“What?”
“And I follow you sometimes. Most times.” He sits up slightly, rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and lightly squeezes my hip with the other as though worried I’m going to try to run away. “I do it to make sure you’re okay.”
My jaw drops, and I narrow my eyes. “That night you followed me into The Pitts?”
He clears his throat. “Not the first time.”
Warmth curls around my body, my throat burns, and my thighs clench around him. I knew rich people didn’t have shower problems.
“Fucking stalker,” I whisper affectionately.
He runs a thumb across my lower lip, pulling it down slightly. His voice is quiet, reluctant. “Do you want me to stop?”
I flick my tongue out to taste his thumb. “Not a chance.”
He stares at me, and the gentleness in his eyes is deep and unflinching in a way that doesn’t allow me to question what he sees in me. For the first time in my life, I feel safe. I don’t think about yesterday. I don’t think about tomorrow. Right here, right now ... I’m okay.
And I’m not even lying this time.
Eva
Hiking my backpack up my shoulder, I’m about to open my bedroom door when my eyes catch on my reflection. My navel piercing glints above my jeans, my tank tight and restricting. I hesitate.So it’s a bit tight, I tell myself.Harmless. The outfit is the same thing I wear almost every day.
And yet, today, uncertainty rocks me. My tank has never felt so suffocating. Who am I even doing this for?
Chewing my lip, I slowly backtrack, open my dresser drawer, and grab a simple black T-shirt. I switch out the tops, then tilt my head to examine my new reflection. This shirt is plain and loose. It does nothing to highlight my curves. It’s not me, but neither is the tank top. I have to admit, there’s something comfortable and freeing about the loose fit, but still, it’s not quite right.
A smile touches my lips when an idea hits me.
I dig through my vanity and withdraw a pair of scissors. Stretching the hem of my T-shirt with one hand, I cut along the waist with the other.
By the time I drop the scissors back in the drawer, a hint of my piercing glints through again. The cut of my hem is rough and uneven. The shirt hangs off me, box-like and unshapely.
It’s perfect.
I pass Easton’s open bedroom door, but he must already be downstairs. Butterflies flutter with each slow step down the staircase, and it’s not until I reach the bottom that the tense note in the air touches me. Maria hurries by with a dust mop in hand, muttering in Spanish and shaking her head. Her greying hair is disheveled, the lines around her eyes deeper than usual, and she doesn’t notice me as she blurs past.
Caution grips me, unease prickling my skin. I continue to the kitchen, and when I reach it, I stop in my tracks. Bridget’s kneeling atop the marble counter. Cabinets slam as she tears through them, tossing items out one by one. Food items and broken dishes litter the polished wood floor.
I slide my gaze to Easton, who merely raises a brow in greeting, but it’s not hard to see the tight line of his jaw while he avoids looking in his mother’s direction.
“MARIA!” Bridget shouts and drops a box of cereal that explodes Fruit Loops when it hits the floor. “Come back here and tell me what you did with them!”
I slink toward the coffee pot, hoping to go unnoticed.
No such luck.
“You.” The heat of Bridget’s gaze burns my cheek. “Where’s Maria?”
I focus on loading the coffee grounds into the pot. “I think she’s cleaning. She was headed toward the living room when I came down.”
“Ugh, finally. Have I been holding long enough for your satisfaction?”
My brows furrow when I glance over to see her touch the small phone piece in her ear.
“I don’t care about his meeting.” A slight slur taints her words. “My husband has not shown his face in this house in almost two weeks, and it seems he is now getting off on giving our housekeeper orders that blatantly contradict mine.”
There’s a pause.
