they couldn’t have more than sex. Sex was all he wanted. All he needed.
That was an even better reason for her to go.
He couldn’t do this, use her to entertain himself, to take his mind off his life for a little while. Brody backed off, his breathing heavy, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, Hannah. This shouldn’t have happened,” he said stiffly, closing his jeans as he walked to the sink, washed his hands, his face. Washed the past few minutes away.
“Brody?”
“Just leave, Hannah. Please.”
Hannah fixed her clothes, straightened her hair. She still looked amazing and turned on. Brody peered out the window, fighting for control.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s happening.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, can’t you get that? I’m fine. I don’t need you here. Despite what you might think, you mean nothing to me.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. It was low for him to speak to her like that, but he needed her to go. If he had to insult her to get her to do it, fine. It was better than insulting her even more by letting her stay under false pretenses. By taking her here in his kitchen, with no plans for anything more than that.
He didn’t warrant her concern, and he certainly didn’t want her pity.
“Listen, whether you like it or not, I’m your friend. I want to help, whatever the problem is.”
He watched incredulously as she stormed over to the small dinette, sat down and looked at him. He’d never seen such a stubborn, determined woman.
There was only one thing to do.
“Fine, I’ll go, then,” he muttered, grabbing his hat and keys. He walked out the back door, letting it slam, hating himself in about a dozen ways.
He felt like dirt. He wanted to apologize, to beg her forgiveness or to go back and finish what they started.
But he couldn’t do any of those things.
Climbing up in his Charger, he wasn’t even sure where he was going. All he could think about was Hannah and all the memories of their time together.
As for why she was here—it didn’t really matter. He’d still have had to turn her away rather than lie to her. Brody wondered how long it would take before she’d give up on him and take off. He hoped it was sooner rather than later, because he wasn’t sure how well he could hold up if he saw her again.
HANNAH WOKE UP on a strange sofa, not knowing where she was for a moment, but the faint irritation left by Brody’s stubble on her skin brought back the events of the morning, quickly reminding her of her surroundings.
It was midafternoon the same day, Friday. The house was quiet, and she stood, stretching and then looking out the window. Hers was still the only vehicle in the driveway.
Brody was no doubt waiting her out, but in truth, she was waiting him out, too. She had her own stubborn streak, and... Well, she was worried. She didn’t want to be, but she was.
Her stomach growled again, and she caught sight of her hair in a mirror on the opposite side of the room. She looked as though she’d crawled out from under the couch, and she seriously needed a shower. Heading out to her car, she grabbed her bag, and then went in search of the main bathroom.
As she undressed and stepped under the hot water, she firmed up her resolve. Hopefully, she’d have a chance to talk to Brody again, but if he wasn’t home by breakfast the next morning, she’d go. She could leave him a note with her phone number and an invitation to call her if he needed her—in a purely platonic way, of course—which would put the ball in his court.
It took practice, walking away, making boundaries, but she was getting better at it.
Abby always said she was overly responsible. Hannah never really understood that before; a person was either responsible or not. You either did the things you were expected to and made sure you kept your promises and were there for the people who needed you, or you weren’t. How could someone be overly responsible? It was like saying rain could be too wet. Impossible.
But Hannah knew when she’d returned from her month with Brody that Abby was right.
Her employer treated her like crap because Hannah was so dependable. So responsible. When her father died, Hannah had tried to take his place from a very early age. She worked as soon as she could, helped her mother in any way possible. She never wanted to disappoint.
Content to let her hair air dry in the Florida heat, she hung her towel neatly, then threw on a sundress and sandals. She packed up her supplies and went downstairs in time to hear the doorbell ring.
That couldn’t possibly be Brody—why would he ring his own bell? Struggling with whether she should answer the door, she did, and found a very pretty young woman in a very scanty cotton summer dress on the other side, holding a pie.
Her pretty smile collapsed when she saw Hannah. She pushed up on her tiptoes, looking over Hannah’s shoulder.
“Is Brody here?”
“No, I’m sorry, he’s not.”
The woman narrowed her eyes for a second, as if trying to assess whether Hannah was being honest.
“I brought him a pie.”
“That’s nice. I can put it on the counter and let him know, if you’d like me to.”
“Oh, I’d rather do that myself,” the woman replied, taking a step forward, but Hannah gently blocked her path.
“I’ll be happy to take it for you, or I’m sure Brody will be back later if you want to return.”
“Well, I suppose I could leave it. Tell him it’s from Jenna, J-e-n-n-a. And I’ll be sure to make sure he got it,” she warned Hannah in an overly cute Southern accent.
As if what? Did she think Hannah was going to eat the pie herself? Or pretend that she’d made the pie instead?
Hannah met Jenna’s fake smile with a super sweet one of her own as she closed the door, inhaling the scent of the buttery crust and...cherries. Oh, yum.
Maybe she would eat it.
Though after muffins for breakfast, she needed some real food, and pie didn’t quite fit the bill. Hannah doubted Brody had anything edible in his kitchen, given all of the takeout bags. Surprisingly, she found the refrigerator fairly well stocked and the cupboards, as well. Someone had gone grocery shopping. One of his many female admirers?
The bigger problem was the kitchen itself, she thought as she took note of the mess. She couldn’t cook in this chaos; she could barely find a clear spot where she could put the pie down.
She tried to resist it, but as she started straightening up, her compulsive side took over. It was part of her nature.
