With You Forever (Bergman Brothers, #4)

by Chloe Liese

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “that’s how Bennett and I started. No-strings sex. Friends with benefits. Now look at us.” In an ideal world, I would have found strangers for witnesses who wouldn’t harass me as I anxiously awaited marrying for money, but they’re the only non-family people I can mildly tolerate, and beggars can’t be choosers.

He seemed like a safe bet, a living creature that would be hard to disappoint or inadvertently neglect when he wouldn’t even cross my threshold. When all he wanted was food and a few pats on the head, two meals a day, and somewhere safe and warm to sleep. But as he barks happily at my house’s opening front door and bounds back and forth with the kind of energy and strength he didn’t have when he first started living here, I wonder if maybe we’ve done more than just coexist. If maybe being with me has been good for him. If for once, showing something a little love in the way that I could hasn’t been a complete disaster.

And then the dog lands his muddy paws on her pristine clothing. All of us wince, except Rooney. Rooney laughs, warm and bright, all teeth and dimples and crinkled eyes, a face of pure happiness, right as the sun bursts out from behind the clouds. Soft, glittering, she looks like fresh snowfall kissed by sunlight. Watching her, that ache in my chest burrows and deepens. I glance away and adjust my shirt cuffs, then my collar, my brain making the connection as I inspect myself—my goddamn boutonniere matches the heather in Rooney’s hair. I scowl at Parker, who snuck it in there half an hour ago, but Parker just smiles at me and wiggles his eyebrows.

I’ve had three days to think over this marriage that I agreed to. I think I surprised myself as much as Axel when I volunteered to do it. At first, I thought perhaps it was as simple as the fact that while I’m a lover and probably always going to be a bit of a romantic, I am deeply disillusioned with marriage, and so marrying someone for such purely practical reasons is nothing to me. But then I got thinking. And I realized it’s a little more complex than that. I offered to marry Axel because right now, I feel helpless, at the whim of my unpredictable body and my furloughed plans. And doing something, having a purpose, a way of being helpful has given my life that structure and purpose that I was starving for. Without my days crammed from sunrise to sunset with school, without the grueling pace of the past few years, I’ve felt so lost. But not now. Now I have intention again and a plan in place that I admire, even if only for a little while. I’m happily not getting an inheritance out of this, but I am getting something I desperately need: a direction, a purpose…and oddly enough, a sense of belonging. It’s not just Axel saving the A-frame, loving his family this way—it’s us. Together. Not as lovers, and probably not even quite as friends, but as partners. This plan takes both of us, fully committed to it. And that sense of connection, however practical and strategic, is something I didn’t know how much I wanted until it was right in front of me.

“He could use a kiss is all I’m saying.” She holds out her hand for the rag. Hesitantly, I return it to her. “Why do you say that?” “’Cause he’s grumpy. And kisses make the grumps go away.” I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think he’s that grumpy.” She gives me a disbelieving look. “He’s so grumpy.”

“He’s serious. And quite possibly very shy. Not everyone is as social as you and me.” “Why not? I don’t get it.” Glancing over my shoulder, I watch Axel adjusting his cuffs, clearing his throat. He looks nervous. “I don’t either. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

let’s celebrate this fecund joining—” Bennett snorts and nearly drops his camera. “Fecund?” Skyler wrinkles her nose. “What’s that mean?” “I’ll tell you later,” Parker mutters, tucking her against him and earning her scowl.

Suddenly, his hands are sliding up my neck, cupping my jaw, and—oh, God—his lips are on mine, warm and soft. My head falls back and the shaking in my limbs dissolves. Air rushes into my lungs as I breathe in cool air and warm Axel. He’s kissing me. He’s kissing me. Hands limp at my sides, I sway toward him as he steps closer and tips my head to deepen our kiss. His mouth nudges mine gently, as he breathes and our lips meet, hard and slow, a dizzying, patient rhythm. My eyes flutter shut as his fingertips drift down the nape of my neck in soothing strokes, as his thumbs slide along my jaw. Our mouths don’t open. No tongues or teeth or groaned pleasure. And yet it’s a kiss more powerful than any from my past. It’s a kiss that echoes through my bones and grounds me to the earth. It’s a kiss that calms and soothes and caresses with tenderness. It’s exactly what I needed.

