He squeezes my hands. “Remember when we said we were going to be honest with each other?”
Please don’t ask me to be honest. Please don’t make me that vulnerable.
“Yes,” I say on a short breath.
“Okay, I’m going to ask you once and if you don’t answer, I’ll accept that. But, honestly? I’d really like to know. I want to know what I did that made you so angry with me? Because I never want to do it again. I never want to put this space between us again. So please, throw me a bone here, Ruthie, and tell me what I did.”
Heat fills the backs of my eyes as tears start to form, tickling my nerves with desperation, with regret. I made him second-guess everything, when I shouldn’t have. This wasn’t fair to him, not even in the slightest, and I made him worry when this has everything to do with me. Yes, Brig is a clueless idiot, but then again, he wouldn’t be clueless if I just told him the truth.
And yet, the truth is scary. The truth could lead to great pain.
The truth could truly put a divide between me and Brig. And even though I put distance between us this past week, I’ve missed his company. Even if he drove me crazy. Do I really want to lose that?
Not really.
Not at all.
He tugs on my hands. “Please, Ruthie.”
Damn him.
Taking a deep breath, willing the tears to disappear, I say, “I, uh . . .”
Tell him the truth.
I can’t.
I’m so terrified that he’ll reject me. So terrified that he isn’t attracted to me in any way.
“I . . .” I look to the side. I know I can’t make something up, that I have to tell him some fraction of the truth if I’m going to make him drop the subject tonight. “I found out that the guy I like, well, he sees me more as a friend.”
“What? Seriously? How come you didn’t tell me?”
Because you’re him.
Because you’re the one I want.
Because I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with you, and I’m pretty sure you’ll never feel the same way about me.
“Embarrassed,” I say, choking back a sob. But I can’t hold back the tears that stream down my face.
“Hey,” he says softly, pulling me into a hug and cupping the back of my head. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. You’re amazing, Ruthie, and any guy would be fucking lucky to claim you as his girl.” More tears. He soothingly rubs my back, quietly trying to calm me. “He’s a fucking fool.” He pulls me away and whispers, “If it’s Oliver, blink twice, and I’ll take care of things for you.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “It’s not Oliver.”
“Promise?”
I nod. “Promise.”
“Okay, because I was about to fuck up his general store, teach him a lesson.” I laugh some more, pulling a grin from him. “That’s my girl. That’s the sound I like to hear.” He kisses the top of my head and says, “I know it’s easier said than done, but you don’t want to hang on to someone who’s not going to give you the full attention you deserve. And you deserve every ounce of attention, Ruthie.” He cups my cheek. “You’re special.”
Just not special enough for you.
Another tear falls and he swipes it away with his thumb. “Let me take your mind off it. Come to the rehearsal dinner with me. Have fun with me.”
“You just don’t want to be the only single person there,” I tease.
“Maybe, but I also want company. It will be fun, and you can test out my dancing skills for the wedding on Saturday, see if I’m worth meeting out on the dance floor.”
“Hmm, good point.” I tap my chin and let the tension melt away between us. At this point, there’s nothing I can do, not when I have to attend his brother’s wedding this weekend. Might as well get through the happily ever after of another couple and then focus on what the hell I’m going to do with all of these feelings.
Because the line has been drawn. He’s not into me. And he’s made it clear what I should do. “. . . you don’t want to hang on to someone who’s not going to give you the full attention you deserve.”
So, that actually leaves me no choice after all.
And that makes me feel nauseous and terrified.
It’s time to walk away.
“So, will you . . . attend the rehearsal dinner with me?”
“I guess I can,” I say casually, even though I can feel my nerves bundling into knots in my stomach.
“Fuck . . . yes.” He pulls me into another hug. “Does this mean we’re cool?” He cups my cheek, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “Because I’ve really missed you, Ruthie. You can ask my siblings, they . . . hey, they all said they knew why you were upset. Do they . . . holy shit, do they know who the guy is?”
God, he’s so pretty, but bricks for brains, this one.
Not even going to lie, I say, “Yes, they do. But they’ve been sworn to secrecy. Don’t even try to get it out of them. And the only reason they know is because of their girls.”
“Damn it,” he mutters and then sighs. “Fine, whatever. Don’t tell me. I’m only your best friend.”
“Are you?” I ask, a cock to my brow.
“I better be.”
Looking around, I say, “Do best friends take each other to barely lit corners to ask them to rehearsal dinners?”
“Oh shit, I almost forgot.” He laughs, takes my hand, and leads me to the Parlor door. “I brought you here for a reason.” He unlocks the door—still has a key from Mrs. Burberry I see—and before he opens it, he says, “You need to close your eyes.”
“Brig, if you put another hole in the wall—”
“I didn’t put a hole in the wall, well, maybe I did, but not the kind of hole you’re thinking of.” Guiding me by the shoulders, he walks me into the Parlor and I take in the fresh scent of paint and wood. My heart hammers in my chest as he flips on the lights. “Open your eyes.”
I open my eyes, blink a few times and then . . . oh my God.
“Brig,” I say clutching my hands to my chest. “What . . . how?”
The Parlor, it’s . . . finished.
Freshly polished floors gleam at me, perfectly painted white moldings frame the walls, doorframes, and windows. Shiplap covers the back wall, and on either side of the room, the natural wood shelves with iron piping have been installed . . . just the way I wanted. The register counter is beautifully outlined in shiplap as well, with a butcher’s block counter and stain to match the wooden shelves. The old-fashioned register I found looks ready to be used too.
But the best part of it all? Hanging behind the register is the iron sign I had made for the shop that I’d left in the back. Scrolled in beautiful whimsical cursive it says: Piccadilly Parlor.
“I can’t believe you did this.” I walk around the room, running my fingers over the shelves, marveling in how straight and secure they are.
“Rogan helped. He’s grateful you’re allowing us to use the kitchen, so he brought over a few guys and we finished up everything quite quickly. Then Rogan helped me stay to clean everything. The kitchen is all set as well and the bathroom, well, take a look.”