With You Forever (Bergman Brothers, #4)

by Chloe Liese

For the hearts that love differently, and the hearts that love them for it.

My rental car blasts Kesha because, hello, I’m a woman on a solo trip, figuring out her shit—of course I’m listening to Kesha. There’s just one of her songs that I avoid. Because the last time I heard it, I did A Very Terrible Thing. I kissed Axel Bergman. Which isn’t the end of the world. I’m over it. It’s not like I fixate on it. Or daydream about it. Not about The Charades Kiss or Axel, who I haven’t seen since. Who I’m definitely not thinking about now, as I drive through his home state, that song filling the car before I can skip it, while a rainbow whooshes across the sky.

He stands, silent, staring at my mouth. Then, slowly, he takes a step closer. For once, he doesn’t leave like he always seems to when I get close. He doesn’t run. He stays. “I think…” he says hoarsely, leaning a little closer. I lean a little closer, too. “You think…?” Axel swallows roughly as his fingertips brush mine. It’s the faintest touch, but it seismic-booms through me, in tempo with the music, as if it’s the soundtrack to this tenuous, almost-something-moment. “I think,” he whispers, “I have a new appreciation for charades.” My mouth falls open in surprise. The silent giant just cracked a joke. He takes a step closer, placing us toe to toe, and his gaze settles on my mouth. He bends his head toward mine. He’s close. A little closer. And just as I realize he might be on the verge of kissing me back, sharp, warning spasms clutch my stomach, punching the air out of my lungs. In the world’s worst timing, I’m the one who pulls away. I’m the one who runs from the room. The moment stolen from me before it was even fully mine. That’s where it always ends, where the daydream leaves me, wondering, what if?

I wish I could say that kissing Axel Bergman in a moment of overzealousness for charades, then having to bolt for the bathroom in gastrointestinal agony, was the low point of my recent existence, but I can’t. Because since that night, my health nosedived to the point that I had to take a leave of absence from law school, and when I came back to the apartment after finalizing said leave of absence, defeated, exhausted, so fucking lost, I couldn’t stay one second longer. So here I am, directionless, doing something I haven’t in…ever. I’m trying to take care of myself.

“I admit that I have many weaknesses and that I am directionally challenged. I do not, however, admit to being lost.”

I set a hand on my stomach, which has started making warning twinges that I’m all-too-familiar with, especially since my old meds stopped working a few months ago. Thankfully, my new treatment has finally started giving me relief from my most serious ulcerative colitis symptoms, so I’m relatively much better—meaning I’m not incapacitated at home or in the hospital for dehydration and pain—but I have lasting damage to my intestines. Even while I’m in clinical remission, some symptoms are a permanent fixture in my life.

She and I have most of the West Coast between us these days, but we talk all the time, and she knows I’ve taken a leave of absence from Stanford Law. She just doesn’t know the medical reason. Because Willa doesn’t know I have ulcerative colitis. She knows I have a sensitive stomach and make more bathroom trips than most, but not why, not the worst of it. When I told her I was taking a leave of absence, I explained that I was stepping back to assess if law school was still the right path for me, which isn’t a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. I know. I hate keeping secrets from her, but I’ve had my reasons, and I believe they’re good ones.

We’ve been best friends since we met, which was as freshman roommates and newbies on the women’s soccer team at UCLA. It wasn’t long into our friendship that she shared her mom’s past battle with breast cancer and her new diagnosis of leukemia. That’s when I knew the last thing Willa needed was someone else to worry about. With the right medication and sheer unreliable luck, ulcerative colitis is one of those diseases that can behave itself for years. Mine did through college, with only a few minor episodes that I managed to handle without raising Willa’s suspicion. I hate lying, and I never wanted to keep it from her, but I simply felt in my heart that she didn’t need one more thing weighing on her. The wisdom of that choice was confirmed when her mother died our junior year. In the past few years since we’ve graduated, I haven’t known how to tell her. I’ve been afraid to worry her. I haven’t wanted anything to change between us. And the longer my lie of omission continues, the harder it gets to tell the truth. That’s why she doesn’t know how sick I’ve been recently. That’s why she thinks I’ve just been crushed by law school, and once again, it’s not a lie—it’s just not the whole truth. Law school has been stressful. I’ve loved it some moments, hated it others, and it’s unequivocally the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And then that stress, hours of studying, late nights, anxiety about doing my best, caught up with me, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. Your health or your ...

