“But I’m glad they haven’t,” he continues. “Does that make me an asshole?” He glances at me over his shoulder, his eyes dropping to my feet in expectation.
“It’s thirty-nine out,” I groan. “My feet will freeze.”
His eyes narrow. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Henley?”
My Henley.
“She’s here,” I tell him. “She’s just interested in keeping all of her toes.”
Letting his camera hang from his neck loosely, he tucks his hands under his armpits. Clucking slowly, he moves closer.
“Stop it.” I cross my arms.
His clucking gets faster. And louder, gathering the attention of passersby.
“You’re acting like a child.”
He moves around me, a soft cluck ticking the line of my ear as he steps uncomfortably close.
I step forward. “Brooks.”
I whirl around.
He raises an eyebrow, letting his arms fall to his side only to lift them again, stretching them outward. “Where’s my gypsy? The girl who was going to travel the world and feel the earth between her toes.”
My teeth massage the inside of my cheek before I sigh in defeat.
Bending at the waist, I work the laces of my boots silently. Shoe and sock removed, I drop my foot to the grass. “Holy fucking shit.”
“Cold, hey?”
“Words like arctic or polar would be more apt,” I breathe out slowly, my foot going numb.
He laughs at me, lifting his camera to take a photo of his bare feet.
I remove my other boot, stuffing my sock inside the leather. Eyes shut tight, I drop it to the grass, inhaling sharply at the pinch of pain caused by the cold.
I breathe in purposely through my nose, exhaling forcefully through my mouth.
Click.
I open an eye.
Click.
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re perfect,” he rebuts.
“I’m cold.”
“Perfect and cold,” he agrees. “How does it feel?”
I let my feet settle into the icy cold grass, feeling like pins pushed deep into the balls of my heels. Something deep inside me settles. My lungs expand more freely, and my heart flutters in peace.
“Home.” I smile to myself. “It feels like home.”
His heat hits me before I feel his touch. The soft brush of his thumb against the freckles on my cheeks. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Even with my eyes closed, sight shut off to the intention in his gaze, I know he’s going to kiss me. I can sense it. I can feel it. The warmth of his body engulfing mine. The heat of his breath skating across my face.
I’m too scared to open my eyes.
I’m scared to know I’m right.
Or to maybe find I’m wrong.
Both realities paralyze me with fear.
A thread of space sits between our lips, and I know in my heart, I want him to kiss me. I crave the touch of his wanting, his lips against mine. I want his mouth to close over mine, and I lust for his tongue to push inside.
I want to feel Brooks love me, and the knot in my stomach tightens with the knowledge that I can’t let him. I hate myself but wish I did it a little bit harder. I wish I loathed myself enough to let it happen.
His lips touch mine, finally, the briefest of tastes before I find it deep within me to shove him back.
“I’m seeing someone.”
He looks murderous, his eyes darkened with betrayal.
“Here in Glasgow,” I add uselessly.
“What?” he pants.
I stay silent, knowing he heard me just fine.
“How long?”
“A month,” I answer defensively, avoiding the contempt in his stare.
“Call him,” he demands. “End it.”
“What?” I splutter.
“End it. You wouldn’t be here with me if you were serious about him, so end it.” There’s a desperation in his tone. A plea spiked with unwarranted power.
“I’m not going to end my relationship because you demand I do so.”
He stifles a growl of annoyance that simmers in this throat, begging to be let free, the sound vibrating heavily and making it ten times more intimidating.
“Why are you here?” he challenges. “With me.”
“To catch up with a friend,” I offer pitifully.
“A friend.” His head nods up and down in disbelief.
I lean down, picking up my boots, my moment of freedom lost.
“Does he know you’re here?” he accuses, the bite of his tone cutting through the still air.
I swallow. “He knows I’m catching up with a friend.”
Snatching his own boots up, he shakes his head. “Friend. Un-fucking-believable,” he mumbles to himself.
He steps backward, forcing distance between us.
“Why didn’t you tell him you were meeting me?”
My body is shaking, visible tremors wracking through my entire being. My head feels ready to explode. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Say again?”
“I don’t know!” I yell despairingly.
“Do you love him?” he questions, and I hate the way my throat closes in panic.
“That’s not fair.” I turn away, moving a few steps to the closest seat, sitting down to pull my socks on. “You can’t ask me that.”
“Why?” he pushes, moving up beside me to mirror my actions.
“We haven’t been together long enough,” I argue weakly, shoving my foot into my boot messily. “We haven’t told one another that. How could I confess that to someone else first?”
“That’s not what I’m asking, Henley.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I look up at him. “I’m asking if you feel as strongly for him as you do for me.”
I close my eyes, working to ignore the way he consumes me. I need him to stop touching me. The weight of his hand blurs my moral compass, confusing me further.
“Brooks.” I sigh.
“Don’t bullshit me.” He grabs both my shoulders, physically turning me to face him and keeping hold to stop me from moving away.
Brushing my hand down the line of his jacket, I gnaw at my bottom lip. “You and I were best friends,” I tell him. “And then we weren’t. I don’t know what we are anymore. I don’t know what I feel.”
It’s a half-truth, but the only one I’m certain of.
I can’t tell him that he’s consumed every thought from the moment I saw him last night. That I couldn’t stomach the idea of touching Aaron or having Aaron touch me when my mind was consumed by him.
“Not true,” he combats
