The Brightest Star Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  The Brightest Star

  B Cranford

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Beth Cranford

  No part of this work may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Design by Mila Grayson

  Edited by Missy Borucki

  Manufactured in the United States

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Synopsis

  The last thing Brighton Starling needed on one of the most humiliating days of her life was to run into her ex…

  Naturally, she did. And two years after he walked away, leaving her hurt and broke, he somehow managed to look better than ever. Of course. She didn’t want to see him, let alone speak to him, but apparently, he wasn’t going to give her a choice.

  All Sebastian Figures wanted was to talk to the one that got away…

  No, scratch that. The one he drove away with poor decisions and lies, big and small. She might have been having a bad day, but she was still the bright, beautiful girl he’d been missing for far too long. His brightest star. Still the only girl he’d ever want. If only he could convince her of that.

  Is it too late to say sorry?

  Sebastian wants a chance to win back Brighton’s trust—and her future. Brighton wants to be able to move on from the past, once and for all. But neither of them want to say one final goodbye…

  Dedication

  For Annabelle.

  Because she asked me so nicely to dedicate my book to her. But Aby-Baby, if you read past this page before you’re 25, NO iPAD TIME.

  And for Charles and Dominic.

  My handsome boys.

  I love you all. You are the light and my brightest stars.

  Chapter One

  With about as much as grace as could be expected of someone who'd just broken a door, Brighton Starling casually walked back to her table.

  Well, at least, she tried to.

  With the resounding crack of wood meeting tile and the door falling from its top hinge still on replay in the back of her mind, and the sound of the incessant hand dryer still blowing hot air—she'd maybe broken that, too, on her ill-fated bathroom trip—the last thing she wanted was to run into someone she knew.

  Someone she once knew very well.

  Someone she really didn't want to see.

  Someone whose charming, dimpled smile made her crazy still.

  “Sebastian, hi.” She attempted a smile, almost certain it looked more like a grimace, and prayed to any and all gods that her face remained impassive.

  “Bright, you look beautiful,” he said as he leaned in for a soft kiss on her reddened cheek, grabbing her left hand in his and squeezing.

  “I—what . . . why are you here?” Brighton blinked several times trying to clear her head, hoping that any minute now her words would come rushing back and she'd be able to tell him to let go of her hand, shove his gentle kiss, and go get his soup and salad somewhere else.

  Panera was her place. He could go to Starbucks for all she cared.

  “Saw you through the window, biting that lower lip. I had to come in and say hi.” Another hand squeeze, another overwhelming sense that if she didn't get out of there and away from him soon, she'd fall under the “Sebastian spell” that had her enthralled for three years.

  Until he took it away.

  “Well, hi. Also, bye,” she grated, reminding herself that no amount of sorry or squeezing or charm could make her forgive him. It didn't matter that his full lips were now outlined by a dark beard, just long and low enough to frame his angled jaw but not enough to hide those damn dimples. It didn't matter that his baby blue eyes had sparkled as he leaned in to press his mouth to her skin. It didn’t matter that his so-brown-it-was-nearly-black hair was short at the sides and with a touch more length on top, making it perfect for running her hands through. She would not be running her hands through it.

  So it didn’t matter.

  And it certainly didn't matter that in the two years since she'd seen him he'd grown even more handsome—something she'd have told anyone wasn't possible back then—and that just the sight of him in suit pants and a white button-up, standing by the table she’d parked herself at earlier, was enough to make her knees a little wobbly.

  Bastard.

  Pulling her hand from his was not easy, but if she had any hope of escaping this unexpected encounter with some semblance of sanity, she had no choice. He clearly sensed she planned to let go and tightened his grip, enough to hold her in place, not enough to hurt.

  Never enough to hurt. At least, not physically.

  Emotionally? That was another story.

  “Don't go yet, Bright. I want to talk to you.”

  “But I don't want to talk to you, so I'd like my hand back,” she said as she put more pressure on her arm, trying to free herself from his grip. Suddenly her hand slid free and, as if in slow motion, Brighton began to fall backward, away from Sebastian, which could only be a good thing, but toward the table she knew was behind her, slightly to her right.

  That . . . that could only be a bad thing.

