I shiver as pain and betrayal course through me. My stomach twists, and I try to prevent the bad memories from rising to the surface. These thoughts are a slippery slope into dark territory. Considering my raging insomnia, I can’t afford to backslide.
3
ARYA
The morning after my aborted meeting in Columbus Tower, I’ve taken one bite of my spicy apple oats when there’s a knock on my door. I look through the dingy peephole. Cami Reynolds, her bright blonde hair the physical embodiment of sunshine, stands on my woodgrain welcome mat.
Pulling the door open, I say, “Hey.”
She glances at the oatmeal, then offers me a smile. “Good morning.”
“Come in.”
I step back, and she takes the tiniest step inside, with an assessing look at the beige carpet.
“Okay to leave my shoes on?”
“Sure.”
“Heyworth House has a lot of rules,” she confides.
I can’t believe Declan Heyworth, arrogant billionaire bad boy, has taken up with this cheerful pixie of a girl.
“Yeah, I remember. Freshman year, I went to a party there that got out of hand. Declan literally threw a couple of guys out the front door for knocking a painting off the wall.” Swirling an island of cinnamon into my oats, I arch a brow. “I say if Docent Declan is so worried about shit getting damaged, he should sell tickets like a normal museum rather than hosting ragers. Maybe he figured that out too because he hasn’t had a big party since.”
Her grin widens. “Yeah. Probably a smart choice when there are real Chagalls hanging in that house.” She glances at the lone, large print on the wall, which is of some street art in Latin America. The girl in the brightly colored piece is half peacock, with plumage for hair.
Most of my apartment is still a dead boring beige. Another sign that lack of sleep is draining the life out of me. The only time I’m still myself is when I dance.
“So yesterday, why did you take off?” Cami asks.
“Sorensen is Riksen. You could have warned me.”
“Why is that a bigger problem than I realized?”
“We don’t get along.” I walk into the kitchen and grab a bowl. After pouring some of my oats into it, I drop in a spoon and hold it out to her. “Between us, Sorensen and I had a problem not long after we met, and we're still pissed.”
Her smile is indulgent as she stares at me. “I’m not sure he's holding a grudge. Erik wasn’t happy that you left.”
The corners of my mouth twitch upward into a smirk. “I’m sure he wasn't, since he told me to stay. Guys like that want their orders obeyed.”
Her thin brows crowd together, causing a small vertical line above the bridge of her perky nose. “Maybe so. I don’t know him well.”
There’s an unspoken invitation for me to say more, but it’s unwise. This girl and I are new friends, and her boyfriend is a football buddy of Sorensen’s. If I want to dish the dirt on the Viking, I’d best do it with someone else.
I incline my head toward the bowl. “What do you think?”
She takes a bite and, after a beat, sucks in air through pursed lips. “Spicy! Is there chili pepper in this?”
“Yeah, a pinch. Plus, cloves, nutmeg, and a ton of cinnamon.”
“It’s delicious. I like the heat. And that crunch from the apples, nice. I need to tell Briggs about this.”
“Briggs?”
Her cheeks flush, and she shrugs with a small laugh. “Declan’s chef. I didn’t realize I was a budding foodie until I started eating at Heyworth House.” She takes another swallow. “Yum. Anyway, what are you doing right now? Can I text Erik? For a quick meeting? Maybe at a coffee shop?”
“Hard pass,” I say, wrinkling my nose. Stalling, I take several quick bites to finish my breakfast.
