why part of her thought he hadn’t.
Because his warm, rough fingers intertwined with hers . . . and then he asked her about the show that was paused on her TV.
They ate and held hands and talked about the show then talked about everything and nothing.
There wasn’t any angst or stress or painful memories.
It was just the two of them.
And for the hour he stayed before kissing her on the forehead, before he wished her a soft, “Good night,” and headed out the front door, Fan felt like she was fourteen again.
Fourteen and in love with Brandon Cunningham.
The first gameof the season was in less than a week, and the hockey boys sure cleaned up nice.
She didn’t often get to see them in their big kid clothes.
And it was a damned good view.
“You look nice.”
Fanny jumped as Charlie came up next to her. The man had serious ninja skills, but that wasn’t what had kept Fanny running around the entire afternoon, setting up tall tables for people to gather, talk, and eat (and drink because the more they drank, the more they would spend), hanging decorations, checking in with the caterers and the bartenders, fixing a strand of twinkly lights when they’d gone out. No, that was all Scar and her clipboard filled with never-ending tasks.
Fan had hauled planters of live plants from the truck outside into the large auditorium, had positioned and re-positioned them until Scar had been satisfied there were enough intimate corners to encourage conversation but not enough to be a hookup zone.
Hookups did not bring money to the charity.
There was a long list of things that didn’t bring money to the charity, and Scar had told Fanny all of them.
When Scar had finally released her from setup duty, Fan all but ran into the bathroom to wash her sweaty face, slap on some deodorant and makeup, pull on her dress, slip into heels.
Now, with barely ten minutes before guests were supposed to show up, she’d tossed Scar a hundred dollars for her donation and finally felt like she had a moment to breathe and admire the space she’d had a hand in setting up before she had to man her station and serve up drinks.
All she could say was that Scarlett was a genius.
Charlie had been commandeered to hang sheer swathes of fabric along the walls—Fan had hung the twinkly lights behind, fussing with them until Scar had been happy. Combined with the tables and flowers and plants, not to mention, even more strands of lights, the entire space seemed otherworldly.
A fairy garden brought to life.
And if Scar had her way, there would be plenty of revelry, enough anyway to open those pocketbooks.
“You look nice yourself,” she told Charlie, tearing her gaze away from the decor, from where the guys were strolling through the door and positioning themselves at the various tables, readying to schmooze and get that money.
It was true—the whole looking nice thing.
Charlie had done some changing of his own, swapping the jeans and tee for a sleek black suit, his crisp white shirt making his skin look tan and strokable. The fit was tight, showing off the lean strength of his shoulders and thighs.
He smiled at her perusal.
And she narrowed her eyes in return. He knew just how attractive he was.
Too bad she couldn’t appreciate it fully. He was like a lovely piece of artwork, but he didn’t set her blood on fire.
“What job does Scar have you doing?” she asked.
“Manning the silent auction,” he said. “You?”
“Bartend—” Fan started to answer him, but then her skin began prickling, her gaze drawn back to the door.
To the man walking through the door.
Sweet baby Jesus, now that was a suit.
If she’d thought that Charlie’s fit him like a glove then Brandon’s . . . hell, he might as well be naked for how well it was tailored. She could see the outline of his thighs, his torso, his arms, his abs—
He turned to say something to Kaydon, and she nearly groaned at the way the material hugged his ass.
She loved his ass.
She had loved it when they were together, loved looking at it, or even grinning as she gave it a slight smack when he went by. Because he was hers and she could touch him whenever she wanted, but she had especially loved holding on to it when he plunged deep inside her, gripping him tight so he could grind against her clit and—
Fan blinked, forced her gaze away, definitely not feeling fourteen any longer.
No, she was feeling like a woman—all woman—and that woman wanted the man who’d bought her favorite treat—the sea salt caramels—her favorite flowers—the sunflowers. The man who gifted the beautiful scarf to remind her of the ocean and the peace she felt there. The man who’d cooked for her and whose body she could taste every inch of while stripping that sexy as hell suit off—
Charlie shifted next to her, breaking her sexual haze. “Ah.”
“What?”
His gaze flickered from her face and deliberately slid to where Brandon had spotted them and was approaching, his expression falling decidedly on the side of displeased. A coil of heat slid through her as she remembered the hall, him telling her to get rid of Charlie. She wouldn’t, of course. She liked Charlie and had spent enough time living her own life to ignore orders from a man, even if that man was Brandon. “That’s the complicated ex.”
Mouth dropping open, she tore her gaze from Brandon and turned to Charlie. “That’s not—”
Charlie leveled a glance at her. “I thought we were friends now.”
“We are.”
“Then save that bullshit for someone else.”
Her lips pressed flat, shoulders falling slightly, and she sighed, admitted. “Fine. He’s the complication.”
Before Brandon reached them, Scarlett came up, snagging his arm and dragging him to a halt as she jabbered his ear off. Brandon nodded, apparently listening. But his eyes were on Fanny . . . and Charlie, fury flaring across his face as he looked at the two of them standing close together.
“Damn, he’s scary,” Charlie muttered, grinning at her. “So, why is he complicated?”
Another sigh. “It’s too complicated to get into.”
“Promise to tell me over tequila shots and nachos?” he asked.
Shuddering, she said, “No tequila. Not ever.”
“Rum?”
“With nachos?”
His smile didn’t fade. “Obviously.”
“Well, then,” she said. “That I can do.”
“Good.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “I’ll hold you to that.” He started to step back then glanced over his shoulder, moved close, and bent so that his next words puffed against the shell of her ear. “For the record, given the way he looks at you and his obvious wish to murder me for being this close to you, I say get over complicated and throw the man a bone.”
“I—”
“Because I think a man like that could give you a good one.”
Her mouth fell open again, and hell, that was becoming a habit.
One that continued when he straightened, winked, said, “I’m bi, but even if I wasn’t, I could appreciate the scenery.” He kissed her cheek, her damn jaw having dropped open again, and disappeared.
It only took her a moment to realize why.
Brandon.
As in, Brandon was there, in front of her, his fury radiating off him, forcing the space to go taut, her skin to prickle, her pussy . . . to get wet.
Maybe it was wrong, but she really, really liked it when Brandon got all possessive.
It was a new side of him, and that newness had her thinking that a future might be possible, that they might be able to discover new things about each other, build something fresh and unmarred and . . . them.
He crossed his arms.
She found herself leaning close, not missing when his eyes dipped, dropping to the deep V of her dress, to the cleavage that was on full display—part because Scar had said it would help her with the whole selling booze and thus people getting drunker and spending more money thing, but also because Fanny liked herself, liked her body, and she didn’t mind showing off the curves she had.
Even if Brandon thought she was too thin.
Her breasts brushed against his chest as she rose on tiptoe, her mouth coming very close to his, bypassing it at the last moment before she stretched farther and whispered in his ear, “You still think I’m too skinny?”
His breath shot out of him in a whoosh, his fingers came to her hips, but before he could get a good grip, she spun away and walked to her station, saying over her shoulder, “Oh, by the way, you look damned good in that suit.”
And if there was a bit of sway in her hips as she did so, then . . . there was a bit of sway in her hips.
The man had opened the door.
He’d shown her the possibilities.
He’d made her wonder and hope that he’d be there to catch her if she fell.
Well, he’d better have his glove ready because she was thinking she might finally be ready to leap.
