To Have And To Hold: The Wedding Belles Book 1 (30 page)

Brooke sat forward, rubbing her temples against a sudden headache. She didn’t know if it felt right. And yet, now that this was all out there, she was realizing just how forcefully she’d been putting these thoughts at bay. It wasn’t that she didn’t think about what happened . . .

It was that she didn’t let herself.

“Maybe you could start by talking to your parents,” Jessie said in a bright voice. “Baby steps, you know. Find out what’s going on with all that so you can get closure without actually having to talk to the scumbag.”

At
the mention of her parents, Brooke’s head shot up. “What day is it? Oh my God. I totally forgot!”

“Forgot what?”

Brooke stood, going to the reception desk where she’d dropped her bag to get her phone. “The trial. It was supposed to start today.”

“Wow, really?” Alexis said. “I hadn’t heard anything about it.”

“You’ve been following Clay’s case?” Brooke asked.

“Just monitoring the situation,” Alexis said in a mild voice. “But there hasn’t been much.”

“They wanted to keep it a closed courtroom,” Brooke said, pulling her phone out. Her stomach dropped as she realized it had been on silent all day, evidenced by the multiple missed calls and text messages she was seeing now pop up on the screen. “To keep the media out, or whatever.”

“Your dad decided to testify?” Jessie asked quietly.

Brooke nodded. “I told him to.”

And she told herself that it didn’t bother her.

But the truth was, she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about it. On the other hand, her parents not testifying because of her . . . no good. Not when Clay had taken and lost their retirement fund. It still made her sick to even think about it.

And yet, there was this part of her that still thought of Clay as the man she loved. The man she was going to marry.

She swallowed against the strange lump in her throat. What was this?

Messy emotions, that was what. This was why she
avoided letting her thoughts go in this direction. This was why she didn’t let herself think about Clay.

This was why . . .

Oh God.

She read and reread her text from her mom. Call me as soon as you get this.

There were four missed calls.

Even as she held her phone, it buzzed again with a message from her dad. Hang in there, sweetie. We know it’s hard. Call us.

What was hard?

What was she supposed to be hanging in there for?

She rapidly began scrolling through her other unread text messages. She had a handful from her LA friends. Friends she’d more or less been avoiding since she’d moved out to New York, because they made her think of Clay.

Brooke let out a silent scream. What were they all talking about? What was wrong with people that they’d deliver the platitudes before the freaking news itself?

She dropped into Jessie’s chair behind the reception desk, her hand fumbling for the computer mouse and keyboard, knowing it would be faster than typing on her phone.

Brooke
brought up Google News and typed in Clay Battaglia.

Dozens of stories popped up, all within the last hour.

She didn’t click into any of them, because she didn’t have to.

The headlines said it all.

AMERICA’S FAVORITE CON MAN DODGES JAIL TIME IN A LAST-MINUTE, UNEXPECTED PLEA BARGAIN.

Clay had taken a plea deal.

Clay wasn’t going to jail.

Oh God.

Oh.
God.

It’s okay, she told herself.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

But it wasn’t okay.

Just like that, all of the pain, all of the anger of the past five months came roaring over her fast and furious.

And after a lifetime of looking on the bright side, Brooke realized she had no idea how to deal with the darkness.

She only knew that she felt like it would break her.

W
HEN
CELL PHONES FIRST
came on the scene decades earlier, Seth’s father had not been a fan.

Convinced that mobile devices would be the end of family life and business productivity as he knew it, Hank Tyler had tried to banish cell phones wherever he could.

At home, that had meant Seth and Maya were allowed use of their cell phones only in the after-school hours to communicate their whereabouts, and in the evening after all homework was complete. Never at the dinner table, never on family outings.

It was trickier at the office.

In the early days, there’d been a no-personal-cell-use policy. But as smartphones became more ubiquitous, Hank had realized that smartphones made his people more available—not less.

Eventually, the policy had been relaxed so that there were just no cell phones allowed in meetings, from the junior business analysts all the way up to
the CEO himself. It was a policy that Seth had never minded. It focused everyone’s attention on the agenda items at hand, and with no distractions, meetings were more focused and efficient.

Case in point, Seth’s budget meeting wrapped up in record time, and with a rare few minutes to spare, he headed back toward his office with the intention of hitting up Google and researching if there was some new “it” gift for Valentine’s Day. Were flowers in? Out? Was chocolate too cliché?

Then again, even if chocolate
was
cliché, he didn’t think Brooke would say no. He was rapidly learning the woman had a serious weakness for the stuff. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, even white chocolate—all were fair game.

In the elevator, he pulled his phone out of his pocket to make a note to ask Maya for a list of the best chocolate stores in the city—his sister shared Brooke’s sweet tooth, although she was an equal opportunity sugar eater and knew her way around every overpriced macaroon, truffle, and cupcake in Manhattan.

Six missed calls. Seth frowned, since few people had his personal cell phone number, and those who did were more inclined to text than call.

His stomach dropped when he saw that four of the calls had come from Brooke.

The other two were from Etta. Etta, who of all people knew that he wouldn’t have his cell on in the meeting. Then again, Etta also would have known how to reach him if it were a true emergency, so he relaxed. Slightly.

But
Brooke didn’t seem the type of woman to call him multiple times in an hour unless it was urgent. The second he stepped off the elevator, he dialed her back, cursing under his breath when it went straight to voice mail. He chose not to leave a message and clicked off the call, striding toward his office.

