I rub my forehead. “It isn’t that simple.” The bone-deep skepticism in Fiona’s eyes when I told her I’d look for her won’t leave me alone.
She betrayed me first. She approached me for money first. And she sent me those photos, silently begging me to get her out of marrying Jude. I saved her in spite of an ugly past that left me heartbroken and humiliated. Intellectually, I know I’ve done more than what was necessary for her, but emotionally, I feel like I owe her a little, even though it makes no sense.
“How come?” Josh asks.
I consider for a moment, then finally zero in on the most obvious answer. “If anything happens to her, I’d feel responsible. I don’t want tocarry that guilt for the rest of my life. You know Mom wouldn’t just yell at Fiona. She might use a corkscrew on her for real.”
Ares and Josh look at each other, silently acknowledging the point.
I turn to my twin. “You need to be careful, too. Mom is apparently working on you as well.”
“Nobody’s drugged me yet,” Josh says, although his eyebrows pinch, creating deep grooves between them. “And I’ve had a vasectomy, so Mom won’t be getting a baby out of me.”
“Vasectomies fail,” I remind him. “Our cousin Huxley’s dad fathered seven boys in four months because his came undone.”
“Let’s just say my surgeon’s better than his.”
We finish most of the whiskey, but don’t play any more cards.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fiona
I stand outside Bryce’s gates and stare at the security pad. I don’t have the code or anything. Didn’t need one to leave his place last night, and I didn’t think to get one when I walked out of the hotel room in panic and fury.
I bought a shirt and skirt, along with some underwear, and walked around the city until it started to get dark, then called for an Uber. The easiest solution would be to contact Bryce and ask him for the gate code, but I don’t want to be in touch with him until I’ve decided what my next step should be.
Isthere a good next step?
The gates open and a modest car comes out. I trot over and wave at the driver. A man with a straw hat lowers the window and squints at me suspiciously, a thick-knuckled hand resting on the steering wheel. “Yes?”
“Hi. I’m Fiona. I’m Bryce’s”—my voice falters as I search for a suitable word:plaything, sex partner, debtor, friend?—“ex-girlfriend.”
The man’s eyes sweep over me, taking in my disheveled hair and the trench coat. “He didn’t say anything about anyone coming over.” He could’ve easily said, “You look like a freak and I’m calling 911,” in the same voice.
“I’m actually staying here for a bit. Can’t really go home.”
He nods slowly. “Is that a fact?”
“I’m not a weirdo, I swear. And I really am staying here. The backyard has really pretty shrub roses. Red. I saw them earlier. And if you let me into the house, I can show you my clothes in one of the upstairs bedrooms.”
“Oh.” He blinks in surprise, then gives me another once-over. “Bryce doesn’t bring women over. Been with him five years and never seen one.”
What?Given Bryce’s sexual appetite, it’s hard to believe. Maybe he likes to take them to hotels. “Well, he broughtmeover. I couldn’t have known what he has in the backyard otherwise.” A tall, thick wall surrounds the entire mansion.
The man chews his lip for a moment. “All right, I guess. But you can’t go into the house. Housekeeper set the alarm before leaving.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just wait in the yard.”
The man nods and lets me walk past the gates. I sigh with relief and weariness, then head to the backyard. My calf muscles ache from so much walking. Stilettos aren’t very practical for long hikes. I toe off my shoes and lie on the freshly mown grass, staring up at the darkening sky. The evening breeze carries the scent of the surrounding roses.
Suddenly I realize I’m smiling, and I smack my forehead. What’swrongwith me? I’m entirely too pleased that Bryce hasn’t brought any woman over in the last five years. I’ve already decided I have no territorial feelings about him. I’m not entitled to them.
Besides, there’s a bigger problem: his mom’s threats and what to do about them. Bryce suggested we marry, but that’s got to be the worst solution. He must’ve regretted it as soon as he blurted it out.
I’m still pissed that he didn’t tell me about the possibility of running into his psychotic mom, but now, anger isn’t the only thing I’m feeling. It must’ve been incredibly hard to have a mother like that. Just like I couldn’t choose how I was born, he couldn’t choose whom he was born to. Apparently she stayed away for a while, but she must’ve raised him when he was little. The first time I saw the nice, off-campus house that he and his twin brother shared, with its sizable yard, I thought he must’ve been raised in luxury and thoroughlyspoiled by his wealthy and powerful family. After all, who at Harvard hasn’t heard of the Huxleys? But now, after actually meeting his psychopathic mother… His childhood might not have been much better than mine.
Still…marriage? Just the idea is wild. We don’t even like each other. Well, he certainly doesn’t like me, and I doubt anything will change that. The things that I did to him… If he’d done them to me, I’m not certain I could forgive him.
