Buried Secrets

3. Aaron

3

AARON

Even though I’d broken the glass deliberately, the tinkle of the shards falling into my trash can still made me wince. The gift had been a joke—from Romi, ironically—a miniature bottle of Scotch in a red box, with a tiny hammer stuck to the side and “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS” written across the front in block letters. The box had sat on a shelf behind my desk for the past five years, first in New York and then in Baldwin’s Shore, and only once before had I been tempted to drink the contents. I’d resisted, but now memories of that night had come back to taunt me.

Because Romi was in town.

A town she’d sworn never to set foot in again.

I understood why she’d come, applauded it, but that comprehension did nothing to ease the tension between us. Even though I’d kept my word, kept my mouth shut about what had happened between us three years ago, Romi still hated my guts, my d**k, every fibre of my being. I couldn’t entirely blame her. Now that I’d had time to reflect, I saw there were a dozen other ways I could have handled the situation that night. Smarter ways. Ways that wouldn’t have involved lying to my best friend and losing the girl I’d had feelings for since puberty.

Even back then, I’d known she’d break my heart. Romi had a way about her, a layer of feistiness over a core of vulnerability, sass that hid sweetness. Plus she was a free spirit.

A dangerous mix.

That was why I’d made a pact with Luca—I’d stay away from Romi if he kept his hands off Brooke. At the time, it had seemed like a win-win situation. Luca chased anything with breasts, charmed girls from Coos Bay to Coquille out of their panties, and then “forgot” to call them afterward. I’d hated the thought of my sister getting hurt, and I’d also wanted to protect myself from whatever havoc Romi might wreak.

Years later, I’d cracked and taken a taste of her, spent one forbidden night doing all the things I swore I never would. A mistaken night. A night that had ended with me dropping her off at the Maple Mountain Recovery Center in upstate New York. Not a mountain or a maple in sight, but the place had an excellent reputation, although at eighty thousand bucks a month, I’d have expected nothing less.

The media reported that Romi had been suffering from exhaustion.

Luca believed she’d checked in to get help with her alcohol problem.

I knew her issues ran far, far deeper.

She’d always had problems with drinking, but alone and away from home, under pressure from the wrong crowd, her one-too-many-at-parties habit had morphed into full-blown alcoholism, and that was before she got started on the coke.

Maybe I should have told Luca about the drugs. In the years since my showdown with Romi, I’d had plenty of time to regret the decision not to, but at the time, Romi’s argument that landing a bombshell on him in the middle of an op would be distracting had made enough sense for me to stay quiet. In those days, Luca had been an Army Ranger, and in that line of work, distractions could prove fatal. Plus she’d agreed to go to rehab as long as I kept my mouth shut, and more than anything, I’d wanted her to get help. To get off the drugs and stay healthy. Stay alive. I’d known all too well what drugs could do to a person, had even attended the funeral to prove it.

Well, I’d gotten my wish. Romi had changed her lifestyle. I read more news articles about her than was healthy, scanned the gossip websites most mornings, tried to filter out the bullshit. At first, she’d dropped out of sight save for the occasional modelling appearance. But then she’d popped up on Davis French’s arm at some art show with a new haircut, a dress that could only be described as demure, and a tight little smile. Hell, I’d barely recognised her at first. She’d always been a butterfly—colourful, eye-catching, not to mention fragile—but no longer. It was as if French had arranged her as he wanted her, then pinned her to his arm to fade in the sun. A rich lepidopterist.

How rich? The jury was still out on that one. Rumour said he’d been a billionaire once, but he’d lost a chunk of change to his ex-wife in the divorce. Although he’d probably make the money back soon, and more. That was how the world worked—the rich got richer while the poor were left scraping around behind the couch cushions for their loose change.

Not that I was bitter or anything. I had a comfortable enough life—I just disliked flashy, Machiavellian hedge fund managers in general and Davis French in particular. I’d crossed paths with too many of those pricks when I lived in New York. In my time as a student assistant at the New York State Office of the Attorney General, I’d come to understand the dirty tricks they played, and over a summer internship at the NYPD, I’d heard stories about what they got up to after hours. They f****d around, found out, and then…poof. The charges disappeared. It wasn’t what you knew, but who you knew. And who you could pay off.

At first, I’d worried the asshole would push Romi onto drugs again, but I’d watched her from afar over the years, and as best I could tell, she’d stayed clean. If she went to a party, it was with French, and they tended to be the kind of stuffy red-carpet affairs that one walked out of at the end of the night rather than crawling. Hell, I never even saw her with a glass of wine in her hand. So I had to give French credit for keeping Romi on the straight and narrow, but I still didn’t have to like the guy.

He had what I’d lost.

Davis French’s presence in Baldwin’s Shore was the second reason I’d cried off dinner tonight. The first reason? I had no idea what to say to Romi. And considering I made my living by knowing the right words to use at any given time, that was a pretty big problem.

My phone buzzed across the desk, and a message popped up.

