I’ve tried my best to mull it over, but Brian is a prideful man, descending from a family of wealth. He’s held to a very high standard by his parents. If he’s not climbing the ladder, then he’s not worth his parents’ time. I think he was trying to land some big scores for his clients to benefit them and prove to his parents he has value.
I could not imagine living a life where you have to prove yourself to your parents day in and day out because their love is conditional at best.
Either way, they don’t get along well, and I just don’t know what Breaker is going to say when I tell him. I’m not sure if he’ll be happy, upset . . . if he tries to talk me out of it, I have no clue. And that’s mainly because we haven’t spoken about Brian much. We kind of just . . . forget that he’s a thing in my life whenever we hang out. It’s better that way.
But now . . . now I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do.
My phone chirps with a text, and I glance down to read it.
Breaker: Cronuts coming your way. I have a meeting with our lawyer this morning, or else I’d join you.
Smiling, I text him back.
Lia: Cronuts for what?
Breaker: For ruining our night last night. I tried to pull it together, but I couldn’t quite get there. Sorry, Lia.
Lia: No need to apologize. What are friends for? Can I get a rain check, though? These glass dice are calling my name.
Breaker: What do you have going on tonight? I’m free.
I give it some thought. Technically, I should probably go hang out with Brian tonight, but I’ll see him at lunch, and he does want me to tell Breaker, so maybe tonight would be a good idea.
Lia: Bring tacos. See you tonight.
Breaker: You know if I bring tacos, they’ll be the pickle-flavored ones.
Lia: Uh, yeah, that’s what I expect from you.
Breaker: I’ve broken you in.
Lia: Like a comfy pair of jeans.
I set my phone back down and smile to myself. As it always has been, texting Breaker—hanging out with Breaker—is so damn easy. And he gets that I need cronuts.
Okay, time to get some work done.
I hate the dress I’m wearing.
Absolutely hate it.
Brian got it for me maybe a month ago. He told me we were going out for some fun, and he took me shopping. Wanted to celebrate a check he’d just received by buying me some new dresses.
For one, I’m not a huge fan of dresses, especially dresses that conform to every inch of my body, leaving very little room to breathe or walk in. Also, this dress has flowers all over it, and I’m not against flowers, it’s just . . . these are little flowers, and it reminds me of something a teenager from the nineties would wear. And thirdly, it’s short. By God, is it short. The wind blows right up the bottom, giving me Marilyn Monroe vibes with every step.
But Brian bought it for me and asked if I would wear it, so here I am.
“Lia, wow,” Brian says as he walks up from behind. “You look stunning.”
I turn just in time for him to pull me into a hug, his hand falling to my lower back as he squeezes me.
His signature cologne—fresh and woodsy—surrounds me first, followed by his tight grip, and then the subtle hint of his lips pressed against my cheek.
When I pull away, I smile up at his handsome face.
I remember the first time I met him. I was out having drinks with my friend Tanya, who doesn’t get out much because she’s a mother of twins. She told me there was a guy who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off me, sitting directly behind me. When I turned around to look, Brian was sitting in a booth, beer in hand, his gaze on me. Our eyes locked, and he took that moment to come up to me. He saw that I was hanging out with my friend, so he didn’t want to intrude. Instead, he had me put my phone number in his phone so he could text me to get a cup of coffee.
He texted me the next day.
And that was that.
After a year and a half of being together, he’s still as handsome as ever.
“You look really good,” I say, tugging on the black suit he paired with a dark-blue button-up shirt.
“Thank you.” His hand clutches mine, and he says, “You ready for this? Mother is very excited.”
Yup. Mother. That’s what he calls his mom. It’s so formal. When he first used the term, I laughed because I thought it was a joke, but it wasn’t. Mother and Father are his parents. To me, they’re Mr. and Mrs. Beaver.
Brian Manchester Beaver.
Quite the name.
If I decide to hyphenate his name, I would be Ophelia Fairweather-Fern-Beaver.
Taking the last name Beaver doesn’t really scream something I want to do, but I also know that I would insult Brian if I didn’t. I don’t know. It’s a conundrum I’m trying not to think about too much.