In so many ways, Richie had been the voice of reason in Spencer's ear. "Don't ever do something just to go along, little brother. You know your own mind, and that's the path you need to be walking. I veered. And I got my ass kicked good and solid. Don't be me, okay?"
It was Richie who'd told Spencer to get his shit together after he dropped out of high school. Richie who'd urged him to keep up the battle to get Spencer's Place made. Who'd told him that Brooke was a hell of a catch, a woman worth fighting for.
Hell, he'd even said the same after she walked away, only Spencer was too blind with grief to listen and had called his brother a goddamn fool.
Not that it would have mattered. She'd left him, after all. And he wasn't about to go crawling back to her, begging her to love him. Not when she'd so definitively made her choice.
A sharp clank from the kitchen had him on his feet. Probably a raccoon--the gate, he knew, was locked up tight. He'd seen to that after he'd picked the thing to get in. He was alone; he was sure of it.
Even so, he reached into his boot and pulled out the knife he kept tucked in there.
He stood still, barely breathing, and then cursed silently when he heard footsteps. Dammit. Might be kids who'd scaled the gate, but he didn't need this shit tonight.
He took a step toward the kitchen, intending to scare them off before they did even more damage to the ailing old house.
Then he saw her. Brooke. Standing in the archway between the living area and the dining room. She wore jeans now, paired with a black pullover, and her long, blonde hair spilled over her shoulders.
The light from a full moon streamed in through the missing chunks of roof, making her hair shine like a halo, a sharp contrast to the dark-clad body. She looked ethereal. Beautiful.
And for the length of a heartbeat, he thought that his wish had come true, and they'd traveled back five years to the time when she was still his.
Then she spoke, and the spell was broken. "Who's there?"
He heard the fear in her tone and realized that she hadn't come there looking for him. Interesting. He slipped the knife back into his boot, then stepped forward, out of the shadows.
"Brooke," he said. "It's me."
"Spencer?" She glanced side to side, looking spooked. "I didn't expect you to be here. I--"
"I know." He took a step closer.
"No, please. Don't." She met his eyes. "It's okay. I'll go."
Something tight twisted around his heart. He couldn't let her go. Not like this. Not when it felt like fate had brought her here to give him a way to hoist himself out from the giant hole he'd dug for himself. "Please," he said. "Stay."
She wrapped her arms around her chest. "I needed--I mean, I wanted to be alone."
Fuck. That was on him. Because he'd been a prick.
"Considering I'm not much of a human right now, much less a man, you pretty much are alone with me."
A whisper of a smile played at her lips. "I kind of hate you right now."
The words were a relief. "You should," he said. "I hate myself, too. I'm a fucking lowlife prick. And about a million other horrible things."
"No argument here."
She glanced behind her, but didn't turn to leave. Good. Right then, the thing he wanted most in the world was for her to stay. For her to see him as Spencer again, and not as the fucking idiot he'd been the last few days.
"How'd you get in? Did you remember what I taught you?"
This time, the smile was genuine, and he felt like a goddamn hero for bringing it to her lips. "I do remember, but I was only ever any good when you were with me."
He knew she was talking about picking a lock, but the words burned through him, full of meaning. He cleared his throat, knowing he was reading too much. Hoping too much. "So if you didn't pick the lock, how'd you get in?"
"The real estate agent who listed this place--Amanda--she's one of my closest friends. I took a guess at the lockbox code, and I got it right."
"Also a useful tool for anyone trying to break into a rundown old mansion. Know your mark."