It’s Just Pity
WINONA
Itold myself it was pity that kept me from doing the sane thing and walking out that door.
Not that pity was a good reason to stay. I had plenty to do at home. I wanted to prep a couple more care packages for the boys. Loads of research to do. The last thing I needed was a psychotic billionaire being an absolute ass to me.
And hehadbeen an ass once again, even more so than before. But Mitchell Harrington, it was becoming increasingly clear, wasn’t anything like my stepfather. Not by a long shot. There was no hatred in his words—at least not toward me. I was certain of it. I saw it in his eyes. There was desperation in them. He was lost. Floundering.
Blundering and drunk. But not cruel.
Maybe itwaspity that made me watch the man head out the back door before glancing down at the cupboard. But it wasn’t pity that had made me get into Flo tonight, making excuses at the bar but not admitting—never admitting—where I was going. I could handle myself, I’d reasoned on the way over. And I had pepper spray in my purse.
But it wasn’t danger that had my heart pumping as I came up those steps.
It was something else. I wasn’t sure what just yet, but here I was, alone in this man’s house once again. Dying, I could admit to myself now, to know what was going on behind those stormy eyes.
As the patio door clicked shut and I watched Mitchell’s hulking form stride out onto the pool deck, backlit by a twilight sky fringed in dark clouds, I let out a breath. I didn’t need to know what it was that was keeping me here.
All I needed to do was the job I technically came here for.
I knelt, closing my eyes with him out of view and taking a long breath. “Just check it out, Winona. See what the problem is. Diagnose the issue and move on.”
Yes. Plumbing was stable ground. I knew plumbing.
I pulled open the cupboards. And stopped in a dead freeze.
Mitchell had said there was a leak. But this wasn’t a leak. It wasn’t even a crack.
Before me was a pile of plastic shards. A cupboard whose walls looked like a truck had run over them.
Mitchell Harrington had taken a sledgehammer to these pipes.
I should have been terrified. Maybe I was. My heart was certainly thundering against my ribs.
But I knew, without a doubt, that he’d done this to get me back here.
But he hadn’t come on to me. Even though I swear I’d seen his eyes rake over me once or twice, before snapping his gaze firmly to mine. Almost like he was angry at himself for doing it.
So the question was, why did he want me here so badly?
And why did I care so much about finding the answer?
CHAPTER 11
Rock Bottom Boy
MITCHELL
Way to fucking go, Mitchell. That was productive.
I tried to tell myself it was fine, that pissing Winona off had given me enough inspiration to write some more pages.
But it didn’t feel fine. I poured whiskey into the glass as I walked, but since I was in motion and not entirely steady, most of it hit the deck. I gave up, tossing the still half-filled bottle onto the grass where it emptied itself in silence.
I'd meant to head for the pool house, where my typewriter sat ready for more bullshit. But my feet took me left, toward the diving board. I climbed up the ladder and walked out to the end, the board bouncing dizzyingly beneath me. When I reached the end, I peered over, toes curling over the edge of the board. For a moment, I just stared at my own face, mirrored in the glassy surface. For a man who used to spend $400 on a haircut every three weeks, it was laughable how little I noticed or even cared about what my hair looked like now. No woman in their right mind would want me.
Maybe I deserved to lose everything. The book. My business. All thethings. Maybe it would be a relief.
