“Bran.” His name tasted of mountains and heather and caramelized sugar. “How . . .” I had to stop, swallow. And then I couldn’t stop the questions that had built inside me for weeks.
“What are you doing here? Is it safe? Are you all right? What about Tony? Oh God, I can’t believe you’re really—Does Celia know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here. I’m really, really glad you’re here. It’s just . . .”
As I continued to babble incoherently, he took my hand and towed me toward a shady spot behind the ale stand. As I followed, my gaze slipped down past back muscles that moved under a snug T-shirt, slim waist encircled by a wide leather belt, and narrow hips concealed by yards of tartan wool.
He stopped, turned, and caught me staring. He was smiling when I looked up into a face I’d known since I was four years old.
“I did warn you the sight of my bare knees might drive you mad with lust.” His voice sounded scratchy, strained. “Do you remember?”
I did. Of course I did. I was the girl who remembered everything, wasn’t I?
Up close I could see the changes in his features. Jaw sharper than I remembered. Cheeks leaner under rough stubble, making the slightly too-long nose more pronounced. The injury he’d sustained and the corresponding blood infection had taken their toll. But his eyes—one blue, one green—strangely hypnotic and indescribably beautiful, looked the same as they had when we were little more than babies.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s something of a long story,” he said.
“What happened? Is it Celia? Did she kick you out? Is it your—”
He placed two fingers lightly against my lips, stopping the flow of words. A grin, sweet and slow as maple syrup, curved one side of his mouth as he leaned in and whispered, “Forgive me. But for God’s sake, Hope, just . . . stop talking.”
And then his arms were around me and he was burying his face in my hair. I couldn’t breathe, yet somehow my mouth and nose and lungs filled with the scent and taste of him. Fabric softener and fresh-cut wood and, always, the tang of ripe apples that lingered just for me.
I couldn’t get close enough.
His mouth skimmed up the side of my neck, along my jaw, across my cheek. Achingly soft, his lips touched my brow and closed lids. When his mouth finally . . . finally pressed against mine, I arched against him. My fists clenched in the warm fabric of his shirt. My lips opened under his, and I felt the groan rumble through his chest.
His fingers tangled in my hair, roamed down my back. When I nipped at his bottom lip, he gripped my hips to pull me hard against him. A pressure was singing inside me as he lifted me off my feet and we spun, my back slamming against the rear wall of the ale stand.
I thought I heard . . . something . . . but when he swallowed the air that whooshed from my lungs, I didn’t care . . . I didn’t care . . . I didn’t care. Not about anything but being here with him and doing this forever. Short skirt be damned, I wanted to wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him and kiss him until the stars died out. I wanted . . .
“Um, guys?” Someone cleared her throat. “So sorry to interrupt, but you might want to know you have something of an audience.”
Bran stilled. His regretful sigh brushed against my neck, rippling shivers across my skin. His grip loosened and I slid down until my toes once again touched the earth.
Breathing hard, he stared down at me. His blue and green eyes drilled into mine with such raw need, I felt it in the marrow of my bones.
“Damn,” he whispered as he rested his forehead against mine.
My reply came out high and oddly squeaky. “Y-yeah.”
We turned to find Phoebe grinning at us like a Miss America contestant. Behind her, Doug was being all honorable, trying to shoo away the clutch of giggling tween dancers who’d gathered to watch.
“Told you that outfit was the right call.” Phoebe winked sagely. “Just proves one should always listen to ole Auntie Phoebe when snogging’s on the menu.”
Before I could reply she greeted Bran with a hearty punch to the shoulder. “Good to see you again, Romeo. How’s your mad bitch of a mum, eh?”
“Phoebe!” Doug cried. “That’s an awful thing to say to the lad.”
Doug reached out, his huge hand engulfing Bran’s finer bones. “Damn good to see you again, man. You look a sight better than you did last I saw you, to be sure.”
I knew the two had met only briefly, when the Dim had violently disgorged Bran and me from its midst. Fortunately for us, it had chosen to take us back where we marginally belonged.
We’d been whisked off to the hospital. Me with a concussion. Bran only half-conscious from an infection that had entered his bloodstream to ravage his body, courtesy of a knife wound inflicted by his own mother.
“Glad this worked out,” Doug said. “I tried everything to open that file you sent last week, but the encryption was too damn good.”
“Last week?” I mouthed the words mostly to myself, certain I’d heard wrong.
I shot a look at Phoebe. She was watching me. But at the look on my face, she quickly ducked her violet head, and began tugging at her thigh-high socks. “Damn things always creeping down.”
I turned to Doug—who was basically incapable of lying. “Doug?”
“W-well, you see, Hope.” Whisking off gold-framed specs, Doug pinched sweat from between his eyes. “It’s only that—”
“It was me.” Bran jumped to the traitorous pair’s defense. “I swore them to secrecy. But only because I wanted to surprise you.”
“Yeah, well. Mission accomplished, I guess.”
Bran’s grin faded. “We’ve only been conversing a few weeks, you see, and—”
“Wait.” Voice deathly quiet, I held up a hand to stave off the rest of his words. “Did you say weeks?”
Phoebe cast a scathing look upon both boys, moving to my side in a show of girl unity.
“Doug didn’t tell me until last night, Hope. They’ve been keeping their little bromance to themselves, it seems. No one else knew of it.” Hands on hips, she glared at Doug. “And I told you she wouldn’t like it. Hope hates secrets.”
Bran’s brow creased. “You’re angry?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Not at all. I lo-o-o-ve being left out in the dark. My mom did it to me my whole life. Why should you be any different?”
Maybe I was being petty. Having him here was a wonderful—no, a stupendously wonderful—surprise. But I had a feeling our impromptu little reunion was only part of the story.
“If this was all about surprising me, then what’s all this about a file?”
Doug’s face filled with regret. “I’m sorry, Hope. I should’ve told you. I—I know what it feels like to be excluded, aye?”
We locked eyes, and I realized that of everyone in my new family, Doug was the only person who truly understood what it feels like to be left out in the cold.
Doug’s dad had been one of Mom and Aunt Lucinda’s closest relatives. Which—leaving aside my bizarre bloodlines—made him my cousin. When his parents died in a car accident, the seven-year-old had come to live with Lucinda as her ward. Though he survived the tragedy that killed his folks, the head injury he’d sustained carried long-term effects. Doug now suffered from a dangerous case of epilepsy. A few weeks earlier I’d witnessed one of the violent seizures that came upon him suddenly, this time at the dinner table. It had been one of the most terrifying things I’d ever seen. Because of the instability of Doug’s condition, Lucinda had long ago decreed that he’d never be able to travel with the rest of the Viators. Though the brilliant boy accepted his supporting role with an astonishing amount of grace, it had to hurt.