“Oh, no, we’re not—” Rhys starts.
“Well, it’s kinda like we are but—” I clear my throat. His elbow knocks against my ribs.
“Two rooms of twin beds, if you have availability. We have two ladies in the truck who are desperate for somewhere to rest. It’s been…a heavy evening.” Rhys’ smile is practised and to theuntrained eye, the strain underneath is almost undetectable. The kind woman nods, scribbling into her ledger.
“I’ve got the Hayloft Suite and the Bluebird Room free. Both have private baths. Breakfast is included, but you’re welcome to sleep through it.” She spares a long glance at the truck through the window as if she’s seen it all. Her smile is soft and seems to beam through her gentle eyes. “Coffee will wait for you regardless.”
“You’re an angel,” Rhys glances at the name tag on her breast, “Sienna. Thank you.” Reaching into his backpack, Rhys places a wad of cash onto the counter. Without hesitation, he leaves. There’s a moment of Sienna and me staring at the countertop, the pile of notes toppling over due to its abundant size. As deserving as Sienna’s kindness is, I really need to explain the art of budgeting to Rhys before he blows through whatever reserves he has.
By the time he returns, Sienna has fetched our room keys. Rhys all but shoves Addy from his side into my arms, Harper trailing behind with sleep blurring her vision. She hardly looks around the house, a yawn pulling at her mouth. From the high ponytail clasping her hair back, I note she isn’t wearing her receivers, and the mic clips are in the bag. Rhys draws Harper under his arm, her backpack in his other hand.
At Sienna’s instruction, we follow the honey-toned hardwood floors and thick braided rugs that soften our footsteps. Addy is slumped against me, pinching her eyes in an effort to banish the headache creeping in. Even so, she groans and huffs as we take the wide staircase that curves up the far wall, its banister worn smooth in the middle from decades of hands sliding along it. Framed photographs line the walls, black and white shots of the house back when it was a working barn, then later as a family home.
Surprisingly, the second story of the home holds more rooms than I’d expected. Six doors line each side of the hallway with a thirteen down at the far end. Using the key in my hand and the arm that’s free, I unlock the Bluebird Room and see Addy safely inside. Cocooned by soft lamplight and the faint scent of lavender, the half-drunk and half-hungover sprite flops onto a single bed, her pink hair fanning over the stack of pillows. Her bravado has finally burned out, leaving her glassy-eyed and quiet, her fingers rubbing at her temples. I kneel to tug off her sneakers, lining them neatly by the door before slipping into the hallway.
“Don’t disappear,” Addy murmurs from within the room, but by the time I look back, she’s apparently already passed out. I shut the door quietly behind me and turn back just in time to see Rhys usher Harper towards the door at the far end, preparing to close the pair of them off for the night. Rushing forward on silent feet, my hand catches the door before the lock can click into place.
“Wait,” I protest quietly, and judging by Rhys’ eye roll, I know he thinks I’m about to argue about the room arrangements. He’s wrong, as there’s no way I’d trust him not to suffocate Addy in her sleep. At Rhys’ raised brow, I beckon him to join me in the hallway whilst Harper looks between the two of us, shrugs and heads into the bathroom.
“What is it?” Rhys grunts impatiently. I narrow my eyes at him and fold my arms, returning to our earlier conversation.
“Why the hell would you buy me a truck?” At this, the tension eases from Rhys’ shoulders. He jerks a piece of hair from his eyes, searching for an answer.
“I couldn’t have my girl being driven around in an orange shitheap that might break down at any moment. I told the cops to send it to the scrapyard when they were done with it.”
Rhys watches me for a beat, as if gauging whether I’m going to argue with him, thank him or punch him in the face for scraping my beloved truck without telling me. I have the inclination to do all three in order, but all I manage is a small nod. I’ve never been given something so grand before. I don’t know how to truly accept it. Everything I’ve had in life, no matter how menial, has been earned with painstaking determination. Yet here’s Rhys, forging signatures and gifting trucks like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
Our standoff comes to an abrupt end at the muffled sound of Harper turning on the shower. Her voice drifts faintly as she sings a tune from within the spray. Rhys’ eyes flare before he exhales through his nose and disappears into the bathroom. I’m left holding the door to the suite, the invitation clear.