I have to fight that impulse to escape and disappear. I’m not going to do that today. Because I told myself I’d do this right. To thank her. To show Rooney how much I realize she’s sacrificed. In her marrying me, I get an inheritance and everything I need to save the A-frame. Whereas Rooney gets somewhere to stay for a month. If I weren’t so desperate for her help, I’d have said no simply because of how unequally this serves both of us. But I am that desperate, and she, in her determined kindness, is that eager to help. The least I can do is marry her and not vanish afterward.

“Making sure you could eat brunch?” I ask, eyes on my task. “I would think that’s decency.” “You’d be surprised how inconvenient some people find having to accommodate it.”

“You weren’t taught to cook?” I ask her. “Your parents never showed you?” She shakes her head. “No.” For being such a talkative person, she says very little about her family. “Who cooked, then?” “My parents had a chef.” Rooney turns and leans her back against the counter, looking through the window over the sink. “Which was a luxury, obviously. It just didn’t feel like my friends’ family meals when I ate with them. I love that about your family. All the traditions and family recipes your mom talks about. I envy that sense of…belonging? Belonging and connection to all these people before me who are part of what made me who I am.”

I want to tell her that you can have all the traditions and family recipes you like and still not feel like you belong. But I would never tell her that. I’ve never told anyone that.

“I’ll do the dishes,” she says, reaching for my plate. “No!” It comes out louder than intended, but I need her to sit and relax and stop being so damn helpful. Problem is, I can’t stand right now and take over, because—erection.

Defeated, I open the door and hold it for her. Except the dog bounds up to us and goes in first. I stare at him. He came inside. He’s never wanted to. He whines and glances at Rooney, big brown eyes pinned on her. Rooney crosses the threshold, then crouches in front of him, running her hands down his body in slow, steady strokes. “You’re such a sweetheart,” she croons to him, affectionately massaging around his ears. The dog shuts his eyes and sways dreamily. Lucky bastard.

I wish I knew how to fill it for Rooney’s sake, I never will be a small-talker. I blank on what to say and have no energy for it. And yet, as I steal occasional glances as we tear through the dishes, Rooney seems content—a small smile on her face as she works.

“Well…good.” “It was pretty forward of you, though.” My head whips her way. She’s smiling. She’s teasing me. “I suppose…” I sip my tea, then shrug. “I owed you for an unsolicited kiss, though, didn’t I?” Her gasp echoes in the kitchen. In one smooth move, she pulls the damp dish towel off her shoulder and whips it my way, hitting me in the stomach. “So much for you being a gentleman.” “I never said I was a gentleman.”

Oh fuck. “You wear glasses?” I ask hoarsely. His hands go to the frames, like he’s not even sure they’re there. “Uh. Yes.” “I’ve never seen you wear them before.” “Contacts were bugging me,” he says. Thin frames, their pattern is a swirl of coffee and cream that brings out the rich chocolate color of his hair and lashes, the tiny flecks of caramel in his green eyes. He looks absolutely decadent.

I see Axel’s staring at my hand. I follow his gaze. And then I blush again. I’m still wearing my ring. My gaze snaps to his hand, and my stomach does a weird flip-flop. He’s still wearing his ring. And the hand that wears it is splayed wide, like a fist he just unclenched and flexed. He glances down and fists his hand tight, eyes on his ring. “I, uh—” He clears his throat. “I just realized now that I’m still wearing mine, too. It’s oddly…comfortable.” I laugh quietly, peering down at the smooth white-gold band. “Same. I mean…we could just wear them, to be safe—authentic, that is. Especially with the crew coming—not that I’m implying all construction workers are lecherous creeps, most of them aren’t, but there’s always a few bad apples, and I wouldn’t mind sporting the universal signal for ‘taken’ so I don’t have to worry about getting hit on. Not that I’m saying I get hit on all the time or that I’ll get hit on by them—” I gasp for air after that verbal monstrosity, forcing myself to stop. What a disaster. I haven’t nervous-rambled like this in years.