Willa’s boyfriend, Ryder, is the middle child of the seven Bergman siblings, a boisterous, close family that’s welcomed me into their fold. His mom, Elin, is a Swedish transplant whose hugs and homemaking are the stuff of dreams. His dad, who goes by Dr. B, is one of those people who instantly makes any gathering a party. While Willa and Ryder met when we were at UCLA, and Los Angeles is where the Bergmans now call home, their family’s early years were spent here in Washington State, often at their getaway property, the A-frame. The Bergmans are the chaotic, tight-knit family my only-child soul always wanted, and they’ve done nothing but make me feel welcome. Since Willa is as good as theirs, and I’m hers, now I’m as good as theirs, too. At least, I was, until The Charades Kiss with Axel, the oldest Bergman son. Not that they made it awkward. Apparently only Axel and I were traumatized by my rogue charades move. Nobody seemed remotely fazed afterward. Sure, they gasped when the kiss happened—I mean, it shocked everyone, including me—but by the time I came back from the bathroom, and found Axel pointedly absent, they’d moved on. Laughing, teasing, setting the table for dinner. Like it was nothing.

I can’t deal with that right now. I don’t have the spoons to think about the Bergmans, especially Axel. I have the spoons to stay at their empty A-frame for the next few weeks, hiding from reality while figuring out how I’m going to eventually face it again.

A wave of guilt crashes through me. Willa assumes I’m coming to the Bergmans for Thanksgiving, like I did last year, after Dad’s and my brief, early meal. I don’t want to tell her how unsure I am that I’ll make it. If I’ll feel well enough, because I just never know when it’s going to be a rough day and home is the only place I can handle being. If I can stand the embarrassment of seeing Axel since Kissgate.

“I’m serious about the waiting. At least until Skyler’s in the car. We just got her to stop saying ‘goddammit’ last week.” “I told you I’d watch your child. I made no promises to be a role model.” Bennett sighs. “Dude, she’s seven.” “She’s a board-game despot who whooped my ass at Candyland. Endure that, and let’s see how clean your mouth is.”

“You still can’t paint?” Bennett asks carefully. I shake my head. He knows the financial and professional situation I’m in, that this crisis at the A-frame could not have come at a worse time. Normally, faced with this predicament, I’d paint a few solid pieces, have a quick show and sale, and I’d be fine. Until recently, after having sold my art at a level that I never used to dream I could, I had a shit ton of money saved, and it would have been no problem. I put some of it into A-frame repairs that I hired Parker and Bennett’s crew for a few months ago, but once I’d addressed the most pressing issues, I paused that work and invested the bulk of it in my brother Ryder’s just-underway business, an REI-style shop that also offers outdoors activities he’s working to make accessible to anyone who wants to experience nature. Ryder’s undergoing training, getting certified, interviewing people to build an inclusive team, buying expensive equipment, outfitting the facility, all of which requires a large upfront sum. Rather than him dealing with interest rates through a bank loan, I told him to take the money and consider it an investment in his business. That’s why—even though he only lives an hour away, and if there’s anyone I’d trust with helping me handle this crisis, it’s him—I haven’t told my younger brother what’s going on. He’d offer the money back, put his dream on hold. And I won’t let that happen. Not when he’s happier than I’ve seen him in years. I’m not doing a damn t...

I’m not telling anyone else in my family, either. If they knew what I’ve done and plan to do for the A-frame, my parents would say it’s an unreasonable investment, and my siblings would think they owe me. It’s not, and they don’t. This is the least I can do. I know I’m not easy to feel close to. I’m not warm and affectionate like the rest of my family. I don’t hug spontaneously or laugh often or thrive in the intimate chaos that defines our large family. I don’t love the way they do. So I do this. I protect the place we care about, the A-frame that’s been the heart of our family since my parents bought it. This is a way that I love them. And nothing’s going to stop that.

I’ve vehemently ignored my inheritance since the moment I was told about Uncle Jakob’s will. Because it came with the worst possible condition he could have placed on me. “Did you conveniently forget the condition?” “So follow the letter of the law, not the spirit of it. You don’t have to find true love to get married. Just someone willing to partner with you and treat it like a business venture. You could find someone in a heartbeat, I bet.”

