Be My Love Page 6

  He nodded and squeezed her tight. “I’m lucky to have tomorrow off. I’ll try to get your truck up and running, but if that fails, I’ll arrange for a tow.”

  She pulled out of his grasp and picked up the remaining bags. He helped her move her backpack and emergency kit beside the door alongside his stuff. They’d already cleaned up the living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. There wasn’t anything left to do but wait.

  Wait for the end?

  Fuck that. He told her he wanted a relationship, and he’d meant it.

  Why did she look so nervous then? Why did her hands tremble?

  Despite her words, did she no longer feel the same way? Or did she doubt him? She shouldn’t. He lived in Vancouver, the same city and only a thirty minute commute away from Brenna’s place. They’d make this work.

  “Brenna.” Her name rolled off his tongue.

  She stopped visually sweeping the room, and turned to him. “Yes?”

  “I—”

  Bam!

  The cabin’s front door slammed open and interrupted what he’d planned to say.

  ****

  Brenna stood in shock as a blonde bombshell with a classic hourglass figure, big ski-bunny hair, and a porn-star worthy pout barged into the cabin and threw her considerable charms all over Eric. Her body wrapped around his, like an octopus attacking prey.

  “Eric!” she squealed. “I was so worried.”

  Eric’s parents clambered into the cabin through the open door and wiped their feet on the rug. Paul Buchanan looked like an older replica of Eric, with the same powerful, tall build and sandy hair; whereas, Shannon Buchanan held little resemblance to her son, save her piercing green gaze.

  Still extremely aware of the mewling blonde fawning over the man she’d practically licked from head to toe hours ago, Brenna squeezed her fists tight and turned to Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan.

  “Hello,” Brenna said. “It’s been a long time.”

  Eric’s parents nodded, his father with a slight frown and turned down mouth, and his mother with a semi-distracted smile. They barely glanced her way before returning their attention to the spectacle behind Brenna. Whatever they saw pleased them, because their eyes twinkled and they exchanged satisfied smiles.

  “Who’s that?” Brenna nodded her head at the blonde. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this.

  “The future Mrs. Eric Buchanan,” Eric’s mom gushed.

  Fire raced through Brenna’s veins, and her face heated. She turned to find the blonde still draped over Eric, petting his hair and face while mumbling incoherently. Eric sent Brenna a panicked look over the blonde’s shoulder, then tried to untangle himself.

  Too late.

  Brenna bit back a sob.

  She looked around desperately. For what? An escape hatch? A wormhole to swallow her up?

  Another truck pulled up outside, crunching the snow as it turned around.

  Her father. Thank God. He always had impeccable timing.

  “That’s my dad,” Brenna explained. Eric’s parents were too busy watching their son and future daughter-in-law to care.

  Brenna surged forward and grabbed her bags.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  She fell for his charm and lies, again, but this time she gave him more than a heated kiss during a stolen moment. She’d given her body and heart.

  Be my love, he’d asked, while handing her that silly candy heart.

  What a fool!

  Mentally face-palming, cheeks aflame, she made a hasty goodbye to Eric’s parents and withdrew quickly from the room. She hustled through the deep snow to her dad’s waiting truck.

  “Brenna! Wait!” Eric’s voice called out from behind her.

  She ignored him and threw her bags into the back of her dad’s truck, wrenched the passenger side door open and dove into the seat.

  Her dad beamed at her. “Hey pumpk—”

  “Drive!” She barked.

  Her dad snapped straight. His wrinkled forehead bunched as he frowned, but thankfully he didn’t question her. He shoved the truck into gear, pressed the gas petal, and drove away.

  “Brenna!” Eric’s voice called out again as the truck turned the corner and travelled farther from the cabin. She slipped down in her seat and crossed her arms. To hell with Eric. She should never had fallen for the lies from his clever tongue.