“Why are we doing this?” Silence hangs in the air, but for the sound of wind on the nearby water. Axel scrubs the back of his neck, then adjusts his glasses. “It’s not every day you get married. Even if it’s for…nontraditional reasons.”

“I’m just trying to be considerate. I tend to lose track of when I’m moving too quickly for other people, which isn’t hard, given how long my stride is.”

MEEEEE

What am I going to do, make a habit of kissing the man I married until I go home? Even I’m not that good at compartmentalizing.

“I’ve never painted a sunrise or a sunset.” “Why?” I ask, peering out at the sunset, too. After a long beat of silence, he says, “Promise you won’t laugh?” I turn slightly, facing him. “Of course.” “I’ve never painted a sunrise or a sunset because…I’m not sure I can do them justice. Both times of day, the light changes so quickly, it’s absurdly difficult. I have this fear that I won’t be able to get it right, and it’ll ruin it for me, this thing I love, that’s so beautiful it makes something in me—” He sets a hand over his heart and rubs. “Ache.”

asked Axel about painting, and I got an answer about him. About how deeply he feels, how hard he is on himself. “I think I understand,” I say quietly. Axel glances my way, our eyes holding. “You do?” “The deeper you love, the deeper the risk of disappointment, and hurt, and loss. The more you care, the more pain you might face. And yet, I hope you won’t always let that stop you,” I tell him. “Fear of failure, fear of not living up to these standards you hold yourself to, which sound pretty damn high. Because…well, have you ever considered that the depth of feeling for the subject is the reason you’re the very best person to paint it?”

“I think if anyone could do it, Axel, paint something so complexly beautiful, it would be you.” “And if I do it terribly?” he asks. “Art is subjective. You’re the judge of it, right? Of course you have your standards, but maybe you’ll come to realize they need to be adjusted or they were unreasonable to begin with. Maybe you’ll muscle through a few rough attempts before you make something you’re proud of, and it will be everything you wanted.” I reach carefully toward him, extracting the leaf I tossed into his hair. “Maybe even more.”

“You’re supposed to be chivalrous and catch me,” I remind him, starfish-ed on the ground. He shakes his head. “You’ll never learn your lesson.” “And what’s that?” “That I’m not the kind of person you count on to catch you.” My stomach drops. “That’s not a very kind thing to say about yourself.” “Kind or not, it’s true.”

“I’m willing to negotiate,” I tell him. “I’ll allow you to sleep in the tent—” “You’ll allow me?” “That’s what I said. I’ll allow you to rough it for sleep, if you and I eat dinner together inside, then you get yourself comfortable for the night. A hot meal and a shower in the house for you, not whatever you’ve been doing thus far.” He massages the bridge of his nose, beneath his glasses. “I have a wash-up space in my studio.” “Yeah, and I imagine it’s meant for rinsing off paint and cleaning brushes, not showering a grown, taller-than-average man. A proper meal and a proper indoor shower. These terms are nonnegotiable.” He sighs wearily. “I had to marry a lawyer.”

“That dog does not have a name.” “He does as of yesterday,” I tell him, nudging off my boots and sighing as I flop back onto the mattress. “Harry and I decided over a veggie-hot-dog campfire lunch—he loves those veggie dogs, by the way—that he needs a name and someone to love him. For the next couple of weeks, I’m his gal.” “Absolutely not,” he says. “Why not?” “When you’re gone, he’ll have expectations of me.” “Would that be the worst thing?” I ask. “Yes.”