“Where’s Etta?” he barked at Jared, noting that his assistant was nowhere to be seen.

Jared spun around in his chair, and Seth saw that the man had a phone affixed to his ear. The younger man’s eyes went wide with panic, and Seth could practically hear him thinking about how to listen to whomever was on the other end
and
answer Seth’s question.

“Never mind,” Seth muttered, heading into his office even as he started to text Brooke.

He skidded to a halt when he realized his office was not empty.

There was Etta sitting on his couch.

With Brooke.

Who was crying on his assistant’s shoulder.

If Seth’s gut had tightened earlier when he’d seen the missed calls, it twisted into a full-on knot now at the sight of tears running down her face.

Seth went to Brooke immediately, dropping his iPhone to the coffee table with a careless clatter as he went to his knees in front of her. “Sweetheart.”

She gave him a watery smile and ran the back of her hand against her runny nose in a childlike gesture as she sniffled. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come
here. It was just, you didn’t answer, and I thought I could just wait, and then—I just—I—”

Brooke started crying all over again, and Etta wrapped her arms more firmly around the younger woman, rubbing her back in small circles.

Seth was torn between being grateful for Etta’s maternal instincts and barking at his assistant to back off so that he could be the one holding her.

Etta met his eyes and shook her head slightly, giving the barest of shrugs.

Whatever Brooke was crying about, she hadn’t told Etta.

“Poor thing’s been sobbing too hard to get many words out,” she said quietly to Seth as though Brooke weren’t there. And she might not be wrong. Brooke was shaking, her sobs nearly drowning out his and Etta’s side conversation.

“Brooke,” Seth said, taking her hands in his. “What’s wrong?”

She only cried harder, and Seth glanced back at Etta, giving her a silent command, which she instantly understood.

Etta gave one last pet to Brooke’s mussed blond hair, making soothing noises, before easing her away from her shoulder and shifting to the side.

Seth was already there, taking Etta’s place the second she stood.

His heart both warmed and twisted at the way Brooke instinctively curled into him, one hand fisting against his lapel as she buried her damp face in his neck.

The businessman in Seth—the
doer
—wanted
answers, and wanted them now. Wanted to know who or what had hurt her so that he could crush it. But the man in Seth—the one he hadn’t realized was there until he met Brooke—was content simply to hold her. To absorb her pain as his own, and he
was
in pain. Every hoarse cry, every tear that dripped down Brooke’s face felt like a jab to his own heart.

“I’ll be outside if you need anything,” Etta said quietly. He nodded, barely registering as she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Brooke’s fingers clenched in a choppy, uneven rhythm against his lapel, and he pulled her even closer, turning his lips to her hair. “I’ve got you,” he whispered quietly. “Whatever it is, I’ve got you and we’ll fix it.”

He meant it, too.

Objectively, he was aware that he’d known this woman for a little over a month. It was far too soon to start thinking of them as a unit—to start thinking of her as
his.
And yet, he also knew down to the quietest, most secret part of his soul that she was his. And he was hers.

And that they would fix whatever had broken inside her.

For a few long minutes, he did nothing but stroke her back in long soothing motions, his cheek resting on the top of her head.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, but eventually, he noticed her crying start to slow. From a sob to a cry, a cry to a sniffle.

And then . . .

Silence.

She
slumped against him, her face still buried in his neck as she let out a shuddering sigh.

“All cried out?” he asked softly.

Brooke nodded.

He waited.

Several more moments passed before she finally moved, pulling back from him, her fingers brushing uselessly at the wrinkled fabric of his suit.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice husky from crying. “I knew you’d be working. I should have waited until later.”

His hand cupped her cheek. “I’m glad you came.”

I’m glad it was me you wanted to see.

“So you’re done for the day?” she asked hopefully.

He wasn’t. He had another half dozen meetings, not counting the new technology company that wanted to take him to cocktails tonight to convince him to install their waterproof televisions into Tyler Hotel showers.

He also knew that Etta would take care of re-arranging all that for him. He’d seen the way she’d looked between him and Brooke. Seen that she’d understood.

“I’m here,” he said, dodging her question slightly.

She gave a grateful smile, and he was relieved to see that it was a real smile, and even with her red eyes and pink nose and messy hair, she looked beautiful.

Seth resumed stroking her back, and Brooke rested her cheek against his chest as she draped over him, one arm wrapping around his waist as though using him as an anchor. He figured he’d have to wait
awhile before she told him whatever it was that had taken away her sparkle.

But Brooke surprised him by getting right to it.

“Clay,” she said hoarsely.

He jolted. “Your ex.”

Brooke nodded. “I never really . . . I never told you what happened between us. Not really. I mean, you know the headlines, but you don’t know”—she took a deep, shuddering breath—“the full story.”

“So tell me now,” he said quietly, sensing that she needed to share. He waited patiently as she kicked off her shoes, pulling her feet up on the couch and wrapping her arms around her legs, before resting her chin against her upraised knees.

“I met Clay at a bar. Cheesy, right? I was out celebrating a girlfriend’s birthday. I showed up late, since I had a wedding beforehand, and by the time I got there, my girlfriends were a bit past buzzed. The bar didn’t have a dance floor, but the shots of tequila had motivated them to make their own, and since I wasn’t quite to the drunken dancing phase, I found myself alone at the bar sipping a cocktail.”

“Dirty Belvedere martini?” he asked, his fingers finding the ends of her hair as he listened.