Home > With You Forever (Bergman Brothers #4)(7)

With You Forever (Bergman Brothers #4)(7)
Author: Chloe Liese

He frowns, glancing up at the sky. “It’s almost dark. Stay the night. Figure out your plans tomorrow.”

I want to argue with him, but I’m not exactly excited to get in the car again and get myself lost driving these windy roads back to the airport, especially if my stomach stays finicky.

Resigned, I start for the house behind Axel, who strolls ahead of me, unlocks the door, and opens it.

Relief and desperation win out. I plaster on my brightest smile, call what I hope is a chipper “Thanks!” over my shoulder, and speed-walk inside.

 

 

I don’t get a detailed view of the cabin on my way in, but after using the bathroom, I’m able to take in the space. It’s beautiful. Tidy and minimalist. Clean lines. A familiar, calming scent I could swear reminds me of Axel, but I think his sexy smell might simply be stuck in my nose after the car ride.

A main room divided into living sections, its dominant feature is a wooden platform bed, smooth white sheets and pillows, and a matching nightstand beside it with a lamp, tucked in one corner. On the other side of the bed, to the right of a long, low-profile dresser, there’s a door leading to where I’m not sure—maybe a garage? A wood-burning fireplace faces the foot of the bed, with floating tiered shelves above anchored to the chimney. Dominating the central space is an oblong reclaimed wood dining table encircled by mismatched chairs. And past that is a long sofa tucked along the other wall, a narrow side table with another lamp, and more floating shelves above the sofa. An island divides the main living space from the kitchen that’s small and spotless—appliances that catch my reflection and sparkling uncluttered countertops. The place is a soothing palette of cloud white, dark wood tones, and shades of deep earthy greens and stormy grays. It feels familiar and calming.

I’m tempted to snoop around further, but I’ve got too many questions, like why Willa sent me to the A-frame when it’s in some kind of structural crisis, when Axel of all people was there and clearly didn’t know I was coming. I have a funny feeling when I get some answers, I’m not going to like them.

I step outside onto a fragrant carpet of fallen pine needles and search the space for Axel. But I don’t see him anywhere. Only a circle of tidy stones clearly dedicated to a campfire. A pile of split wood, with a heavy-looking hatchet wedged into a nearby tree stump. There’s the Jeep, too. But no Axel.

Then I see a note trapped beneath the windshield wiper, fluttering in the wind. I snatch it up and read the long tidy scrawl.

Sorry about the A-frame. As I said, feel free to stay here tonight. If not, keys are in the Jeep for you to drive back and grab your rental.

- A

p.s. my number in case of emergency is 555-231-4542.

I reread his note, running my fingers across the letters, as fatigue sinks its teeth into me. Between sickness and stress, the long day of flying, then driving, I’m exhausted. Humbling reality hits.

I’m tired. Too tired to do anything but accept this.

On the threshold, I listen to the quiet sounds of wildlife around me, the whisper of wind dancing through the trees. I stare down at Axel’s note, sliding my thumb across that solitary letter A. Then I fold it in half and tuck it into the safe square pocket of my sweater, right over my heart.

 

 

4

 

 

Axel

 

 

Playlist: “Social Cues,” Cage The Elephant

 

 

What the hell have I done?

Stay here tonight. I just…blurted it, which is so unlike me, and then—as if I hadn’t been clear enough—I said it again in that goddamn note.

With my phone number.

Fuck me.

It was like I was possessed, driving her to the house, telling her to stay, writing that note, when all I want is for Rooney to be as far away from me as possible. Because for two years I’ve hidden my attraction to her, and that’s been possible through one thing: distance.

So what do I do when she tumbles into my life? I invite her to spend the fucking night.

Brilliant, Axel. Just brilliant.

The best I can do now is make myself scarce, which is exactly what I’m doing. Not that it’s helping much. I can still smell her, soft and peaceful as a meadow at twilight, blossoms swaying in the breeze. Most perfumes are so cloyingly strong, they give me a headache. But this was so…soothing. I wonder if it’s simply the scent of her skin and her hair.

But it’s dangerous, wondering that. Because then I picture nuzzling the soft, warm, sweet places of Rooney’s body, breathing her in. And that’s not going to happen.

Ever.

I pick up my pace, each step placing more distance between us, even though I know it’s pointless. I can still smell her soothing scent, still feel her soft body leaning into mine as I braced us over the stairs. Her breasts pressed into my chest. Her hands’ warmth branding my skin.

“Fuck.” I swat a weed with a stick I’ve had in hand, then toss the stick.

My strides eat up the ground as I start across the small soccer field behind the A-frame, home to countless family pick-up games.

Speaking of my fucking family. I move one thousand miles north of them, and they still manage to meddle in my life. Even though they don’t know what’s going on with the A-frame, there’s no good excuse for Ryder and Willa sending Rooney here. This is my stretch of time, and they both knew it. Something’s up. I don’t know what, but it’s got Bergman bullshit written all over it.

Storming across the field, I yank out my phone, pull up text messages, and open my thread with Ryder, then type, What the hell are you playing at?

Three little dots show up immediately, then his response: I love a good vague-text.

Don’t act like you don’t know Rooney’s here at the A-frame, I write. She said Willa told her she could come here. Meaning YOU told her it was free. It’s my time at the cabin. What the fuck were you thinking?

His response: I was thinking it’s no big deal.

“No big deal!” I yell, stomping up the porch. I open the front door, then slam it shut behind me.

I can’t tell him about the state of the A-frame. But I can tell him having Rooney here is the last thing I need. Well, it is. She can’t be here.

Why not? he texts.

I rack my brain for what to say. I can’t explain how serious things are here, but God, do I wish he understood what a mess this makes. She’s already fucked my creativity from a thousand miles away. Now that I’ve seen her, smelled her, touched her, what’s my chance at painting what I need to? I know how my brain works. It will have one thing consuming it when I pick up that brush, and it sure as shit won’t be abstract art.

I pace the house, the severity of this situation tightening like a noose around my neck. I have two months to get the biggest repairs on the A-frame handled and paid for. I have Parker and Bennett’s crew ready to do the work. I just need money. I have to paint brilliantly and sell fast, or suck it up and marry.

Christ.

Uncle Jakob’s photo, I swear it’s looking at me, taunting me from across the hall. “You might as well have told me to climb Everest,” I tell the picture. “Shit, I’d probably have a better chance at that!”

His serious expression stares back at me. I drop my forehead to the wall and bang it. I’m losing my mind.

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