“Stop tempting me with promises of sleep, Margaret.” I wallop him with a pillow, making him grunt. “Shh,” he says, seriously. “The skunk.” “My first name is something you take to your grave, Axel Bergman. I rue the day I had to share a marriage license with you.” “I don’t know why you’re so upset about it. Margaret’s a pretty name.” His humor is so dry, I can’t tell if he’s teasing me, so I wallop him again, just to be safe.

“It doesn’t suit me. They chose it because it was my dad’s mother’s name and it’s close to my mom’s name—Margo. But it’s just not me.” Axel’s mouth lifts faintly in the corner, his focus otherwise uninterrupted. “It’s a nice name. It’s just not a good fit. You’re a Rooney.”

“Why Harry?” “The dog is named in honor of my other husband, the one and only Harry Styles, of course. Because like the icon, that pup makes me smile and moves to his own rhythm.” A muscle in Axel’s jaw tics as he takes another sip of whiskey. “That guy’s overrated.” “You watch your mouth. Harry Styles is a gift to humanity.” Axel shrugs. Silence falls between us.

“Can you keep a secret?” “I think I’ve proven I can.” “So…I have an IBD. Ulcerative colitis.” He glances my way, his eyes not quite meeting mine in the darkness. “I don’t know what that is.” “An inflammatory bowel disease. Sexy term, I know. It’s an autoimmune disease that targets my large intestine.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he says. “I’m just—” Turning on the bed, he actually abandons his skunk vigil to face me. “That sounds serious.” “Well, it can be. Mine’s pretty well managed. Well, it was, after I was first sick and diagnosed in high school. But it got out of control recently again, which is one of the reasons why I’m here, living in your house instead of wrapping up law school.” Axel stares down at my hands held protectively over my stomach, and then he sets his hand over one of them, dragging it his way. Studying my palm, he slides a finger along my lifeline. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” I tell him quietly, watching in bewilderment as he touches me this way. Gently. Tenderly. “It was the right call.”

“You don’t have to say it’s okay,” he says. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” In so many ways, I almost admit. I stare at him, moonlight tracing his face, his eyes on my hand, which he’s…massaging. He’s massaging my hand. Maybe he had more whiskey while I was in the shower. “It’s not too bad,” I tell him. Air huffs from his nose. “Coming from you, that means it’s excruciating.” “Sometimes,” I admit. “But not now. It’s more just…how it affects everything. That’s part of what’s fucking with me. I’m on a new medication that works, but what if—no, when—it stops working and I have to hope another med will be as effective? It’s a chronic condition—it’s not going anywhere, and I’ll always have it. How will that affect my ability to do a job down the road? To engage clients, work on a case, if I’m sick to my stomach, always having to rush off to the bathroom or in bed with pain?”

“Yes?” Slowly he sets my hand back before reaching for the other and massaging that one. “Please don’t put words in my mouth. I—” Swallowing slowly, he slides his thumb down my palm, making me arch reflexively in pleasure. “Sometimes I just need time to say what I want. It’s harder when people jump in.” “Sorry,” I whisper. “I get nervous when I talk about it.” He nods. “I understand. But you don’t need to, with me.” Tears prick my eyes. It’s just a little kindness, but it’s toward such a tender part of my life, it feels like the hardest hug and the biggest smile and the sweetest kiss. It feels good to be accepted, to be not only told but shown that I’m safe to be not just smiley Rooney or happy Rooney, but all-of-me Rooney. Even the one who’s really fucking sick sometimes.

And that’s when he tugs me close and his mouth finds mine, warm and tender and so perfect, air catches in my throat. It’s the kind of kiss I never really thought I’d experience. The kind that builds, warm and deep inside me, then spills and fills every corner of my body. The kind that makes the need for air an annoyance and only two hands to feel, a maddening frustration.

