Fragile Lives: A small-town, age-gap, brother’s best friend romance (Little Hope series Book 4)

I’m driving home from Boston after a meeting with my newspaper. They want me to write more stories like the one I just submitted—exposing crimes. I don’t know how I feel about it, considering the number of disgusting things I dug up in my research took a toll on my mental health. Knowing the inside scoop is never easy, and, depending on the crime, you don’t come out the same.

I let out an aggravated groan as I see a figure walking on the bridge that connects the old and the new part of town. With no jacket on. In December. In Maine. My butt is freezing even firmly planted on a heated seat inside of my car, hidden away from the elements, and he’s just…walking, hands in the front pockets of his pants.

It’s dark, and there are not many lights around this part of town. If I hadn’t been paying attention, there’s a chance I could have hit him. Bridges are the most dangerous part of the roads around here, especially at night, in my opinion. Yet here, in this part of Maine, we like to live life on a cliff. Quite literally.

I want to drive by, I do. My intuition screams that something big might happen if I don’t. Something that irrevocably will change my life. The desire to keep my foot on the accelerator is strong. But I was born and raised in Little Hope, Maine, and we small-town folks still care for one another, even in the twenty-first century.

As I drive past him, about to slow down so I can ask if he needs help, I notice how large he is and how wide his shoulders are. We’re on the bridge. With no lights and no people. And it’s closing on midnight.

It makes me think for a second. Yes, I know pretty much everyone in our town—not personally, no, but I’ve seen or heard of everyone—a perk of living in a small town—but I don’t recognize this man. At least, not from inside my car with limited visibility. I slow down a little, hoping he’ll let me know if he needs my help. Maybe his car broke down, and he needs a lift.

But as I’m driving by, I peer at him; his face is trained on the snowy road ahead of him. He has a purpose for being here that I’m not privy to.

I slow down even more now, and he moves to the side of the road, not lifting his eyes—a silent order to stay away from him.

Well, that’s my cue, so I press the accelerator and speed up. An exaggeration, of course. I’m in Maine in December on a bridge—this speedy driver can only do thirty miles per hour tops without risking driving off this bridge right into the frigid water of our less than mighty river.

Letting out a loud sigh of relief, feeling I narrowly avoided the unseen, I glance in the rearview mirror. A big mistake.

The stranger stands on the sidewalk, his elbows resting on the rails of the bridge. I slow down again, just a bit, so I can keep watching. His head hangs lower as if he’s looking beyond the bridge.

He’s not going to find anything but a fast river that may or may not be covered in thin ice. Despite the low temperatures every winter, the river only freezes mid-December when the cold hits the hardest, so we’ve got about two good weeks before then.

I come to a near stop, and the stranger’s head falls even lower. His shoulders slump, and I pull my car over to the side, cursing my small-town upbringing. The bridge is behind me, the stranger about a hundred feet away, and I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to decide what I should do. Instinct screams to run and talk to him, but my self-preservation slaps me across the face, warning me to not get involved.

The good prevails, so I put my white beanie on and climb out of my car, engine still running. Just in case.

A rush of cold air instantly chills my bones, and I hurry to zip my red puffy winter coat, shuddering.

The stranger hasn’t moved.

I start slowly walking toward him. When I’m about fifty feet away, I call out, “Hey.”

His head snaps toward me, and he looks around as if surprised to find himself on the bridge alone with me. You and me both, buddy.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is gruff and deep, coming from within his chest.

“I could ask the same thing,” I counter, a little playfully, trying to lighten the situation. “Aren’t you cold?”

He watches me for a few seconds. “I’m fine,” he says, turning back to the deep waters.

I take a few tentative steps before he notices my approach and turns to me again. “What are you doing?”

“Sightseeing.” I quirk a brow and start walking more confidently.

“Go home.” He turns away again.

“Are you planning to jump?”

His head turns toward me so fast I think he’s given himself whiplash.

“The fuck do you need here?”

I stop next to him. Only now do I notice how tall he is. Well, I’m five-four, and a lot of people are tall compared to me, but the top of my head only reaches his chest, and I have to look up.