  Her dad slowed the truck down after a few bends in the road. They passed her truck still embedded in the snow bank. Her dad’s mouth turned down at the corners. The damage to the truck looked worse in the daylight. Nothing appeared salvageable. Poor Old Blue. Technically, the truck belonged to her dad, but he always leant the old beast to her and her brother for trips like this. No way would her city car make it up the rural roads.

  Her dad had been upset when she’d told him about the vehicle, but infinitely more relieved she was okay, and the “large scrap of metal” protected her. Looking at Old Blue now, she’d been lucky to survive the crash with insignificant injuries.

  Without a word, they rolled past the wreckage. After a couple silent, and tense, kilometers, and more than a few sideway glances from her dad, he finally spoke up.

  “Pumpkin, are you okay?”

  She sighed and dropped her head back on the seat. “Yeah, Dad. I’m good. Better now. Thanks for picking me up. Sorry about Old Blue.” Sorry about this whole weekend.

  What was the saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… Well, Brenna was probably a raging idiot for this entire situation. It didn’t make the cut any less deep, nor the sting less dull.

  Her dad nodded, thumbs tapping the steering wheel. “Did something happen at the cabin?”

  Her face flamed as images stroked her memory, ones filled with Eric’s naked body pressed to hers, the slow pumping of his hips, the rhythmic movement of their entangled bodies, the heated kisses, Eric’s tongue, Eric’s fingers, Eric’s green gaze, his heart beating hard against her chest…

  Goddammit!

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “No. Nothing happened.”

  “Does ‘nothing’ have anything to do with Eric Buchanan chasing after us barefoot in the snow hollering your name?”

  “Maybe.”

  Her dad nodded again. His knowing face crinkled with age and laugh lines. “You know, that young man makes a point to ask about you whenever we run into him. Always figured he carried a little torch for you.”

  “Maybe.”

  Her dad’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and hard plastic squeaked from the pressure. The truck slowed down as if he prepared to turn around. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No, Dad. He didn’t hurt me.” Not physically, anyway. Not in the way her father feared. Emotionally…well, emotionally, she was a mess.

  She straightened in her seat. She’d gotten over him once. She could do it again.

  “Then what’s…” her dad started.

  “The problem?” she interrupted. “He’s engaged.”

  Her dad’s mouth dropped open to form a perfect “O” and silence filled the cab of the truck for the rest of the drive.

  One thing she loved about her dad, among many things, was he never minced words, never tried to paint a bad reality with rainbows and daffodils, nor tried to give her clichéd lines as a bandage solution. No expressions of fish in the sea or being better off. He remained quiet because he must’ve known nothing he could say would solve the ache in her heart.

  ****

  Eric’s stiff suit chafed and his gaze kept darting to the clock on the wall. His tight collar dug into his throat, and he itched to tear off his tie and run out of the office.

  The courier in front of him shifted his weight, back and forth, on the other side of Eric’s desk. His pimpled face bunched up in displeasure, and his greasy hair stuck to his forehead. At the end of the work day, he probably hated getting called for a last minute job. He looked ready to drop, but Eric had already promised him extra for this special delivery.

  Eric’s h
ands fumbled to tie the small bow.

  He cursed his parents. Not the first time their scheming and tunnel vision had pissed him off, and probably not the last, but in this particular instance, they might’ve cost him something far more significant than his momentary pride.

  Brenna had ignored his calls and texts all week. Probably deleted his voicemails without listening to them, too.

  Work had been hectic and busy, but thoughts on how to make things right plagued his mind. Hell, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Not during this decade, anyway. Even a herculean effort couldn’t unlatch the perversely strong clutches of Heather Dufaine.

  If his parents had kept their projected desires to themselves, or Brenna hadn’t jumped to conclusions and sprinted off like an Olympian runner, he could’ve sorted the situation out, then and there. But no. Fate liked to knee him in the nads any chance it got. History repeated itself, and his gut twisted in a knot.

