Brothers of Paradise Series

But I think, if I manage to find the right combination of charms, it might just say the things I can’t bring myself to.

Lily

The present

I look in the mirror. A casual skirt that reaches just above my knees. A blouse in soft blue silk smooths down my arms and leaves just a little bit of cleavage free. It’s a perfectly respectable outfit for seeing an old friend.

Because that’s what he’d asked for, on the beach, after revealing that he had left me a letter. Friendship.

And in honor of what we once had, I decide that I’m going to give it a try. Even if being friends with Hayden-who had meant everything to me-feels like dancing with danger.

But I would have to overcome that. We might have been childhood sweethearts, but we’re grown now. A lot has happened in those ten years. Lord knows I’ve been on my fair share of bad dates, and no doubt he has as well.

We should be able to be friends. And popping by an old friend with a pie is a perfectly ordinary thing to do. A welcome to the neighborhood. I’d done it for people in the past-why should Hayden be different?

But as I park outside of the big red brick house on Elm Street, I’m suddenly overcome with nerves. My heart is beating a steady, cacophonous rhythm in my chest. After reading his goodbye letter, I’d felt raw, like I was still eighteen years old. The days that had passed since then hadn’t made that any easier.

“Friendship,” I whisper to myself. “Friendship.”

I’d missed him so much, and here I was, with another chance to have him in my life. Even if it hurt a little bit-even if it wasn’t exactly what I’d once envisioned-could I really deny myself the opportunity?

I ring the doorbell. It’s a little past seven in the evening and he might very well be having dinner or be out with friends. Maybe I should have texted, but I wanted the opportunity to chicken out at the last second if I wanted to.

Hayden opens the door. Thick, dark hair falls across his forehead. It’s wet-and so is the towel he’s slung over his shoulder. Dressed only in a pair of slacks and a gray T-shirt, it’s clear he’s just come out of the shower. His feet are bare.

Amber eyes widen in surprise at seeing me. They flick down to the pie in my hands, my skirt, my small studded ballerina shoes.

“Hello. Sorry to drop by like this, unannounced. I was curious about this place you’re renting and I made tarte tatin. I know you used to like Mom’s, so I thought… well, it’s like a welcome present.” I hand it over to him, my stupid mouth still going.

“Thank you.”

“No worries. And no need to return the pan. I have plenty. You’d actually be doing me a favor if you took it off my hands.”

This time he actually smiles, and when he does, he completely takes my breath away. The T-shirt stretches tight over his chest and around large, muscular arms. There’s a faint scar around his left bicep, the hair on his forearms more pronounced than it was years ago. He’s a man-and an extremely handsome one at that.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Me? Oh… If it isn’t a bother.”

“It’s not. Come on.” Hayden pushes the front door wide and steps back to let me pass. As I do, I breathe in the scent of him. Shower soap, male deodorant, and just a hint of cologne. The scent does odd things to me. He never used to wear cologne.

“Thanks.”

“Let me just put this in the kitchen.”

He walks past me, but I stay in the hallway, peering into the living room. The house is big, I can tell that much already. There’s a massive fireplace. A dining-room table that fits eight people. Peering in the other direction, I see a white-and-blue kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances. This is a really nice house. There’s a wide staircase that no doubt leads up to his bedroom.

“My mother hid the letter,” I say to no one in particular, heart still pounding in my chest. “So that’s why I never got it.”

Hayden is back in an instant, a hand braced against the doorframe. “She admitted it?”

“Yes,” I say thickly. “She’d even saved it.”

His amber eyes hold the question-I can see it clearly-but his voice is tentative when he finally asks. “Did you read it, Lils?”

“Yes.”

We look at each other. I can tell that he wants me to continue-to tell him what I think-but I feel too hot, all over, like I’m exposed. He’s always been able to see far too much of me.

His words in the letter brought up my own feelings, and I’d found that they weren’t gone at all. They were just buried. My world is infinitely better because you’ve been in it.

I want to ask him if he still thinks that. If he thinks about kissing me, the same way I remember his lips on mine. If, staring at me now, he feels the same pull between us that I do.

But he had asked for friendship.

And he’d left, letter or no letter. And I haven’t forgiven him for that yet.

So I turn my back on him-and the silent question in his eyes-and walk into the living room instead. It’s cozy, with two couches arranged around a flat-screen TV. It’s way too big for one person.

“This is a great place, Hay.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I was lucky when I found it.”

“Renting it with furniture and all?” I run my hand over the back of a couch. It’s a soft linen fabric, very much the vogue at the moment. It’s expertly decorated, if a bit bland with the colors. No personal touches. It looks almost like the sort of decor I do for Harris Properties when we stage houses.

“Yeah, it came furnished.”

“This is excellent,” I murmur, looking at a driftwood lamp in the corner. It’s understated but works perfectly with the Paradise Shores aesthetic.

Hayden returns, coming to stand beside me. The scent of man washes over me again. “You work with this stuff now, right?”

I nod. “Yes, I do most of the decor and staging for the new properties before they go on market.”

“With Turner? At Harris Properties, right?”

“Yeah. I help out a bit with the architectural plans, too. It’s very fun.”

“Huh.” Hayden runs his hand over the back of the couch. It’s a thoughtful gesture, and combined with the sound, I can practically hear what he’s thinking.Content provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Just say it.”

He sighs. “I would have thought you’d work with art. In a gallery, or painting… It was always your dream. Not getting into the same sort of thing as your father.”

“I still paint,” I say, although it’s not technically true. I haven’t for months. Whenever I pick up the paintbrush, all I can think about are my shortcomings. It’s not fun anymore. But I miss it. I miss it like a missing limb.

“Good,” he says. “You’re too talented to stop.”

“Well, I’m not that talented.”