With that mental declaration, I head downstairs. The best part of no longer living with Josh is my freedom. And the lack of constant fear. I was having eczema under my eyes, GI symptoms, back and neck pain, and occasionally palpitations. I wasn’t sleeping and was jittery and nervous all the time. Afraidto eat something I wanted or listen to music I liked or dress how I wanted or not wear makeup.
I was afraid of my boyfriend, and to have that behind me is the best feeling in the world.
Life of a Showgirlstreams through the speakers because it’s that kind of morning. I make myself scrambled eggs with turkey sausage and eat them while sipping on my second cup of coffee. The moment I’m done with all of that and have cleaned up the kitchen, I plop my ass down on the sofa to eat my chocolates with a fire blazing in the fireplace and put onKill Bill: Volume 1with the intention of watching Volume 2 before this day is over.
“Just the three of us,” I sing to my candy and coffee, but then I hear an odd sound at the front door before the lock disengages. I jump up and freeze with my arms and legs spread wide like that cat getting electrocuted inChristmas Vacation. I search around for a weapon, wishing I had one of Uma Thurman’s swords, when the door opens.
My heart thunders. Who the hell is here?
People are talking. I grip my mug tighter, ready to chuck it at someone’s head if I must. The chocolates are useless. But then two suitcases are shoved through the open door, rolling until they bump into the foyer’s wall, but I don’t notice them so much because now I’m staring at Aston and the small person who I suspect is his daughter.
“Hi,” I shriek, feeling like I got caught being somewhere I shouldn’t be, only to remember that I live here. “What are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
Aston looks like he’s been struck, blinking about five times. He adjusts his backward navy baseball cap until it’s facing forward, with a 617 in a shamrock on the front. So Boston, and it would turn me on if I hadn’t decided I hate him. His gaze snags on my bare legs and oversized college shirt as he gives me a once-over similar to the way he did last night.
Only instead of a cute dress and hot-as-fuck platform heels that give my five-foot-two frame six or so extra inches, he’s getting me braless, wearing cream shearling Birkenstock slippers, no makeup, and a high, messy bun.
“Um.” He glances down at the little version of himself, who’s wearing a Disney’s Rapunzel dress, then back up at me. “What are you doing here?”
“I asked you first.”
He grunts, less than amused. “Micha offered for us to move in here since he’s likely not coming back anytime soon. And I’ve had a spare key to his place for years.”
Brothers. I fucking swear. “That’s hilarious since he told me I could move in here six weeks ago when I broke up with my boyfriend.” Then I remember a vague detail from last night before the martinis started pouring down my throat. “Forest said you were staying with your parents.”
“I was. I mean, we were. Then I spoke to Micha on Thursday, and he offered us his place.”
“But I live here,” I protest, sounding like I’m six and not caring in the slightest. The little girl is eyeing me like I’m a villain in her not-so-happily-ever-after, and I remember that her mom died. “Hi,” I say, coming over to her and ignoring her father. And the way I look because fuck him. No more fear. “I’m Skylar. You can call me Sky.”
She glances up at the ceiling before returning to me. “Sky? I’ve never heard that name before. Do you have rainbows? I like rainbows.”
I think I might love her. “All women have rainbows. We just have to find the sun through the rain in order to see them.”
“Are you a philosopher now?”
I covertly flip off her father without removing my eyes from her.
She studies me and sticks out her hand to me. “I’m Zoey.”
I shake her surprisingly firm grip. “Hi, Zoey. I’m Micha’s sister and hopefully the bane of your father’s existence.”
He grunts, but I continue to ignore him.
“Why are you in our new house?”
“That’s my question.” I glare at her father. “My question for you. Do you have a middle name?”
“Huh?” he blusters at the random question.
“A middle name,” I repeat.
“Oliver.”
I snort a laugh. “You’re kidding me? Your middle name is after my uncle Oliver?”
He shrugs.
“I can’t name my headache Aston Oliver Hughes.”