  Eyes wide, arms useless, legs unable to stop the motion completely, Brighton stumbled back, hip and lower back bumping the table, rocking it to one side, as the sounds of gasps and falling dishes mixed with the still running hand dryer behind the broken bathroom door.

  Fuck my life, she thought as she regained her footing, pivoted and began to apologize to the people whose lunch she'd just ruined.

  Sebastian smiled as he watched Brighton—normally graceful
, put together Brighton—swing her body around and begin spewing I'm sorry and I'll replace it and various mumbled sentiments to the mother and daughter who both had their hands up in a placating manner. Clearly trying to lessen her embarrassment and reassure her that they were fine.

  She's still beautiful was all he could think as he surveyed her from top to bottom, taking in the cropped milk chocolate hair that fell in beachy waves on the sides of her neck, just below her twice-pierced ears. Her small but special tattoo—the letter M for her beloved grandma, Milly—was barely visible from where it sat at her hairline and the set of her nearly bare, freckled shoulders made him want to touch. And taste. His eyes continued down, and the sight that greeted him caused a chuckle to escape.

  A quiet one, lest Brighton hear him and spin back around to let loose. He could tell she was nearing the end of her tether, and he'd been on the receiving end of her ire more than once.

  Not a place he wanted to be again.

  “Bright,” he called in a low tone. He'd watched her through the window from where he stood on the sidewalk leading into the Panera near his office. He'd seen her smile to herself, at the laptop propped open in front of her, and wanted so badly to join her.

  She wouldn't have let him though. That much was clear.

  “Bright,” he tried again, taking a step closer so he didn't have to raise his voice. “Brighton.” He'd watched, too, when she’d stood and headed for the restroom, and the devil on his shoulder told him to go in, wait near her table, say hello.

  Like he’d wanted to for two long years.

  Like he had any right.

  Waiting instead by the door to the restroom was perhaps not Sebastian’s finest moment, but it did give him a front row seat to the barely audible but hilarious rant Brighton directed at the bathroom’s hand dryer. Turns out that in the two years since he'd last seen her, she'd learned some colorful expressions.

  Weird how that was a turn-on.

  Her voice sounding strained, he'd backed away from the bathroom door with the thought that ambushing her right there would do more harm than good, then watched in astonishment as she'd thrown open the door, only to have it crash gracelessly into the tile wall, tilting precariously. A squeaking groan had indicated that the remaining hinge was just barely holding on.

  More colorful language. More distress in her voice.

  He'd retreated further, starting to question coming face-to-face with her on what was clearly a bad day. But he couldn't make himself leave.

  Not without saying hello.

  Not without seeing how much she still hated him.

  So, he'd stood sentry next to her table, as he’d originally planned, and watched her approach. As she came closer, he'd watched as she'd realized who he was, her face visibly tightening in a clear sign he wasn't wanted.

  Well, too bad. Now he'd seen her again, made brief but meaningful eye contact with her—his a brilliant blue, hers a green unique to her and her alone—he wasn't planning to let her go without talking to her. Without at least apologizing.

  Without at least telling her that her very pretty, very girly, very floral mini skirt was very much tucked in her very brief, very lacy, very white panties.

  Chapter Two

  Sebastian was in her home.

  Sebastian was in her home.

  After a stilted conversation, in which she’d told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted to be left alone and he’d then told her that the white panties she’d chosen that morning because they made her feel cute and sexy were on display, she’d invited him back to her home.

  She still wasn’t quite sure why, her brain addled from the morning from hell.

  “Brighton,” he spoke loudly, like he’d been trying to get her attention, and she spun back around to face him.

  “What?” She knew she sounded exasperated, because she was. It wasn’t enough that she’d done one embarrassing thing after another, now he was there. In her face. “What do you want from me? Why can’t you just leave?” She scowled. “Please, leave me alone.”

  “Bright Star,” he started in a low gentle voice meant just for her, the old nickname—a mash-up of her first and last names—making her stomach flutter and her brain rebel at his use of it. He had no right to call her that any more. “Your panties are . . .” He trailed off, using his hands to complete the thought for him.

  He was gesturing to her ass.

