The Bennett Brothers

THOMAS

It’s her.

Tom cannot believe what he is seeing. Or rather, who. This woman has eluded him for years, yet here she is, looking him in the eyes for the first time.

“Tom,” Eric says, “this is my girlfriend, Rosemary Dalton. Rosie, my cousin, Thomas Bennett.”

“Rosemary,” Tom says, testing her name out on his tongue.

It feels so right.

Tom extends his hand to her and gives her a smile, putting into it as much charm as he can muster. He is rewarded with a deep blush that rises up her face as they shake hands.

“Thomas,” she says, abruptly pulling her hand back and averting her gaze.

Tom stares at her, taking in every detail of her face as though it is the last time he will see her this close.

Rosemary.

Rosie.

Her name perfectly suits her, suits her rich auburn hair, which sets off the blue of her eyes. Freckles span from cheek to cheek, decorating her flawless porcelain skin and drawing attention to her button nose and the highly kissable lips beneath it.

Tom has imagined this moment with her thousands of times over the last twelve years. Well, he has imagined her in a lot of scenarios, but in none of them did she have a boyfriend—let alone his weasel of a cousin.

Rose looks exactly like she did at that college party. He spotted her across the crowd but lost track of her before he could introduce himself. Every time he has seen her since, and there have been many times, she seems to slip away before he can get to her.

“So, Tom,” Eric says, clearing his throat, wrapping his arm around Rose, and pulling her tight to his side, “I was meaning to ask, has Alex decided the location for the new hotel?”

Before Tom shifts his gaze to Eric, Rose’s brow knits in seeming confusion.

“Are you related to Alexander Bennett?” she asks.

“You know Alex?” Eric asks, whipping his eyes to her.

Tom catches Eric’s expression harden on Rose for a split second, but then it returns to normal.

“Mr. Bennett is actually the gallery’s newest client. I’ll be commissioning the artwork for the new San Francisco hotel,” Rose says, her posture straightening.

“San Francisco?” Eric’s eyes widen.

“Alex is my brother,” Tom answers, ignoring Eric’s interjection.

“The Bennetts are my cousins on my mom’s side,” Eric says with a smile, clapping Tom on the shoulder as his chest puffs out.

Tom holds back a cringe from recognizing Eric’s self-serving, social-climbing grin.

The blonde on Rose’s side scoffs before pushing through them to take a seat at the bar.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Tom says, gaining her attention after she takes a sip of her drink. Suspecting she is someone he will have to win over if he hopes to get close to Rose, he offers her a sly grin, earning a blush from her that covers her cheeks.

As expected.

“Quinn Marks.” Quinn extends her hand to shake with Tom.

“And what do you do, Quinn?”

Eric snickers before Quinn can answer, and she sends a glare toward the Wall Street big-shot wannabe.

“I’m a wedding singer,” she says with a confident smile.

Tom lets out a laugh. “That has to be the coolest occupation ever!”

“You can’t really think so,” Eric says with a mocking click of his tongue.

“Eric,” Rose scolds, elbowing his side.

“Rosie, surely you can agree. I mean, the arts aren’t a reliable line of work.”

Quinn scoffs again. “Do you even know Rosie?”

“At least dealing art requires a degree,” Eric snaps.

“That’s what you do at the gallery? You’re an art dealer?” Tom asks.

When Rose meets his eyes, her blue orbs sparkle in the dull light of the bar. A strand of her mahogany hair falls across her face, and Tom’s fingers twitch with the desire to push it behind her ear.

God, she’s beautiful. A work of art.

“Not only that,” Quinn says, “Rose also pai—”

“Yes, I’m an art dealer.” Rose throws Quinn a look, and Quinn gives her a confused one in return. “I also pair clients with artists for custom works, is what Quinn was going to say.”

Tom looks between them, his curiosity about their shared secret turning up the corners of his lips. “You must really know your stuff if Alex hired you,” he says, and he can’t help but feel satisfied when Rose blushes again under his gaze.

Eric fidgets and squeezes Rose tighter against his side. “Rosie, honey, let’s go dance.” Before she can respond, he pulls her toward the dance floor.

“Why is she with him?” Tom wonders out loud when they are far enough away.

Quinn scoffs. “He’s your cousin.”

“He’s a weasel.”

“Agreed. But he’s good to her. Rose is in love. He has wooed her, wooed her hard.”

“But you don’t like him.”

“I don’t want Rose to get hurt.”

Tom watches Rose and Eric have a seemingly heated discussion. Their dancing stops, they both take a small step back to gesture with their hands, and Rose drops her gaze to the floor, a clear sign she has lost the conversation.

Eric then turns away and storms out of the bar.

“Are you okay?” Tom asks when Rose comes over to them, sadness marring her lovely face.

“Fine,” Rose says quickly. “Eric’s had a long day. We’re going to go.” She grabs a purse from the stool beside Quinn. “It was nice to meet you, Tom. Quinn, I’ll see you later.”

As Tom watches her go, he racks his brains for what she could possibly see in Eric. Tom thought everyone could tell how toxic and narcissistic he is, but maybe not.

Maybe she likes his solid job. He does work on Wall Street.

In that moment, Tom’s floater lifestyle—paid for by his brother Alex and his father before him—no longer has the appeal it once had. Finally, after so many years of searching, Tom thinks he has found his thing.

And she is running away from him, hurrying off to warm the bed of his slimy cousin.

Tom would jump over hot coals to swap places with Eric, but instead, he does the next best thing.

Pulling out his phone, he composes a text that he probably should have sent years ago.