Brooke: Aw, work sucks! I’ll make up a plate for you to reheat when you get home, hope the case prep goes okay x

Shit. I hated lying to my sister.

I twisted the cap off the bottle of Scotch, took a long swallow. Coughed as the fire burned down my throat. I’d never been much of a drinker—beer, sure, but not hard liquor. How long would Romi be in town? A week? Two weeks? She’d want to bury her mom, but the ME didn’t seem to be in any hurry to release the body. Body. There hadn’t been much left of Serena Mendez, just a pile of bones arranged where she’d fallen. Or, more likely, where she’d been dumped. Nobody believed she’d ventured into that crawl space of her own accord.

Fuck, Romi must be hurting, and I couldn’t even give her a hug. Couldn’t offer to assist with the funeral or tell her how sorry I was. At least Brooke would help out. And Luca, although I saw the pain in his eyes every time he spoke about his mom. Plus Colt was around, and Brie, and Addy. And Davis. I might not have been able to stand the guy, but I had to concede that he was probably good at organising. Or he had staff to do that s**t. Either way, Romi wouldn’t be on her own.

But being cut out of her life still hurt. I’d tried to call her after she got out of rehab, of course I had, but she’d changed her number. My emails bounced back. I couldn’t even resort to a pen and paper because Romi didn’t have an address. For years, she’d travelled the world as a nomad, staying in hotels when she had a job to do or occasionally renting an apartment if she needed to stick in one place for longer. That night in New York, she’d borrowed a penthouse from a friend who was out of town, a photographer, and every wall had been covered in moodily lit pictures, including half a dozen of Romi herself.

She’d found me checking them out in the early hours, padding up behind me on silent feet, her hair still damp from the shower. Caught red-handed, or rather, red-faced since she’d been posing practically nude. I’d tried to pretend I was admiring the view of the city, but Romi wasn’t stupid. Naive, sometimes, and too easily led, but not stupid.

“It’s okay; you can look.”

“I didn’t mean to… These are personal.”

“I was just doing my job.” She paused, studied the pictures herself. “Does it make you uncomfortable, looking at me like this?”

“No, not— A little,” I admitted.

“Why?”

Because now I had a semi and she was standing in front of me in a silk kimono.

But that wasn’t an answer I could give, so like every good law student, I’d dodged the question.

“Doesn’t posing like that make you uncomfortable?”

“For Quentin? No, not in the slightest. He’s a master behind the lens. Plenty of photographers are creeps, but I avoid working with them.” A shrug. “I’m lucky that I don’t need the money. Anyhow…” She took a step back. “Look all you want. I know you won’t touch me because you made some stupid agreement with my brother.”

She knew about the pact? “How did you…?”

“Find out? Luca told me one night when I questioned why he didn’t man up and ask Brooke to go on a date with him. So even if I was standing right in front of you naked, you’d keep your hands off.” Romi flashed the dirty smile that had gained her a whole damn fan club and slipped the robe off one shoulder. “Hey, I’ll prove it.”

“Romi, don’t.”

I made a grab for the top of the robe, but it slipped farther down her arms, and then she beat me to the sash and the whole thing pooled on the floor. Romi strutted away from me on tiptoes, one hand on her hip, ass swaying as if she were on the runway. I groaned out loud. Was she trying to kill me?

“Romi, put the damn robe back on.”

“Make me.”

She’d been drunk earlier when I rescued her from her friend’s place, but dammit, I thought she’d sobered up. I’d made her vegan grilled cheese. Poured a carafe of coffee into her. And now…now she’d turned into a monster. A temptress. I told myself I needed to tuck Romi into bed and then get back to my sister—I’d abandoned her at a Broadway show when I got the panicked call from Luca that Romi was in trouble—but my traitorous d**k had other ideas. As Romi twirled and sashayed back toward me, it turned to rock, and of course she noticed.

“That really was a stupid agreement you made. We could have had so much fun together, you and me.”

I found myself nodding in agreement. “Yeah, totally f*****g dumb.”

Damn, she had perfect t**s. Small, but high and firm, just begging to be sucked. And she waxed everywhere.

Stop staring, asshole. I stooped to pick up the robe, then averted my gaze as I held it out.

“Put this back on.”

“But it’s so hot in here. Don’t you think it’s hot?”

“Romi…” I practically growled her name. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m having a great time. You should loosen up. Take that stick out of your butt every now and again. Do you need a hand?”

Since I was still looking away, she caught me by surprise when she squeezed my ass. When I jerked my head around, her lips were three inches from mine and I was staring straight into mesmerising brown eyes. In bare feet, she stood half an inch taller than me. The perfect height for… No, don’t even think about that.

This. This was what I’d been afraid of all those years ago. That Romi would break down my defences and leave me raw. Exposed. Bleeding. But at that moment, I didn’t think. Couldn’t think. When she kissed me, I kissed her back, and soft soon turned into frantic. My shirt disappeared. Romi rubbed herself against me like a cat, lithe and practically purring, then her hands went to my belt buckle.

Holy f**k.