Hold On Tight (Man of the Month Book 2), Page 3

  The truth was, she’d lost the ability to trust, to let go. Lost it? No, that was bullshit. Trust had been ripped away from her, and though she desperately wanted to get it back, the few times she’d let a guy test her boundaries had been completely disastrous.

  Fucking Brian. One betrayal. And her whole world had unraveled. And all she’d wanted to do when the world had spun out from under her was run to Spencer. But he was long gone, an artifact of a life that she’d given up to save him. Except he didn’t know any of that. And now he hated her. And she was all alone with her angst and her fear doing her damnedest to build a replacement life. And she was close—so damn close.

  But now here came Spencer waltzing back into the thick of it, and Brooke knew damn well how much that was going to hurt.

  Fuck.

  "Earth to Brooke," Amanda trilled. "Where'd you go? Or is the margarita so amazing that I need to give you a moment alone with it."

  "Pretty much," Brooke said, taking another long sip. It really was amazing. The traditional margarita tanginess, but laced with a kick of heat that seemed to do back flips on her tongue.

  "Well, don't fade on me again. I want the scoop."

  Brooke tilted her head, confused. "What scoop would that be?"

  "First off, what happened to the engagement? Why didn't you and Spencer get married? And for that matter, how is it that I didn't know that you and Spencer were a thing?"

  Brooke hesitated, not wanting to open old wounds. But it was too late for that. The wounds had opened the moment that Andy and Molly, the network's executives, had given her the ultimatum. Spencer was back, whether she wanted him or not.

  And she did want him. She'd never stopped. Not really.

  But she’d hurt him, and the wounds were too deep to heal. Now, the best that she could hope for was a way to dull the pain so that they could work together. Assuming, of course, that he would even agree.

  "From the look on your face, I'm guessing he dumped you?"

  "It's complicated," Brooke said, in what had to be the understatement of the year. "My parents never approved of Spencer. His family—well, you've met my dad. It was bad enough that I was dating a guy whose family lived paycheck to paycheck. But toss in the fact that he has a brother in prison because of a gang-related shooting? To say Daddy didn't approve was putting it mildly."

  "Probably didn't help that Spencer doesn't hide where he comes from. I watched his show all the time—I mean, real estate, right? And I remember he did one episode where he helped two brothers—former gangbangers—fix up their grandparents' house. Said he wanted to increase awareness and help the guys learn some practical skills."

  "I didn't know that," Brooke admitted, although it didn't surprise her. Spencer was a good guy. A solid guy. And her father had simply refused to see that. She smiled ruefully. "I didn't watch the show. Seeing him—it hurt my heart."

  Amanda reached over, then pressed her hand over Brooke's. "Your dad did something to end it?"

  Brooke nodded, but then immediately shook her head. As tempting as it might be to lay all the blame at her father's feet, she had to take some responsibility.

  She wiped away an errant tear. "It was me, too. I—" She cut herself off, her voice choked with a fresh flood of tears. Dammit, she hadn't meant to cry. She drew in a stuttering breath, sniffed, and began again. "I didn't—"

  "No," Amanda said in a tone that was uncharacteristically gentle. "It's okay. I didn't mean to bring it all back. And I think I have the general picture. Big, ugly mess with lots and lots of drama."

  Despite herself, a bubble of laughter rose, mixing with the knot of tears in her throat and making Brooke hiccup. The painful kind that felt like a fist hitting her heart. "That about sums it up," she said, forcing the words out between hiccups. "And, yeah, drama was the operative word."

  "When was this? Before we knew each other, obviously."

  Brooke took a sip of her margarita, then waited, her hand on her chest in anticipation of another massive hiccup that didn't come. She drew a tentative breath, then nodded. "It was five years ago. A few weeks before his first show started filming."

  "Holy crap. I remember reading about that. Not at the time, but later after his show became popular. I remember there was talk about him being on The Bachelor or some similar show. But he said no—like a serious, big ass, no—and the tabloids started talking about why he kept such a low profile and hardly ever dated and all that stuff."

