Loving The Better Brother novel Chapter 6

WILLOW

I woke up to warmth and something solid pressed against my back. For a moment, I snuggled deeper into the warmth, wanting to sleep more. Then reality snapped into place.

My eyes flew open. I stiffened, then pushed myself forward, scrambling to put space between us. The movement made the sheets rustle, and I sucked in a sharp breath as memories slammed into me all at once.

I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest, my heart pounding far too fast for a quiet morning. I turned to look at him before I could stop myself.

That was a mistake.

Tristan was still asleep, one arm flung carelessly over the pillow, light brown hair slightly mussed. In the soft light filtering through the curtains, he looked younger.

For a split second, my irritation wavered. Then the memories increased my irritation again. The way I had looked at him. The way I had sounded. The way I had wanted him.

Heat rushed to my face.

I lifted a hand and lightly smacked my own forehead. “Crap,” I whispered.

What was I thinking?

No—worse. I knew exactly what I was thinking. I hadn’t been completely drunk. I’d been sober enough to make choices. I’d known exactly who he was.

A Hale.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Why did I do that?

The answer came too easily. Deep inside, I knew it was because Marcus had shattered something in me, and Tristan had been there at exactly the wrong moment.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to push the thoughts away. I couldn’t afford to get tangled with another Hale.

I needed to leave.

Now.

I slid out of bed carefully, keeping my movements slow so I wouldn’t wake him. My feet touched the cool floor, and a shiver ran through me.

I glanced back at him once more.

He stirred slightly, turning his face toward the pillow, but he didn’t wake. There was something strangely domestic about the sight, and it made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t like.

Don’t romanticize this, Willow.

I took a steadying breath and focused on practical things.

First: get dressed.

Second: get out.

I looked around for my clothes. That was when I realized they weren’t where they should be.

My dress was on the floor, but it wasn’t just tossed there. It was torn. It was ruined in a way that made it completely unwearable. One strap was hanging by a thread. The zipper was broken.

My shoes were tipped over near the couch.

My undergarments were nowhere in sight.

I stared at the mess, disbelief and irritation bubbling up.

“Damn him,” I muttered under my breath.

Every piece of clothing I had worn last night was ruined!

I crossed my arms over my chest. I wasn’t sure if I was more upset about the state of my clothes or the fact that a part of me remembered exactly how they’d ended up that way.

I shook my head sharply.

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