A knot tightens in my chest. I shut my eyes, and there she is, vivid, breathtaking. Rooney. This is all her fault—not the house, but those blank and half-finished canvases back in my studio. It’s her fault that I’ve been fighting a losing creative battle for months. And it’s that fucking charades kiss that was the death blow. Now, every time I pick up a brush, it’s not abstract lines and bold colors. It’s peaches and pinks, ocean blue-greens and spun honey-gold. I paint something—someone—I shouldn’t. That has to end. I need so much money, and fast. I haven’t painted anything I can sell in over two months. Everything I have painted is already sold. If I can’t get past this creative block, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I spot my mother’s brother, Uncle Jakob, who came all the way from Östersund, a man whose quiet intensity, whose daily ritual of sitting outside early in the morning, drinking coffee, and sketching the view, I’ve recognized in myself. A man who I thought would respect a person’s choice for a solitary life if they decided that was for the best. And then he left me a shocking amount of money with the condition that I had to be married. It felt like being slapped.

He didn’t know me well, but he saw me enough times that I’d thought he would intuit marriage wasn’t likely for someone like me, someone who can barely talk to unfamiliar people, whose words come out blunt and sharp with the people I do know and love, who avoids unfamiliar touch and rarely hugs and disappears when rooms grow loud, no matter how happy the occasion, because it’s just too much. I’ve tried not to be resentful. But right now I am. That inheritance could really come in handy. And I have to get married in order to access it.

Pain is always a warning, and it’s vulnerable, not knowing when pain will become urgency.

My heart twists. I’ve only known the Bergmans for a few years, since Willa and Ryder got serious, but they feel as close to a real family as I’ve ever known. And, unless things become miraculously not-awkward between Axel and me, I’m going to have to leave it behind.

That’s when I recognize who I just shoved to his staircase doom. Axel Bergman.

Then again, looks can be deceiving. If I had a nickel for every time I made the mistake of telling someone I was sick—and they said disbelievingly, “But you look fine!”—I’d be rolling in shiny little Thomas Jeffersons.

I need a word with the universe, whoever’s in charge up there, because I truly resent that this man who leaves a room whenever I enter it seems genetically designed to turn me on. Just hearing him speak, quiet and deep, makes me want to shut my eyes and arch into the air like his voice is a taunting fingertip tracing my skin. If I weren’t so physically miserable, I’d be despicably turned on.

“What is this place?” I ask him. Glancing my way, he pulls my suitcase from the trunk. “Somewhere you can stay tonight.” “Oh, that’s not necessary. I just need the restroom, then I’ll get back on the road.” He frowns, glancing up at the sky. “It’s almost dark. Stay the night. Figure out your plans tomorrow.”

It was like I was possessed, driving her to the house, telling her to stay, writing that note, when all I want is for Rooney to be as far away from me as possible. Because for two years I’ve hidden my attraction to her, and that’s been possible through one thing: distance. So what do I do when she tumbles into my life? I invite her to spend the fucking night. Brilliant, Axel. Just brilliant.

Even though they don’t know what’s going on with the A-frame, there’s no good excuse for Ryder and Willa sending Rooney here. This is my stretch of time, and they both knew it. Something’s up. I don’t know what, but it’s got Bergman bullshit written all over it.

Willa said Rooney’s going through a rough patch and needed somewhere to stay for a while, so I told her to have at it. You don’t even stay at the A-frame, Ax. You built your own damn house on the property. What’s the big deal? Are you going to catch cooties from sharing an acre of land with her for a few weeks?

Ryder says Rooney came here because she’s going through a rough patch, and while I don’t know what’s going on, I know she didn’t seem like herself, either. And that’s what turned me inside out, what made me throw her suitcase in my trunk and drive her to the house. I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Because after I nudged her out of the A-frame, it felt like my heart was splintering in my chest. I stared at her profile as she peered up at the house, that honey-blonde hair just past her shoulders, wind-whipped and dancing, like the breeze couldn’t help but slip its cool fingers through those spun-gold strands. And I knew something was different. Something was wrong. Her wide blue-green eyes weren’t sparkling and there were half-moon bruises beneath them. Her normally glowing skin was pale, no rosy flush in her cheeks. Two deep dimples that flash every time she smiles were nowhere to be seen.

She was hurting. And I didn’t want her to hurt anymore. I don’t want her to hurt ever.

With no money, the A-frame’s done for. My parents will find out. They’ll absolutely veto the financing necessary to shore up the place, and that will leave one thing and one thing only: selling it. And then this place will be lost to us. Unless I bite the bullet and take Bennett up on his offer, let him and Parker help me find someone who’ll enter into a civil union only for the money and with no other expectations, a marriage that’s purely transactional. It’s bleak, but it’s the only solution.