  She pointed a well-manicured finger at Brooke. "The rumor was that his bride had left him at the altar. That was you?"

  Brooke bit her lower lip and nodded, desperate to change the conversation. But, then again, she might as well get used to it. If Spencer agreed to the show—or rather, when Spencer agreed to the show—their past would surely be dredged up and splashed all over social media. She'd never understood why, but even the stars of real estate based shows routinely ended up as social media celebrities.

  And then it hit her.

  She looked up, her gaze locked tight on Amanda's face. "That's what they want, isn't it? They want the drama."

  For a moment, Amanda looked baffled. And in that brief, wonderful instant, Brooke let herself believe that she was wrong, and the studio didn't care about her break-up with Spencer and had no interest in playing up their past relationship on camera.

  Then she saw the truth in Amanda's eyes. Her friend wasn't baffled by that particular suggestion; she was simply flabbergasted that Brooke was only now figuring it out.

  "You honestly didn't know? I mean, it's pretty obvious,” Amanda continued in reply to Brooke's shake of the head. “As far as they're concerned, you're the girl who dumped Spencer Dean. Not an Austin-based remodeling expert. They're casting the woman who can bring fireworks. They don't care about The Fix or even the hot guys in a calendar contest."

  "They want drama," Brooke said, feeling both numb and stupid.

  "Afraid so. They must think you two will be a ratings magnet." Amanda lifted a shoulder as she took the last sip of her spicy, tangy drink. "That's why if Spencer doesn't agree, your chance at a show is dead in the water."

  Chapter Four

  Brooke clutched her hairbrush as she peered at her reflection in the ladies' room mirror. Sometimes she hated how blunt Amanda was, but couldn't deny it was true. The network had chosen her proposal over all others not because Brooke knew how to breathe life into a rundown restaurant or how to add some pizazz to a dull bar.

  No, they wanted her because of a bad break-up. Which meant that the show wasn't going to be about her work at all. It was going to be about her life.

  Maybe she should just walk away.

  It wasn't as if she had any great desire to be on television. Quite the contrary. If it weren't for the promotional value, she'd be more than happy to live her life well outside of the public eye.

  But the show would promote her business—that much was a guarantee. After their meeting, one of the producers had texted her rough mock-ups of print ads that would advertise the show. Assuming, of course, that Spencer signed on and the show actually aired. Slick, classy-looking ads that splashed the name of the show in big, bold letters—and the show shared a name with her business.

  Not only that, but the ads also included her website and contact information, in equally eye-catching fonts.

  It was as if the execs had known she might get cold feet and had wanted to make sure she was all in.

  Well, it worked.

  She wasn't going to back off the show. Not even now that Amanda had opened her eyes.

  But as for why she was sticking...

  Well, the horrible truth was she wasn't sure if that was because she couldn't bear to turn her back on any possible promotion for her business ... or because of Spencer.

  She missed him.

  Dear God, she missed him.

  Those months surrounding their wedding had felt like a goddamn Greek tragedy. At the time, she'd been so sure she'd done the right thing. Protecting his family. His sh
ow. She'd sacrificed everything for him, then held the secret close because he couldn't know. Hell, he still didn't know what she'd done.

  She'd believed she could move on with her life. That there would be another man who could make her feel the way that Spence had. And maybe there was. Maybe that mystical guy was out there in the world somewhere. But if so, she hadn't found him yet.

  But even though some secret part deep inside her wanted to see him again, she was certain the feeling wouldn't be mutual. She wasn't naive enough to believe that Spencer had forgiven her. Not for walking away on their wedding day. And certainly not for what he'd perceived as betrayal.

  No doubt about it—their meeting was going to bruise her heart all over again.

  But if it launched her business to a new level, it would be worth it.

  She needed to keep repeating that to herself. Over and over and over.

  She shoved her brush back into her purse, then started for the ladies' room exit, only to jump back when someone pushed the door open with so much force it slammed back against the wall. Two women stumbled in, laughing uncontrollably.

