Brenna, though, she has me stumped.
“Were you in the band?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t sing or play an instrument.”
“Hmm, so no chorus. Sports?” I ask because my assumption could be wrong.
“I did cross country.”
Goes back to the thing about being alone. I could never have done it. Running for miles doesn’t sound like fun, but more than that, it’s fucking isolating. Just me and my thoughts for however long, no thanks.
“So, no to the music cliques, cross country isn’t really a jock thing, so that leaves us with what?”
“You’re trying to group me?” she asks with a raised brow. Her voice is playful, and I smirk.
“Kids run in packs.”
“Not all of them.”
“So, you were a lone wolf?”
Brenna grins and then leans her butt against the desk. “I’m going to let you do the psychoanalyzing again.”
She looks relaxed, and her smile is easy. It’s so alluring that I have to fight back the urge to put my arms on both sides of the desk, trapping her there and leaning in to see if her lips would be easy against mine. I’ve imagined kissing her since our lunch together.
Last night, while I was in that shithole of a box reading my next script, I pictured her as the woman my character could be in love with, even if he doesn’t have one. I saw her deep blue eyes and long red hair before me as I spoke my lines aloud.
After I slapped myself, I threw the script across the room, which was about four feet, and mentally beat myself up because my character is single—as am I.
She’s not in the plan. She’s not a woman I need to think about like this. Brenna is a single mom who definitely doesn’t need some asshole from Hollywood coming around to fuck things up for her. Stability is not what I will provide.
I slip into myself, using every skill I’ve honed over the years to keep from making a mistake or letting my dick do the thinking. “I see. I think you were an academic. You liked studying, reading, but did a sport to keep yourself from seeming like a nerd. Maybe even top of your class?”
“Definitely not, but you’re somewhat close.” Her head tilts to the side, and her gaze fixes on mine.
“Hmmm.” I purse my lips. “Which part?”
“The academic part.”
“I figured. No one wants to go to school to be a psychologist if they don’t like learning.”
She laughs softly, cheeks reddening in the most adorable way. “Not while raising two kids and being married to a man who is never home.”
It’s crazy. I don’t think she understands how amazing that accomplishment is. “I didn’t even finish college.”
Brenna pushes off the desk and moves toward me. “And look at all you’ve done, Jacob.”
“I make movies and play pretend all day.” I need to sound like it doesn’t matter. I need it not to matter what she thinks.
That was one of the last things my father ever said to me. On top of telling me I was worthless and stupid, he said that if I dropped out of school to pursue acting, then I was a disgrace to my mother.
I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve heard those words over and over again. I’ve worn them like a tattoo in my heart, reminding me that she would’ve thought I was a fool.
However, Brenna’s voice is soft and comforting. “You make little kids believe that there’s more in life than all the crap hands they’ve been dealt. That means something. It’s . . . well, it’s heroic.”
“I’m not a hero, Brenna.”
“Maybe not.” She shrugs. “But to them, you are.”
“My character is.”
I am no one’s hero. I’m a fuckup from Sugarloaf. I’ve done nothing other than land a role of a lifetime. I haven’t been a good brother, uncle, or friend, and I damn sure was a piece-of-shit son. I’m smoke and mirrors, and glass always breaks. I’m a guy who is fighting so hard against the urge to pull this gorgeous woman into his arms and show her just how destructive he can be to the people around him.
“If you think that your being here today wasn’t epic to every kid in that auditorium, then I don’t know what is.”
I do. I run my hand through my hair and turn my back on her. “Luke was a hero. He fought and died for this country. I give nothing. Trust me, that story about my father? That was only a fraction of it.”
“We all have pasts, Jacob. Every one of us have made mistakes, but it’s what we do now that matters. Luke wasn’t a Saint. Believe me.”
Luke was a good guy. He wasn’t a man who would lust after a widow who lost everything.
“Maybe so, but he sure as fuck wasn’t from the pits of hell.”
“Sure, maybe Luke was a hero, in his own way. He fought for this country, and he died on a routine flight. A mechanical failure that cost him everything. It’s easy for us to think what we do doesn’t matter, but it does.”
“I thought he died overseas?” I question.
“No, I’ve heard that a few times since being here. He was home. He was supposed to be home that day and went into work. There was nothing heroic about it. Look at me, I’m a school psychologist. What the hell makes me special? Nothing. Except, to that kid who comes into my office when he’s at his lowest and I give him something to hold on to, I might be everything. Heroes don’t wear capes or save the world, they do the right thing. Heroes don’t get to define their moments, the people they save do.”
I feel her behind me, she’s close, her words reaching inside me, pulling the broken man I’ve buried back up. I can’t turn back until I can push the words from my head.
But then . . . I feel her hand.
Her soft touch is on my back, moving up to my shoulder. I lock my muscles, not allowing the sensations to elicit a reaction.
“Jacob,” her soft voice beckons me to turn, “what you’re doing . . .”
I can’t help myself. I face her. Her eyes are soft, long lashes framing the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Neither of us speak.
Neither of us move.
We just stand as if we were acting out a scene that has been scripted.
And God do I have urges.
Her lips part, small breaths of air escaping them, and I can feel the tension. I could kiss her. In her eyes, I see the desire swimming. Brenna’s chest rises and falls and then she swallows deep.
I don’t know that I have ever wanted anything as much as I want her right now, but I can’t just act. I hear my brother’s warnings in my head as clearly as I can see her hesitation.
I remember her pulling back from me the other night, the apprehension that lingered when I willed her to do it with everything in me.
“I want to kiss you,” I confess, wanting her to know she’s not misreading anything.
Her breathing accelerates.
“I want to press my lips to yours so fucking much.”
“I want . . .”
“What do you want, Brenna?”
She shifts a bit closer. I can feel her breasts just grazing my chest. “I want you to kiss me, but . . .”
The desperate part of me wants to reach out, grab her, and kiss her senseless, but I know that would be wrong.
Slowly, I bring my hand up, lightly curling my fingers around her wrist. Her pulse is quick, and I fight back a smile. I graze the skin on her arm, moving at a pace that should nominate me for sainthood. When I reach her neck, my thumb brushes her cheek, and she leans into my touch.