Lucy hesitated for another moment before I felt his grip loosen and the crate settle into my hands.
Lucy still glanced over my face in question, clearly unsure how to handle me. “Thank you.” He nodded before moving to answer the door.
It was a mattress, a bed frame, and at least two workers whom Lucy opened the door to.
“Mr. Sterling,” the first one greeted.
Lucy immediately stiffened, shoulders raising defensively. The hand at his waist clenched into a fist, though he tucked it behind his back to hide it from them.“Yes?”
“We have your requested delivery.” The guy nodded to the mattress. “If you’ll just show us where this goes, we will be out of your way shortly.”
Lucy sighed, still as stiff as a board. “Yes, of course. Right this way.”
He led them down the hall, walking as if he were a robot.
Great. He’s even more uncomfortable than before. Why the fuck did his dad think this was a good idea again? I thought I heard something about Lucy “taking care of” himself. Did that mean he hadn’t been?
What had I gotten myself into?
3
LUCY
I’d never felt so violated in all my life.
Dad had invited a stranger into my house—for a full month—and taken away my studio in one fell swoop.
All because I wasn’t finishing the painting as quickly as he expected.
It was foreign. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking when I was at the easel; the pastel colors and the soft brushstrokes were something I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t me, not anymore. I was being told to paint someone else’s work, and all I could feel was this insurmountable weight of expectation on my shoulders.
I was trapped. At my easel and in my own home.
Mr. Bristol—Knox, he’d corrected—was in my home. He was watching me, his brows furrowed as he did.
Did that mean he saw something wrong with me? Was he spying on me for Dad? Watching my progress with the painting? Verifying that I wasn’t being grumpy about emptying my studio to make room for the new bed my dad had delivered for him?
Dad and Cordelia hadn’t even given me a warning. They knew all of this last night after the auction—had planned it, really—and they’d scheduled a bed to be delivered here afterKnox arrived. But they didn’t say one word to me until I answered the door and found Knox there. I couldn’t argue. I couldn’t throw some sort of tantrum like I was a child again, because Knox was there, in front of us. I was representing my family, the Sterling name.
Had that been on purpose?
I watched the movers set up the bed once they’d deposited the rest of my art supplies and Jackson’s studio cat tree on the floor in the hallway, uncaring but not breaking anything—for fear of my dad’s wrath, no doubt. They set it up swiftly and smoothly, and I could only haul the rest of my art supplies to the corner in my living room.
With Knox’s help.
He’d moved from behind the kitchen island when the movers first knocked on the door. The furrow to his brow wasn’t gone, but it had eased somewhat, softening his face when he looked at me.
He was tall. Unreasonably so. I was used to being shorter than a fair number of the men Dad brought around, but there was something different in how Knox looked at me, and in how my body felt under his attention, like a fire wasn’t hot enough to describe.
When some of the other men looked at me, it was with a hunger that twisted my stomach, unsettling me and making nausea erupt that wouldn’t go away until after I’d had my shower.
When Knox looked at me, there was something else behind his eyes and in how he held himself. There was a softness I didn’t know what to do with, especially after he’d interacted with Dad and Cordelia with just as much iciness. But the way he’d looked at me when he took the crate—it was like music, thrumming along the surface of my skin, vibrating under my feet and somehow, impossibly, pulling me into his space.
I wanted to trust him, but I wasn’t that naive. I knew how the world worked by now, at least the rich parts with people who never said what they meant. Knox’s words were just words. They shouldn’t mean anything to me. They shouldn’t make me wonder if he could actually show concern for me.
I didn’t know what made me want to trust him. I couldn’t make sense of what I couldn’t see, only what I could observe.
For one, he clearly had never had posture lessons drilled into him as I had. Where he stood with confidence and strength, he was also loose. The furrow of his brow was questioning, but more curious than interrogative.