“Sorry,” he mutters, turning and opening the door again. A lean brindle greyhound dog stands outside. “Lie down,” he says gently. The dog scoots closer and nudges him, earning Axel’s attention long enough for me to fish my phone out of its undesirable location in my leggings. After Axel gives him a few head rubs, the dog tucks itself into a small wood structure next to the front door that I somehow failed to notice earlier—what looks like a tiny A-frame doghouse, complete with a plush plaid fleece sleeping bag tucked inside. The dog plops down on top of it and blinks big brown eyes our way.

“Anything you can’t eat?” he asks, stacking utensils, oil, salt, and pepper onto a tray. “I don’t eat meat. Or gluten. I’m a joy to cook for.”

Wagging its tail, it smells my hand, followed by a hearty lick. I crouch down and pet it, my hands running along its bristly, short hair. I peer up at Axel, who’s frowning at me. He glances away. “How long have you had a dog?” “He’s not my dog.” The dog spins away from me and ambles toward him, as if to prove him wrong.

“No one knows what’s going on, except for me and my friends who own a construction business, and that’s only because they’re going to do the work on it.” “Why?” The dog flops to Axel’s feet again, setting his chin across his boot. Axel pats his side and says, “The place needs significant, expensive updates. The siblings handle small tasks and troubleshooting when it’s each of our turns here, but the bigger issues have compounded, some of which I already knew about, others which I didn’t realize until it was my stint here. I’m the only one who knows about those big updates and their cost.” “Why not tell your family? You don’t think they’d want to contribute or have ideas for how to handle it?” “My siblings would feel obligated to pay or obligated to me if they knew what I’ve paid, neither of which I want. And my parents will certainly have ideas for work this expensive.” He stabs a bite of omelet and brings it to his mouth. “Ideas involving a ‘For Sale’ sign.” I lower the bite of omelet I had halfway to my mouth. “But they love the A-frame, don’t they?” “Yes, but they’re also practical people. They’ve brought it up occasionally, selling the place, with the precise concerns I share—like any property, eventually just patching things up isn’t enough. They’ve said they don’t want the siblings to shoulder a heavy financial burden, and they aren’t willing to invest much in it, either, since Dad’s planning to retire soon and they can’t exactly afford to empty their savings.” He p...

My heart spins as it clicks into place—why he’s doing this, who he’s doing it for. His family. He’s taking on this heavy financial and mental burden of saving the place behind their backs…because this is how he loves to love his family, because somewhere under all that surliness is someone with a big soft spot for his people.

“This is your love language.” He freezes with the poker. “My what?” “Your love language.” Axel frowns. Another jab of the fire sends sparks into the air. “I don’t have a love language.” “Everyone does.” “Not me.” I grin and lean toward him. “You show the people you love what they mean to you through sacrificial, generous action. That’s all it means.”

Unease becomes suspicion. I’ve heard of the Bergman family’s capacity for meddling, and I assumed that because I’m not one of them, I was immune. But what if I’m not? Are they trying to set us up? Why? Because of The Charades Kiss? That was just an embarrassing accident… Unless it wasn’t. Unless they gave me that kiss clue on purpose. Holy shit. I am a plausible victim of Bergman meddling.

Axel exhales roughly, and I glance up, then freeze. His green eyes flicker like dying embers, locked on my mouth. Heat flies through me, and my body sways toward him. His head bends, the world melting away as my heart thunders. It’s like The Charades Kiss all over again, those beautiful eyes locked on my mouth, air rushing from his lungs, our mouths close, closer— The dog’s loud bark outside the door shatters the moment, wrenching us apart.

“Axel, no. Please at least sleep on the couch. Just one night. Then I’ll leave tomorrow. I promise. Bright and early I’ll be out of your hair.” “I’m not… You’re not—” He clenches his jaw. “You don’t have to, Rooney. It’s not a problem.”

I curl onto my side, just as Rooney peers inside the tent, thermos of coffee in hand, flashing a smile brighter than the sun behind her. She’s wearing an outrageously fuzzy highlighter-yellow hat that clashes with her hair. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold air. She’s so beautiful, it hurts.

“She’s gluten-free,” I say around my bite. “She’s just too nice and doesn’t want you to feel bad that she can’t eat it.” Rooney gives me an alarmed, wide-eyed look. Parker smiles, offering her the plate again. “Luckily, you can eat it. I’m sorry, I should have mentioned. Skyler has celiac disease, so our kitchen’s dedicated gluten-free, and these are, too.” Rooney blinks from me to Parker. “Oh,” she says hesitantly. “Really?” Sky nods, knobby-kneed kid legs and yellow rain boots swinging off her chair. “Yep. You got celiac too?” “No,” Rooney says, shaking her head. “I’m gluten-intolerant. My stomach feels best when I don’t eat it.”