His midnight black hair, a little longer on the top and shorter on the sides, is disheveled and wet from the falling snow. He has gorgeous eyelashes framing his brown eyes as if he’s wearing eyeliner, and his clean-shaven jaw is so sharp—it feels like one could cut a finger by simply touching it. His cheeks are sunken. Tattoos cover the visible part of his neck, and I wonder how far down they go.

Why am I thinking that? Mentally shaking my head, I continue observing him.

Light wrinkles on the sides of his eyes tell me he likes to laugh, which is a far cry from his facial expression right now. He has a five-o-clock shadow and perfect lips, the bottom one a little fuller. His skin is clean of any blemishes, his cheeks a little pink from the biting cold.

I’d place him somewhere in his early thirties if I had to guess.

I look back up and find him pressing his lips together in a tight, angry line, his brow raised in question.

“As far as I’ve heard, Maine is still a free state, and I can be anywhere I want as long as I don’t break any laws.” I narrow my eyes at him.

“Be anywhere but here.” His eyes narrow back.

“Why?” I squint even more.

“Because I was here first.” His nostrils flare as he replies like a stubborn child.

I snort at his ridiculous answer and rest my elbows against the rails, mimicking his previous stance. I feel a hot glare drilling a hole into the side of my face, until eventually he sighs and turns to look at the river too.

“There are always reasons to not do it, you know,” I say after a long stretch of silence.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” His tone is purposely rude, and the slightest hint of a British accent envelopes me in a warm hug—I’ve always been a sucker for accents.

“No. But you’re still getting it.” I shrug in the darkness, not looking at him.

He sighs tiredly, his voice void of any emotion. “I never said I wanted to jump.”

“You never said you didn’t.”

He doesn’t contradict or try to convince me otherwise and keeps looking ahead. I turn toward him, shamelessly staring at the side of his face. It’s a work of art. All this anger and pain and longing…I can see all of it. He doesn’t even try to hide it. How is he living like this? How did he end up here, on this bridge? His face is an open cry for help, hiding so much melancholy and tiredness—people would surely see his need for them.

They would, right?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He shoots me an unhappy glare.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” I reply and pull my hat down over my ears before they freeze off.

“I’m visiting a friend.” He grinds his molars, and I watch how his jaw works as he probably grinds them into dust.

“Is this friend a she?”

“Why do you care?” That draws his attention, and he turns to me, a lopsided smile finally showing on his face. I get the feeling this facade is something he knows how to utilize.

“I don’t.” I shrug—a half-truth. “But I want to know what pushed you to come here.”

“I’m not planning to jump,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Alright,” I agree too easily, and he groans.

“No, my friend is not a she,” he says drowsily, undoubtedly hoping the nuisance (me) will disappear if he succumbs to my demands. “And I’m here because I need some time to clear my head. I’m fine; your conscience is clear. You can go now,” he dismisses me and stares ahead again.

I let out a loud growl—inwardly. “Of course you do. Naked on a bridge at night while it’s snowing.”

“Don’t throw things like that in the air. If I was naked, sweetheart, you’d never forget it. I can assure you I’m very much dressed.” The arrogant notes in his voice clearly indicate that he’s averted from the path I found him on. For now.

“It’s cold,” I say, ignoring him. “You’ll get pneumonia.”

He snorts, shaking away the snowflakes from his sleeve, and mumbles under his breath, “That’d be too easy.”

I shut my mouth before I yell at him and go back to watching the river. This year it might freeze even earlier since the temperature is going psycho these days.

“I think—” I swallow before continuing, “I think my brother had the same thoughts at one point in his life.” I decide to share one of my deepest fears, hoping it will help him. “When he came back from the service…” I hear his breath hitch, and I don’t dare to look at him. “He was…bad.” The cold air bites my nose, making me sniffle. “Angry with the world and…with everything really.”

I let myself drift away for a second, back to the time Alex returned from the Navy and was like a walking grenade with a short fuse. “He blamed himself for a lot of things. Thought that no one loved him, but it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I don’t know what we would have done if he chose that path. I just—” I cut myself off before I spill too much. My eyes water and I blink the moisture away. “What I’m trying to say is that there is always someone who will be devastated if something happens to you.” It’s the first time since the beginning of my speech that I dare to look at him.

