He leaves my personal space, and I can finally breathe properly. Leather bags in hand, he zooms past me when I wordlessly point to the left door.
“Wait!” I manage, common sense finally making an appearance. “What’s your name?”
He’s got that laser-focus glare again, scanning me for a second. “Carter. Rawlings.” The sound of the shutting door puts an end to the conversation.
“I’m Eliza,” I tell the empty living room.
A few moments pass until I gain control of my body and my brain quiets enough to feel the effects of tonight’s surprise. My muscles hurt from how tense I’ve been for the last half hour, I’m parched, and my head hurts. Some water and food would help, but I’ve been cooped up in here and keep the fridge empty between rentals. Water will do until tomorrow.
As I drag myself to the kitchen and reach into the cabinet for a glass, I spot a note resting against a familiar jar of herbs—tears well up again. I have to accept I’m a crier now. Gratitude swirls in my chest, as warming as a spring breeze, knowing Martha brought over my favorite tea blend while I’ve been dead to the world.
On the fridge door, another handwritten yellow Post-it.
Call me if you need anything else. Or even if you don’t. Martha
I open the door to find the fridge fully stocked. Have I been so out of it since Thursday night that I didn’t hear them come in, carrying so much food? And why can’t I stop crying?!
This is the kind of friends Martha and Sam are. They kept caring for me even after I moved out of the Millers’ house eight years ago. Inviting me over and feeding me a week’s worth of delicious homemade food. They insisted on taking me out whenever Jared was “busy”. I shake the thoughts of his “trips” out of my head because I don’t want to start bawling again.
Quietly, I sneak back into my bedroom balancing a bowl of Martha’s heavenly mac and cheese and a water bottle. Before I plop in the middle of the bed, I retrieve the laptop from between the folded shirts in the laundry basket. The man’s name sounds familiar. I have to look up my mysterious guest, or I’ll never be able to sleep with him in the house. He doesn’t seem dangerous but there’s an edge to him that I’ve long learned to be careful of.
Hundreds of articles pop up in the search. Financial news bulletins about inheriting the family tech companyafter his father’s death and his decisions as CEO of Rawlings Enterprise. Opening some gossip blogs with pictures of him and various beautiful women at fancy events makes me feel stalkerish so I close them quickly.
The most recent article mentions his absence from the public eye over the past four months.The company has remained silent on the matter.Great. Another reason to feel like moose dung. The man needed to get away for some reason and I just crashed his holiday.
At least I can whip up something for breakfast as an apology, in the hope he won’t ask for his money back, or even worse, leave a bad review.
On second thought, I move a chair under the doorknob and retrieve an old pepper spray I bought when I was fifteen from the duffel bag. I drift into a fitful sleep, clutching the cold metal of the spray can, a reminder of the last time I felt unsafe.
Chapter Two
CARTER
My body is stiff and it’s too damn bright in here. All I crave is a couple more hours of rest. Last night, I fell into an exhaustion-induced sleep the second I touched the bed, plopping directly onto the comforter.
The new setting is a far cry from my New York loft. Wooden walls, a vintage dresser on the other side of the room. An ungodly amount of pillows with intricate embroidered patterns lay scattered around the heavy oak bed. I didn’t have the chance to properly take in the room after the debacle with the owner last night. This is what I get for being a good son and a loving brother. They conspired and emotionally blackmailed me into accepting the plan they sprang on me two days ago.
Now I’m stuck in a lake cabin with a crying woman. In the forest, far from where I’m needed the most.
I’d assessed the risks before telling her to stay and might’ve been worried if she hadn’t struck me as pitiful. Dark circles marring the skin under red and swollen eyes. Puffy and chewed lips. Her strawberry blonde hair was a bird’s nest, tangled and disheveled. The human equivalent of a cornered fox that’s been roughed up by a pack of hound dogs. So sad it made me uncomfortable.
She did ask for my name so it’s only going to be a matter of scrolling the search page for a minute. My family and the board have kept the situation under wraps so far. But I doubt she has the gossip press on speed dial, so I’ll make sure to buy her silence once she sorts out her living situation. I’m not the most caring person in the world but, unfortunately, my mother raised me better than to throw a crying woman out of the house in the middle of the night.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand.
“Speaking of the devil,” I say, once my mom’s radiant face pops up on the screen, as regal as ever, ready for a high society brunch or whatever is on her agenda today.
“What a lovely room, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?” She’s too chipper for a Sunday morning, but I guess she wants to compensate for the crappy mood I’ve been sporting since she shared her idea.
“I’m here too!” Jackie takes up the other side of the screen, dressed for her morning yoga.
They’re coming on strong with the combined powers of the Rawlings women.
“I wanted to check if you got there in one piece.”
“Unfortunately,” I sigh.
“Don’t be such a grump,” my mother chuckles. “This will be good for you.”