  "The floor is moving," the dark-haired one said. She was looking down at the completely motionless floor, but then she lifted her head to glare at her companion. "I totally blame you," she said at the same time that Brooke gasped.

  "Shelby?" Brooke said, peering at the woman. It couldn't be. Brooke's accountant was about the most straight-laced, calm, and introverted person Brooke had ever met. And although theirs was a mostly professional relationship, Brooke and Shel had gone out socially a couple of times—and Shelby had never ordered anything stronger than Perrier with lime.

  So this laughing, stumbling, well-on-her-way-to-wasted woman couldn't possibly be Shelby Drake, CPA.

  Except it was.

  Shelby blinked owlishly behind aqua-framed glasses. Then her eyes widened in time with a spreading grin. "Brooke Hamlin!" She threw out her arms and enveloped her in a hug. "Isn't this the best party?"

  "Um, yeah?"

  Brooke glanced up at Shelby's companion, a tall woman with a mass of unkempt curls and an expression that could only be described as amused. "Hannah," she said, thrusting out her hand. "Also known as Shelby's babysitter."

  "Like hell," Shel said, then clasped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear." She stumbled toward the single, empty stall and locked the door behind her.

  Brooke looked between the closed stall door and Hannah. "So, ah, was there an alien invasion that didn't make the news? Because Shelby's been my family's accountant for years, and that's not Shelby."

  Hannah laughed. "Isn't it awesome? We're here for a friend's bachelorette party, and I told Shel she had to let her hair down."

  "You're evil," Shel said from the stall.

  "But you love me," Hannah called back. She tilted her head as she studied Brooke, her eyes a little foggy. She'd clearly been drinking, too. She just had a much higher tolerance than Shelby. Or else she'd drunk half as much. "Have we met?"

  "I don't think so." Brooke was sure she'd remember the woman with her wild hair and piercing blue eyes.

  "Damn, you look so familiar, but I can't—wait. Are you Judge Hamlin's daughter?"

  Brooke stiffened. "Yeah. That's my dad." Formerly a powerful attorney, her father had recently run for a District Court seat. He won, of course. With the exception of her career choice, her father always got what he wanted.

  "I'm a lawyer, and I've worked with your dad a couple of times. I think I remember your picture from his office. Or maybe from a fundraiser for his campaign?"

  "Maybe," Brooke said, though she didn't remember Hannah at all. But they didn't press the connection because Shel emerged from the stall, then grinned.

  "I feel better," she said, then used one of the little cups to squirt out some complimentary mouthwash. She swished and spit, then smiled ruefully at Brooke, who hid her amused grin behind a fake cough.

  "Want to join us for a drink?" Hannah asked.

  "No, thanks. I need to get going." She'd taken approximately a billion photos of the interior of The Fix, and she wanted to work through her plans for the renovation, this time thinking about it in terms of which design elements to focus on during each of the six episodes.

  "You sure?" Shelby pulled her into a one-armed hug. "Because it's really so awesome to see you."

  "You, too," Brooke said, catching Hannah's eye and laughing. "Come on. I'll walk out with you, at least."

  "We should get back," Hannah said. "That cute bartender said he was making us pitchers of Pinot Punch, and those bitches will snarf it all down if we don't hurry back. Our friends are a cut-throat group," she said to Brooke, her eyes dancing.

  Brooke tagged along as they headed back into the main bar area. There was no question where they were headed—straight toward the gaggle of laughing, drinking girls taking up the three tables in the front alcove. It was a primo spot, with the tables tucked in between a massive Austin wall mural and the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the hustle and bustle of Sixth Street.

  The girls were talking among themselves, their attention mostly on the pretty blonde in the tacky tiara with BRIDE spelled out in fake gemstones. But a few of the women were looking back at the polished wooden bar, where several guys were seated on stools—and were looking right back at them.

  "He's still there," Shelby whispered, bumping into Brooke as she reached for Hannah. "Do you think he's—oh, shit. He's looking this way."

  "Just go talk to him," Hannah urged. "He's obviously noticed you. And you have so noticed him."

