“Yeah, you do that,” Hayes says, his voice firm, his eyes still locked on Jonathan.
Jonathan turns on his heel and stalks off, shoulders tense, practically vibrating with barely contained rage. As he disappears up the stairs, I’m left standing there, my emotions swirling. I’m not going to let him shame me about how I make money. It’s not lewd or obscene. I’ve been doing figure modeling for years—sometimes clothed, sometimes in costume, but yes, mostly nude. It’s an art form, one that put me through college alongside waitressing, and it keeps me connected to the art world. I’m proud of it, and I won’t let Jonathan’s bullshit make me feel otherwise.
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor until I gather enough courage to catch up with the rest of the tour. I slowly climb the first step, the silence only broken by a distant clock striking the hour.
“You okay?” Hayes whispers, close enough that his warm breath brushes against my ear.
I nod, still rattled but grateful he stepped in. “Thanks,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Anytime,” he says, his hand brushing against my arm in a way that feels steadying. “You can’t let him talk to you like that.”
I nod.
We continue up the wide, curving stairs until we reach the top and face two long hallways.
“I don’t know why he’s so pissed at me,” I mutter, trying to figure out which way to go next. A single frosted window at the end of one of the halls lets in a thin, gloomy shaft of light that stretches along the floor. A wave of dread washes over me, settling in my stomach like a pile of stones. I shiver and spin around, suddenly convinced someone—maybe Jonathan—is lurking behind us, watching. But when I look, it’s just me and Hayes.
“Probably because you being here is ruining his proposal weekend.”
“His fucking what?” I blurt out, louder than intended.
Chapter
Three
Hayes looks at me, his expression full of sympathy. “Yeah, he’s planning to propose to Marissa. He told us about it a few weeks ago. Guess he didn’t think you’d be here when he did it.”
My heart clenches painfully in my chest. Fantastic. He must really love her.
“You seriously had no idea?” Hayes’s brows furrow deeply.
“Not even an inkling,” I respond, as we make our way down a long, dim hallway.
Hayes touches my arm, and little electric sparks dance up to my shoulder. I’ve always imagined his hands on me—long, thick fingers, rough, warm palms.
He seems to read my mind because he gives me a wolfish smile.
Heat spreads across my chest. And great, now I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. Perfect.
“Seriously, though. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you didn’t know. I wouldn’t have said it so?—”
We pass an elevator and find a back stairway. “It’s fine.” It isn’t really, I feel like a joke has been played on me and I don’t understand the punchline.
“The way he just talked to you isn’t fine.”
“Oh, I know. He’s being a dick. I was just trying to understand what happened.”
Hayes leads the way down the narrow steps. The air grows cooler as we descend, the sounds of the group’s voices echoing faintly below us. Just as I catch a glimpse of the passageway, Agatha appears, gliding by with a carafe of coffee in one hand and a large plate of sugar-frosted cinnamon buns in the other.
As we enter the room, Agatha nods to us, but her expression is distant, troubled. It’s only then I realize she’s not actually looking at us but past us, her gaze fixed on the darkness of the stairwell. Her eyes narrow, as if trying to pierce through the shadows to see something that isn’t there—or something that is. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing but shadows.
“See, they caught up with us. Now, please, Agatha, tell us the rest of the story,” Tessa urges, her voice whiny and impatient.
Agatha places the pastries on the table between the group, her hand lingering on the plate as she looks over at me and Hayes. There’s a hesitation, a weighing of our worthiness to hear whatever dark tale she’s about to unfold. Honestly, I’m just here for the cinnamon buns.
I glance at Jonathan. He’s focused entirely on his coffee, one hand wrapped around the steaming mug, lazily licking cinnamon sugar frosting from the fingers of his other hand. He doesn’t even acknowledge me as we step into the room.
Agatha clears her throat, the sound sharp and wet. “Well, the story you’re asking to hear was all over the newspapers in 1985. Oh, I was about fifteen at the time. I guess that’s why it stuck with me then.” Her voice is low, serious.