After a beat, I ease it closed with a soft click, leaving me standing in the hallway. I’m fully aware of Rhys’ need for Harper right now. He may not want to show it, but I’m learning to read his tells. Leaving the manor, his father, his legacy, it’s a lot for anyone to handle, nevermind someone who is out of touch with his own emotions. And besides, I no longer feel the desperation to be with Harper every minute of the day, no longer shackled by the competition for her attention. She knows I care for her deeply, and I’ll get the chance to show her just how much tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that, for as long as she’ll keep me around.
I’m the first to emerge the following morning, Addy hissing for painkillers, comparing herself to a vampire being stabbed in theeye with shards of sunlight. Her words, not mine. After locating aspirin in the kitchen and returning it to her with a glass of water, I shower and change before the rest of the house wakes. Sienna catches me at the bottom of the stairs, her smile just as warm as she jerks her head towards the kitchen. That’s how I find myself falling in step with her routine, a frilly apron around my torso that only reaches my thighs.
The dining table starts to fill with other guests, the delicious smell rolling through the house calling everyone downstairs. I place another bowl into the centre, having set the table around a small vase of freshly cut flowers, and helped cook the breakfast. Every time I walk back through the open archway from the kitchen, another woman is seated and eyeing me suspiciously.
A small giggle alerts me to Harper’s presence, her green eyes alight with amusement and a thick paperback clutched in her arms. I can’t help but beam at her, the image of beauty stepping into the morning rays. I don’t care that her hair is ruffled, a reddened smudge on her cheek from her pillow. She walks straight into my body, her head finding its place against my chest as I band my arms around her. Reluctantly putting some space between us, I use my hands to speak.
‘Good morning, Beautiful. How did you sleep?’
Harper gives me an appreciative smile and finds a seat between two women at the table.
‘I slept well. Is there coffee?’
Chuckling, I move into the kitchen and fix her a cup, feeling the heat of eyes on my back as I go. I tell myself it’s because we’re new around here, and not because my biceps are bulging against the T-shirt I picked out that was evidently Rhys’. The fabricis tight across my shoulders, and compared to Sienna’s dainty hands, mine look like meaty oven mitts.
Returning with Harper’s coffee, the strong and nutty kind, she inhales appreciatively. The scent mingles with buttered toast, fried eggs, and the sweet cinnamon of Sienna’s baking. Another woman has appeared with a young girl, both taking a seat with a careful sort of politeness, their eyes flicking to me and then away again. I’m starting to get the strange feeling that I’m the odd one out here, until Rhys steps into the room. The collective inhale is audible, even to Harper without her receivers on.
Oblivious to his surroundings, Rhys saunters in, foregoing a T-shirt with only a pair of lounge pants slung low on his hips. The angels and demons stretch across his skin, stark black against his pale skin. Upon his head, his hair is a mess of dark brown flicks, sticking out in all directions. Scrubbing a hand through it, he makes it even worse. All the while, he tongues the scar where his lip ring used to be.
Reaching for a vacant chair, his gaze is rooted on the back of Harper’s head as he drags it behind hers. The scrape of wood on wood irritates my ears, but as he sinks into the chair and kneads his fingers into Harper’s shoulders, I shake it off. Is he possessive? Absolutely. Does Harper deserve to be pampered at all times? One hundred percent.
“No need to be alarmed ladies,” Sienna joins us, taking her place at the head of the table, with me dropping down beside her. “These men are our guests. They pose no threat.” There’s a ripple of uncertainty, and Rhys visibly straightens. His gaze catches mine as if just realising the rest of the room exists.
Glancing from one woman to the next, his piercing blue eyes land on the small girl at the end of the table. She shrinks back behind her mother, her young face contorting with fear. I figured Rhys would grunt and turn away, resolute in his right to be hisstubborn self. But instead, he eases his chair back, selects a pink rose from the vase in the center of the table and approaches the young girl.
“I’m Rhys,” he says quietly, holding out the rose as a peace offering. It takes a few seconds for her to accept, her tiny fingers plucking the stem from his tattooed ones. She doesn’t respond, but she produces a fragment of a smile before hiding it behind her blond curls. Satisfied, Rhys returns to his chair, to Harper, and the room around us softens slightly. Sienna watches everyone, her face impassive but her demeanor encouraging.
I’m the first to offer a basket of baked treats to the woman beside me, effectively setting the meal into motion. The brunette can’t be more than seventeen, her hands shaking as she reaches for the basket. She whispers a thank you, passing it down in a practiced motion. Only once everyone else has plated up do I serve myself, splitting what’s left with Rhys. Harper watches me with that look she gets when I actually take care of myself, and it does something to my chest. A twisting of vulnerability and pride becomes intertwined.