  Brighton clapped her hands over her cheeks, and then . . . “Oh my God”, over her other cheeks. Scrambling, she covered herself with the stupid, flouncy, floral traitor of a skirt and turned around to the people whose lunch just went flying.

  This time, she was apologizing for mooning them when she’d turned to face Sebastian. “Oh my God,” she said a second time.

  She dropped her head into her hands, color burning through her cheeks—both sets—and her dark hair trying to hide her but failing. Should not have got it cut, she thought.

  “Look, Bright, I’m sorry. I didn’t come in here to upset you, but—” She felt a soft touch on her chin, in the gap where her two hands tried to contain her shame, but she refused to lower her hands and meet his eyes again. “I want—I need to talk to you. I have things I want to say, and . . .”

  With a heaving sigh, she made her decision. She didn’t want to talk to this man any more than she wanted to continue standing in the middle of Panera, where every single patron got their lunch with a side of peep show today.

  I should just be grateful I wanted to feel cute this morning, she told herself, knowing that her humiliation would be tenfold if she’d been wearing the high-waisted, dingy old underwear she’d originally pulled from the drawer.

  “Fine, we can talk, but not here.” She raised her head from her hands, forcing the finger he’d laid upon her chin to fall away. Anything to get out of this place. To get this day over with.

  “Name the place. Anywhere.” He looked relieved, like she’d given him a gift. “Anywhere,” he repeated.

  She trawled her mind for places they could go, but all she could think of was her small homey apartment. The one that held everything she held dear. The place she felt most herself.

  Did she dare bring him there?

  Yes. Her turf. Her advantage. Right?

  “You can follow me to my place. But once you’ve said whatever sorry thing it is you want to say, I expect you to leave. Got it?” She did meet his eyes this time, determined to show him she meant business, and he nodded. Good.

  It had seemed like the best idea at the time, but now . . . Well, now Brighton didn't know what she was doing sitting in the living room of her tiny one-bedroom apartment.

  With her dream man. Who was the reason she wasn't living in her dream house.

  This was a stupid idea, Brighton.

  “It's small,” Sebastian had said when he walked in, looking around at the stormy grey walls—a beautiful color that had matched her mood when she'd chosen it—and compact kitchen with dated appliances and cheap, two-person table.

  And he wasn’t wrong, but that didn't give him the right to judge. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Shit, Bright, I didn't mean . . .” He’d trailed off, then walked the three steps from the entry into the living room which housed her couch. Formerly their couch.

  She wondered if he recognized it.

  “You didn't mean a lot of things, Sebastian,” was all she managed to reply as she took the creamy-white rocking chair across from him—jammed in the corner of the room, taking up space needed for something else. But it was a gift from her parents, this soft, armchair-like rocker that had become her favorite place to read a book or get lost in her imagination.

  Brighton had a very active imagination. In fact, she was currently picturing herself taking the ball-bottomed glass from the little table beside her and hurling it at Sebastian’s head. While yelling at him all the things she'd wanted to say—but didn't—the day he gambled away their future.

  I hate you.

  I know you're sick, I'll
help you.

  You ruined everything.

  How could you do this to me?

  To us?

  I miss you.

  It was that last one that was problematic. Because the fact was, she did miss him. And despite the pain he caused, seeing him back on “his” end of their couch, eyes closed, remorse and . . . is that regret . . . on his face, she was happy to see him.

  How many times had she sat there with him, curled up into his protective body, making plans, talking about the future?

  She’d never imagined that her future would look like this.

  “When did you get back?” Her question came out a little shaky, her nerves betraying her.

  “A couple of months ago.” He rubbed his palm over his short beard as he spoke, lifting his head so he could look her square in the eye. “I wanted to come see you sooner. But I didn't think you'd want to see me.”

  He wasn't wrong. Brighton didn't want to see him. But they had history and it was time to clear the air.

  Maybe then she could move on, instead of living with a hurt and lingering love that made it impossible to move on. “I didn't. I don’t.”

  His flinch was subtle, but noticeable nonetheless. And she had the sudden urge to go to him. Plant herself beside him on their couch and curl into him, like she had done in the past a million and one times.

  “I understand,” a pause, as he looked to find the right words. “I'm sorry, Brighton. I'm so fucking sorry.”