His mouth brushes mine again, harder this time, more insistent, deep, long kisses as his hand wraps around my waist. “We shouldn’t do this,” he says. “Probably not,” I agree, sliding my hand over his ribs, feeling the solidity of his body, warm and strong beside me. “But it is our wedding day. I say we give ourselves a pass.” He groans when I bite his bottom lip. “Just tonight.” “Just tonight,” I whisper as he yanks me closer and lines up our bodies.

“Tournesol!” one of the guys calls. “Pass the water, please?” Rooney breaks from her conversation with Skyler, then smiles at the guy as she hands him the water pitcher. I watch him smile back at her and something snaps, dead center in my chest. “What did he call her?” Bennett glances between me and the guy down at Rooney’s end of the table. I put in a new floor with him, but even now, I can’t remember his name. I remember his faint French accent, but I’m shit with names. “Who, Vic?” Bennett says. “He calls her Tournesol. Means ‘sunflower.’” My hand wraps around my knife so tight, my knuckles throb. Parker clears his throat, then leans toward Bennett. “In case you’re wondering, Axel is fine. He’s not sexually frustrated, and he’s definitely not jealous. He’s just been married to, avoiding, and celibate with a woman he clearly wants. Two weeks down. How many more to go?” “Two,” I mutter. “She’s going home for Thanksgiving. That endearment. Does everyone call her that?” “On the crew, yeah.” Bennett shrugs. “Vic started it, and it caught on. She stops up every day and hangs with Skyler between when I pick her up from school and when we have dinner, so the guys have gotten to know her.” “What?” “Yep,” he says airily. “You’re just always conveniently not around at that time.” Rooney laughs at something Vic says, all bright teeth and sparkling eyes, and dammit, he even gets her dimples—both dimples.

“Say”—Parker reaches behind his chair for the kitchen island and plucks up two gluten-free cupcakes Sarah sent, then turns and sets them in front of me—“why don’t you go offer Sky and Rooney some dessert?” Fueled by that twisty, sore ache beneath my ribs, I snatch up the cupcakes and walk the length of the table to where Rooney and Skyler sit, heads together, bent over a piece of paper.

She’s teasing me. I think I like when she teases me, even if I usually don’t catch it at first. It’s worth watching her playfully glare at me, then figuring it out.

“I get it! That’s so cool. You two should make a science book. You write the words, Rooney. Uncle Ax can draw the pictures.” As that thought flashes through my mind, an odd, unsettling warmth spills through my limbs.

“So you’re going to pick up your medicine, then come back?” I ask her, still crouched between them. Rooney chews her mouthful, shaking her head. “No, I get the medication there, then I’ll come home—I mean, back here.” “I’ll drive you, then.” “What?” Rooney blinks at me. “Why would you do that?” “You said it makes you tired. That you crash afterward. I’d prefer that to happen on my bed instead of the highway.”

I stand, my hand still lingering on her chair. The one with my wedding ring. Purely to keep everyone away from her. Not because she’s mine or anything. Not because I’m feeling toxically territorial—well, not too toxically territorial—but because she’s here to rest and relax and be on her own, not to be teased and flirted with by a bunch of good-looking, fit guys her age working on the house, calling her sunflower.

“Sorry.” Something dangerously close to affection swells inside me. “Why are you sorry?” “Because I fainted,” he says tightly. “You were trying to be there for me.” I stare at him, lips pursed in a frown, the prominence of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “It means a lot that, even though needles freak you out, you stayed.” “Hm.” He squeezes my hand, head dropping back again.