“but Ax needs the money for it. If he marries, he can access the inheritance his uncle gave him. Then he can pay for everything the place needs.” “We figured we’d come by with some consolation cinnamon rolls and brainstorm options,” Bennett says, glancing my way. “But then you were here when we showed up, and we just…assumed he’d beat us to the punch.”

“I’ve spent time with Axel’s family through Willa. She’s my best friend from college.” “We love Willa,” Bennett says warmly. “Makes two of us,” Rooney says on a smile. “Obviously, I missed her once she moved and got busy playing here, and she missed me. The Bergmans invited me over to visit whenever Willa and Ryder were in town to make the most of their time in LA, and in the past few years, I’ve come to love them. I mean, who wouldn’t love the Bergman family?” “And Axel?” Parker prompts. Rooney bites her lip, a soft blush kissing her cheeks. “We actually met at Willa’s first game here. And since then, I’ve just seen Axel when he comes down every once in a while for one of those visits.”

“He’s not my dog,” I remind everyone. “Oh, right,” Parker says. “The one you got up to date on his vaccinations, who you feed and bathe, who you built a mini A-frame doghouse for because he won’t come inside your place, even though it’s getting too cold for him to sleep outside, and who spends all day with you. That dog that’s definitely not yours.”

“What aren’t you telling us?” “Nothing.” “Experience dictates,” Bennett muses, “if you want to gauge Axel’s interest in someone, the quieter he is, the more it says.”

“Did you hear all of that?” “Hard not to,” she says. “You three have deep voices, and you weren’t very quiet.” Taking a few slow steps, she turns and leans against a tree, looking out toward the lake. “So you need someone to marry?” “For purely financial reasons, yes.” She nods, eyes still on the water. “It would take care of the A-frame. Fix whatever you need, take the pressure off of you, so you can pay for it quickly and keep your family in the dark.” “Yes,” I say slowly. “I’ll do it,” she says simply, pushing off the tree. Then she straightens the big fuzzy yellow hat and turns my way. “If you want me, that is.” I blink at her, stunned. “Why?” “Because I can. Because your family has been so kind to me, and now I can be kind back. Even in this small way.” “It’s not small. It’s getting married.” “‘For purely financial reasons,’” she repeats. “It’s not a big deal. I’m not a romantic, at least, not when it comes to marriage. I’m single and legally free to be your wife.” Wife. The word hits me like a body blow.

“It should be straightforward,” she says. “I’m no expert on family law, but I know enough to understand the basics of wills and conditions. There’s very little beyond demanding proof of marriage that’s enforceable for an inheritance condition in a court of law. So, like I said, it should be easy to take care of. Civil ceremony. Marriage license. Witnesses. Proof of that provided to the will’s executor. I’ll take a look at the documentation, if you like, make sure the terms are reasonable. I’m sure there’s a subsequent condition, too, like ‘after X amount of time.’” “I… Yes. There is. One year.” “That’s fine. I’ll be your legal wife for a year.” I blink at her, stunned. “You’re serious.” She shrugs, toeing the ground. “It’s not like I have much of anything else going on with my life.”

“No,” she says forcefully, shaking her head. “No money. I don’t want a cent.” “Then this isn’t an option. I couldn’t let you do this without getting anything in return.” Did I just say that? Am I really considering this? What other choice do you have? the voice of reason says. Rooney glances up at the trees, biting her lip. “I don’t need your money, and I don’t want it either. I just want to help. I just need…” Somewhere safe. I’m not very good at intuiting how other people feel. I struggle to know what I’m feeling often enough. But looking at her, I’m so sure I know exactly what she needs, and I know it’s going to be the death of me. “You can stay here,” I offer. “In my house.”

“What?” “Stay,” I tell her. “That’s what you need, right? Somewhere to stay for a while?” “Yes,” she says carefully. She glances my way, staring at me curiously. “Are you sure?” I nod. A faint smile warms her face, and God, am I a fool for it. “I promise I won’t bother you,” she says quickly. “Or kiss you. Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Again. I just handle self-consciousness with self-deprecating humor, and you said me mauling your mouth with mine was nothing, but it doesn’t feel like it, and if I’m staying here, I need to feel like it’s okay between us.”

After seventy-two hours of barely seeing each other, exchanging only necessary information and signatures, we have a valid marriage license, rings, wedding attire, an officiant, and witnesses—everything we need to ensure we have proof for the executor of my uncle’s will.