  When he’d shuffled back to the cabin after unsuccessfully chasing after Mr. Jones’ truck in the snow, he’d set his parents and Heather straight. His mom’s expression had been crestfallen…until he told her who owned his heart. Then the gears of calculation turned behind her green gaze, and his dad’s expression turned thoughtful. They probably already envisioned joint-family excursions to the cabins during the summer and winter holidays surrounded by a horde of grandchildren.

  He needed to win Brenna back first.

  After everything they’d said and done, after everything they’d shared, she’d taken off, assuming the worst, and refusing to give him an opportunity to explain. How could she not know that weekend meant more than a hook-up?

  The courier cleared his throat. Eric ignored him and continued wrapping the special package.

  Eric knew how it looked to Brenna. He knew she doubted all of it. Again.

  “You about done, man?” the young courier asked. “Rush hour is going to hit.”

  The tone scraped against Eric’s nerves, but he shrugged it off. He sealed the small parcel and handed it to the courier. The brown packing paper made it look even smaller in his hands. Would his present be enough? Would his plan work?

  His heart pumped rapidly in his chest as the courier snatched the package roughly from Eric’s hands and slapped a sticker on it. After scanning the box, the courier chucked it in his bag.

  Eric’s shoulders tensed, and he clenched his jaw. His heart was in that little box.

  The courier held the scanning device out for Eric to sign without a word. The stench of perspiration dried to the courier’s skin wafted across the table.

  Eric quickly signed his name, and handed the courier a tip. The long hand of the clock hit the twelve and signaled the end of the work day, along with Eric’s torturous waiting.

  “Thanks,” the courier muttered before swiveling around and stalking out of the office.

  Eric grabbed his stuff and followed.

  “Eric?” Lynette from accounting caught up to him as he made his way to the elevator, where the courier already stood waiting.

  “Yeah?” He pressed the down button. The courier glowered at him, but when he shifted to take in Lynette, he straightened and smiled.

  Lynette spared the courier a tight smile before turning to Eric. “We’re going out for drinks. Did you want to join us?”

  The elevator doors dinged open, and Eric stepped in after the courier without hesitation. He turned to face Lynette.

  With long, lush brown hair, falling in soft curls, a long sinewy body made more for the runway than crunching numbers, and a chest more worthy of lingerie than her tight fitting blouse, he’d once hoped to get to know Lynette better. Although nice, and nicer on the eyes, she lacked something he wanted. She seemed a bit shallow, not genuine, not Brenna.

  Now, she was simply a pretty girl he worked with.

  “Sorry, Lynette,” he said. “I have to be somewhere.”

  Her pout showed her disappointment before the doors closed.

  “Dude!” the courier whispered. “Big mistake.”

  Eric grinned and shook his head. “Not at all.”

  The courier shrugged and readjusted his bag’s strap.

  Big mistake? His only mistake had been letting Brenna go ten years ago. He didn’t plan to make that mistake again.

  ****

  Brenna had made a huge mistake! Colossal. As she pulled her brown leather riding boots over her black skinny jeans, she replayed Eric’s messages on her answering machine. At first, she’d kept them to stay angry. Then she’d kept them to hear the deep tenor of his voice. Then she kept them to ease the pain in her heart.

  She listened to them now, followed by the one his parents had left unbeknownst to their son. Then the one from her dad, who’d apparently talked to the Buchanans. Then, finally, the last message, and undoubtedly the most shocking of all the messages.

  The message from Heather Dufaine: “I want a man to speak about me the way Eric talked about you. There was never anything between us, besides our parents’ wishes, and maybe a few of mine as well. We never had a chance. I never had a chance. And I want you to know that. I wish you all the best.”

  Brenna’s stomach lurched, and her heart ached in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before opening the hall closet.

  The woman probably got her number from Eric’s parents or her own, but her message split Brenna’s emotions in half. Knowing Eric spoke of her warmed Brenna’s heart, and having Heather care enough to clarify the situation sent a wave of gratitude through her heart. But she also regretted all the dumb blonde thoughts and cursing the walking pinup so unjustly.