His eyes are trained on my face. “What if not everyone has that someone?”

“Everyone does.”

“But what if—”

“Everyone does,” I cut him off, my voice firm. “It doesn’t have to be family, but you’ve changed someone’s life for the better. There is always someone out there.” I hold his eyes, communicating my truth to him. “Always. Even if you don’t know it.”

The corners of his lips dip down, aging his face a few years. His neck moves in a rough swallow, and I notice the tattoos on his neck as the tail of something on the side of it—a dragon, maybe—shifts with the movement.

“Do you understand?” I press.

He swallows again and nods silently.

“Good.” I nod to myself and bite the inside of my cheek, thinking over the situation.

“What’s your name?” he asks carefully.

“Leila. Yours?”

He watches me before answering as if he can’t decide if he wants to share. “Stephan.”

“Glad to meet you, Stephan,” I say and offer him my hand.

He eyes it cynically as if it’ll grow a mouth and bite him, but right before I drop it, he envelopes it in his huge palm. My hand totally disappears in his, another indication of the difference in our sizes, being here alone with him. Strangely, I don’t feel fearful. Well, I don’t feel fear of him, but I do for him.

“You’re freezing,” he says as he brings the other hand to wrap around the one he’s still holding.

“It’s cold.” I swallow. “How come you’re not cold?” In fact, it’s the opposite—his palm is on fire, and he doesn’t even have a jacket on.

“I don’t feel cold much.” He drops my hand and nods toward my running sedan, “Go back to your car.”

“No.” I shake my head stubbornly. “Only if I give you a ride.” My teeth chatter as I feel the cold air biting my cheeks, nose, and neck, slipping under my jacket.

“I don’t need a ride. I’m fine.” He steps back.

“Then, I’ll stay.” I turn to the river and lean on the rails again, trying to hide deeper in my coat.

A loud sigh nearly makes me smile. Nearly.

“Fine. Let’s go.” He rolls his eyes to the point where they might not come back, grabs my hand, and starts walking, dragging me along.

I’m trying to suppress my laughter at how easy it was to make him give up, but a cackle escapes me. Then another. And then I can’t help but laugh full force. He stops, drops my hand, and turns to me.

“What’s so funny?” His voice is biting.

“Nothing,” I say but keep cackling.

“I like a good laugh. But I like to be the one you’re laughing with, not at.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as I laugh even harder. I don’t even know what I’m laughing about at this point. I think it might be a release of pent-up adrenaline and fear.

Bending over, I place my hands on my knees. “I’m sorry,” I say breathlessly as I finally straighten. “I don’t know what came over me.” I try to take a few deep breaths when I notice his intense stare. A little unsettling.

A lot exciting.

His eyes suddenly turn hungry as they land on my lips, stretched into a wild smile. He’s not blinking, just staring, and I stop laughing. I anxiously lick my lips, and his eyes snap to mine. He crosses the distance between us in the blink of an eye, his lips landing on mine, shocking me into a stupor.

I think he shocks himself, too, as he doesn’t touch me anywhere but my lips. My eyes are wide open as I try to comprehend what’s happening. His arms are noodles at his sides, and his lips are shy. They just touch mine, no tongue.

His eyes snap open, and he tries to rear back, but I don’t let him. Instead, I grab the front of his sweater and pull him into me. He stumbles as he tries to regain his footing, but his hands land on my back. The height difference makes the kiss awkward, so he bends lower and moves his hands to my lower back, helping me to my tippytoes. Snaking them under my jacket, I can feel his warm palms through my sweater, despite him not having decent clothes in this freezing weather.

His tongue traces my lower lip, probing it. I reluctantly open, letting him slip in. The velvety feeling of him invading my mouth makes my breath hitch, and I part my lips wider on instinct. He groans as if in pain and dives deeper.

Pressing me into him, he intensifies the kiss. Our teeth clink, and I sink my nails into the buff muscles of his shoulders. He lets out another loud groan and grinds his pelvis into me. Even through my coat, I can feel his hardness.

Fuck. Fuck! What am I doing?

I push on his chest and jump away.