I was going to be a nerdy eighth-grade science teacher.” He frowns. “What changed?” I stare down at the juice box, spinning the straw. “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got time.” Sighing, I give him a look, but his eyes are shut, and if he senses me staring at him, he doesn’t let on. “It was a lot of things. Partly my personality—I’m very competitive with myself and achievement oriented. Partly my family life.” “Your family life?” “My parents’ marriage was rocky. Lots of tension and hissed arguments in the kitchen when they thought I was studying or watching TV or up in bed. One night, I came down to refill my water glass, and right when I was about to enter the kitchen—” My throat catches as I remember it, such a visceral memory. I’m thirteen again, braces hurting my mouth, my hair up in a haphazard ponytail, all scrawny long limbs that I haven’t quite grown into. And I see it just how I did over a decade ago—my mom right in my dad’s face, the pain in her expression. As I pull myself out of that memory and swallow the lump of tears in my throat, I’m more grateful than ever for Axel’s quiet way, the patience in his silence. He doesn’t push me or pressure me. He just slowly takes the juice box from me and links our hands together. “My parents fought,” I tell him. “And I overheard things I wasn’t supposed to. I was an unplanned pregnancy from a fling they had while working on a movie together.” Axel is quiet, but he’s listening. I feel his attention, his presence, as he watches me...

“I know they did their best, and I know, in their way, they love me. But sometimes people love you their best, and it’s still not enough.”

“You’re the furthest thing from a mistake,” he says. “You know that, right?” I nod as I breathe him in, the clean, comforting scent of cedarwood and sage that warms his skin. “Yes, I know.” “Good.”

“Reading historical romance?” I ask him. Axel pops open the bag of pretzels and brings one to my mouth. “It’s my brother’s fault. Viggo’s filled my library with surly dukes and feisty bluestockings.” I smile as he sets a pretzel on my tongue. “You were going to read that while you waited for me?” He nods. “This one’s pretty good.” I nestle back against his shoulder and chew my pretzel. “You could read me some. If you feel like it.” “So long as you promise never to tell Viggo that I’m actually enjoying them.” “I promise. But why?” “Because if he finds out, he’ll be insufferably smug.”

I’ve started to wonder if Axel isn’t so much surly as he is slow to warm up. And I’ve wondered if once he warms up to you, it freaks him out a little. Because the transformation from the silent giant of my casual acquaintance to the considerate, caring guy I married and bonded with over a stoned officiant and a breathtaking sunset and a fear of needles, back to the quiet serious man driving me home, are night and day…and night. It’s like as soon as he started to open up to me, he snapped shut. He’s been unreachable the past two weeks. I expected it. I needed the distance, too. I had no business indulging my lusty thoughts about him and coming damn close to acting on them. And so I shouldn’t be so stung that he’s withdrawing again. But I’m such a sucker for the Axel that held my hand and kept me plied with gluten-free pretzels. Who read historical romance with a range of voices that made me laugh so hard, we got a look from the nurses’ station that made us apologize in unison and gave me that us-against-the-world feeling, like on our wedding day. It makes me wonder what it might take simply to be his friend. Just a friend, of course.

But it’s a delicate dance with someone who’s clearly got his reservations about closeness, who says things like “I’m not someone you count on to catch you,” who won’t name a dog that he clearly loves and is clearly his, who doesn’t want the dog to “have expectations” of him. And so I tell myself not to be disappointed as he drives us back and the silence grows and the frown returns.

Rooney is off to Willa’s for a long weekend visit, and it’s not the relief I thought it would be. I loaded her suitcase into Bennett’s Subaru, which he insisted she take because Rooney returned her rental car last week, and she can’t drive my Jeep’s stick shift to save her life. Then I watched her program Willa’s address into her GPS and made her promise to call—hands free—if she got lost. And ever since I saw her disappear from view, I’ve had this ache in my chest that feels like indigestion of the heart. I don’t like it one bit. Normally, I’d paint, work out whatever’s cooking inside me as I dragged color across canvas in the silence of my studio. Unfortunately, there’s only one thing I’d paint if I tried, and it’s the last thing I should be painting. So, I plan to putz around at the A-frame this weekend and distract myself with tasks I can do alone, while the crew’s not working.