  Brenna had assumed the worst of Eric and took off without giving him the opportunity to explain, without letting everything they’d shared that weekend speak more than one parental comment—one easily misinterpreted, apparently.

  She grabbed her jacket from the hanger and pulled it on over her flowing shirt. With Eric’s address stored in her phone, she had plans to execute.

  After spending half this week unbelievably angry at him, Eric’s calls and texts had stopped. Then she’d learned the truth. Fear had struck Brenna’s fingers numb and incapable of dialing the phone, and she spent the remaining half of the week racked with guilt and shame.

  She had to make things right.

  But as the work week finished, no ideas or magical solutions came to her. So Brenna pulled her big girl socks up and decided to go to Eric’s place. She’d be direct, and apologize.

  With a bottle of wine.

  Don’t forget the condoms, the little devil on her shoulder whispered in her ear.

  Brenna’s face heated. She chucked the box of condoms in her purse before slinging it over her shoulder. A little presumptuous, maybe, but if her apology went the way she planned and her dreams played out, they’d need protection.

  She flicked the lights off. As she reached to open the door, someone knocked. Her heart bolted into her throat. Her hand froze inches from the door handle.

  Eric?

  She leaned forward and peered through the peephole.

  Her stomach sank.

  Not Eric.

  Some young, sweaty courier. He swayed a bit on the other side of the door, and looked ready to collapse.

  A long breath escaped her lungs. Her shoulders dropped. Better see what the courier had for her. Maybe he had the romance novels she ordered last week online. Or maybe a bill. She turned the knob and swung the door open. A waft of sweat and the cool night air hit her. She smiled and said, “Hello.”

  The courier rocked back on his heels. His eyes widened, and his mouth parted.

  After it appeared the courier planned to remain speechless, Brenna took a step outside. “Do you have something for me?”

  He’d better make this fast. She had places to go. Apologies to make.

  “Yeah, sorry.” The courier shook his head and seemed to collect himself. “Just made sense of something a customer said.”

  She waited. Her toes itched to tap, but she clenched
her teeth and folded her arms over her chest.

  The courier shrugged and dug out a small package from his delivery bag and held it out to her. She unfolded her arms and plucked the light parcel from his open palm. Before she could really look at it, the courier jutted his other hand out with a large gray handheld device.

  “Please sign,” he said.

  She plucked the little pointer thingy from his hand, and electronically signed her name. Her gaze kept darting back to the package. A courier sticker covered her name and address, but the sender information stared back at her with bold black lettering. From Eric Buchanan.

  Her heart stopped.

  “Thank you,” the courier said. “Have a great night.”

  “Yeah,” she mumbled. “You, too.”

  Eric sent her something?

  She ripped open the bland brown packing paper, meticulously wrapped over a small pink box with a white bow. She’d pick up the paper later. As she stood in her doorway, she untied the bow and opened the box.

  The sugary sweet smell of candy rose to her face. Her eyes stung. Watery vision took in the small heart-shaped pieces. She plucked one out and flipped it over.

  BE MY LOVE, it read.

  She popped it in her mouth, and the sweet flavour spread to coat her tongue.

  She picked up another candy heart and read it.

  BE MY LOVE.

  She gasped and dropped the candy back in the box, rifling for another one.

  BE MY LOVE.

  And another.

  BE MY LOVE.

  She continued to sort through the small box. They all said the same thing. How many packages had he gone through to make this?

  Warmth spread through her chest, ballooning and intensifying with each candy she looked at. A white card lay on the bottom. She pulled it out. Little specs of coloured sugar encrusted its surface and decorated Eric’s even writing.

  I meant every word, he wrote. My heart is yours.

  Her own heart beat heavy and fast in her chest, punching against her ribs and making her vision waver. She clutched the box to her breast and blinked back tears threatening to spill from her stinging eyes.

  “Do you have any idea how many packages of candy I had to go through?” Eric said, echoing her earlier thought.