  "Who?" Brooke asked. She wasn't part of the group, and she didn't even really know Shelby. But she couldn't contain her curiosity.

  "Him," Hannah said. She started to lift a finger, but Shelby clutched her hand, holding it down.

  "Don't point! The cute guy right there, with the short hair and the The best mornings have Wood T-shirt. Oh my God," she hissed at Brooke. "Why are you waving at him?"

  "He's a friend," Brooke explained. "His name's Nolan Wood. And the tacky shirt is the name of his morning show. Mornings With Wood. He does crazy ass commentary for one of the local radio stations."

  "You know him?" From the awe in Shelby's voice, you'd think Brooke had announced that he was royalty.

  "Casually. He used to date a friend."

  "Oh."

  "He's single now," Brooke said, hearing the disappointment in Shel's voice. "I think."

  "Just go," Hannah said, then turned to Brooke. "I keep telling her to go introduce herself and say hi."

  "I can introduce you. His show is all about being snarky and crass and chatty between songs during morning drive time. I wanted to run something by him." Free publicity, actually, but she didn't need to get into that with the girls.

  "Yes," Hannah said. "Perfect. Go."

  "But—"

  "Go."

  "We'll all go," Brooke said. It felt very junior high, but what the hell? She could chat with Nolan about giving her show and The Fix a few shout-outs, and she could introduce him to her normally very shy and reserved accountant. Seriously, was this really Shelby Drake?

  They weaved their way across most of the bar, but right as Brooke reached Nolan, she realized that she'd lost both Shelby and Hannah. She glanced over her shoulder to see Shel hanging back and Hannah looking exasperated. Brooke rolled her eyes, amused but not surprised. Somehow she didn't think that flirting with guys was a normal thing for Shelby. And neither, for that matter, was getting drunk.

  At least she looked like she was having a good time.

  "I can't believe you were going to walk right over to him," Shelby said once Brooke had abandoned her mission and navigated her way back. The band that had been on a break was about to start a new set, and the crowd around the bar and the stage was getting thicker.

  "Well, I thought I was going with you," Brooke said. "Didn't y'all say he noticed you earlier? Besides, he doesn't bite."

  "At least not unless you ask him to," Hannah quippe
d, making Shelby blush.

  "I really can't," Shelby said. "I mean isn't it..." She trailed off with a shake of her head. "I'm not usually so bold. Are you?" She turned to Brooke, whose eyes went wide.

  "Me?"

  "Yeah. Would you ever throw caution to the wind like that?"

  Brooke thought of Spencer. Of the way she'd met him in a dark street beside a useless car. He'd pulled up on that fabulous motorcycle, all tats and beard and leather, and everything she’d ever been taught had urged her to run like hell.

  But she'd seen something in his eyes, and so she’d stayed. And for better or worse, her life had never been the same.

  "I have," she whispered. "I did."

  "Oh." Shelby and Hannah exchanged glances. "What happened?"

  Brooke forced a smile and blinked back the tears that threatened. "I fell in love," she said, then felt the tug of a bittersweet smile as the lump of unshed tears tightened in her chest.

  "Careful," Hannah said lightly, obviously not noticing the shift in Brooke's mood. "You might scare her off."

  Brooke thought about how things turned out for her. Maybe that would be a good thing.

  But, no. Shelby deserved her shot, too.

  "Go talk to him," she urged, then started to raise her hand to catch Nolan's attention. But at that moment, a group of men at the bar moved away—and there he stood in the gap.

  Spencer.

  He leaned against the polished bar, a highball glass in his hand. Glenmorangie, neat. She didn't need to taste the liquor to know, because she knew the man. He didn't do cocktails, just Scotch or beer. And Glenmorangie was his favorite label.

  From where she stood, she could see his profile, and she was certain that he hadn't noticed her. He'd let his beard grow out a little, so that it looked more like it had the first time they'd met, and she had to admit she liked it. Once they’d started dating, it had been neatly trimmed, and she'd always felt like he was playing a role. Hell, maybe he was. Trying to be the clean-cut, middle class guy that her father would approve of.