Page 207 of Rising Heat

The brownstone comes into view before I get any farther than that, somebody I don’t recognize sitting on the front steps.

Tyler notices a second later because his voice cuts off mid-sentence.

Darcy feels both of us go quiet before she even looks up. Then her hand slips out of mine.

The guy stands as we get closer—dark jeans, pressed button-down, flowers in one hand like he stopped somewhere on purpose before coming here.

Darcy stops walking so fast Tyler nearly clips her shoulder.

“Oh, shit,” she whispers, almost to herself.

The guy looks straight at her.

“Hey, Dee.”

Something about the way he says it makes my fists clench. Darcy blinks once, staring at him like she’s trying to place two completely different versions of her life in the same moment.

“Brett.”

She doesn’t move toward him. The flowers bend slightly in his grip while he looks at us, and I realize he’s been standing out here long enough for the stems to start softening in his hand.

Tyler edges half a step closer to Darcy, who still hasn’t moved.

And this guy’s standing on our steps looking at her like he still thinks she belongs to him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

darcy

Brett looks exactly the same.

Pressed white button-down beneath one of his dark jackets, sandy-brown hair clipped short at the sides the way he always kept it. The only difference is the white lilies wrapped in brown paper that’s currently hanging from one hand, like he stopped somewhere before coming here because bringing flowers was what a guy surprising you was supposed to do.

For one disorienting second, my brain tries to place him somewhere he belongs— outside our apartment in Philly, coming back from a takeout run, on the couch after work. Then the brownstone behind him snaps back into focus and my stomach drops so fast I feel like I might throw up.

“Oh my god.”

Tyler mumbles something beside me, but it barely registers.

All I can see is Brett.

“Hey, Dee.”

That nickname used to melt me. Three years of hearing it across kitchens and parking garages and lazy Sunday mornings. Three years of him saying my name like he knew me better than anybody else on earth.

Now it just sounds wrong. Like somebody calling for a person who doesn’t live here anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

He smiles—a small, patient smile I’ve seen a thousand times before. The one that always made me feel like I was overreacting before either of us had said another word.

“I was in Boston.”

“At midnight.”

“I called you.”

“We were…” My voice catches for half a second. “I was out.”