Once Charlie has gone, I walk back into the kitchen. Amelia is standing at the sink washing up, her long hair lying against her back in soft waves that I’m desperate to run my fingers through.
“What are you still doing here?” I say, hearing the anger in my voice, powerless to prevent it.
She turns, her mouth open in an ‘o’ of surprise. “What? I just thought I’d clean up for you.”
“I don’t need you to do that. I asked you here to help with work. It’s late, go home.”
I turn my back on her, heading to the couch. I slump into the seat, and instantly regret it as blood rushes around my body, making my head pound painfully.
Amelia dries her hands and moves around the kitchen island, looking lost.
“Do you need anything before I go? I could run you a bath?”
Yes, get in it with me, and I can wrap my legs around you and we can just stay there.
“Just leave. I’m in no state to fuck and that’s all I pay you for.”
I freeze, the cruelty of my own words shocking me.What the fuck did I just say?
I don’t want to look at her, but my eyes are dragged back to her face, and for the first time, I see Amelia truly angry. Her lips are pressed together in a hard line, and she glares at me.
“You’re an asshole,” she snaps, grabs her bag, and stalks out of my apartment.
I stare after her, desperate to call her back and drag her into my arms.
I sit silently, listening to the elevator as she leaves. I try to ignore the churning, unpleasant feeling rising within me. It feels an awful lot like heartache.
Chapter 25
Amelia
The weekend is torture. I berate myself constantly for what I said, for losing my temper and for potentially sabotaging my job and my ability to pay for Annabelle’s treatment.
When I check my bank balance, Crawford has put another large chunk of cash in there. But this time, it doesn’t fill me with elation or joy; it feels like a down payment before he throws me out on the street.
I stand in the kitchen, watching Annabelle on the couch. She woke up with a headache that hasn’t gone away yet.
I’m a selfish bitch.
I’m paid an insane amount of money for showing up and having sex with a guy I actually like. That’s hardly taxing.
Now I’ve screwed it up with some misguided sense of entitlement that he should have thanked me for caring for him.
And he didn’t even ask me to.
I stab the knife into the onion I’m cutting and sigh.
“Okay, what’s up with you today?” Annabelle asks. “You’ve been sighing nonstop for the last half hour.”
I look up at her. She’s so pale. My stomach flips.
“I’m just tired,” I mutter, wondering whether Crawford is feeling better. Has he thought about me? Does he wish I’d stayed?
Stop it.
I contemplate the sad little pile of onions I’ve cut up, my eyes stinging painfully. As I’m wiping at my eyes, our mother comes home.
“Hey, my darlings!” she trills as she comes through the door. She’s carrying shopping bags with a big grin on her face.
