He took a step closer to the closet. “No.”
“You don’t have to whore yourself out. Uncle Ryan says he has tons of projects for you. There’s plenty of roofs to shingle right here in Worcester.”
Another metallicsnipfollowed the first. This time, Thomas recognized the unmistakable click of scissors.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Tommy, wait—”
He hung up.
Setting his phone on the dresser, he picked his way across the room. The perfect stillness that emanated from the closet’s interior made him doubt whether he’d heard anything at all. But then there it came again—not a snip this time, but a sigh. He pried open the door hard enough to send the strawberry-printed tulle of Vivienne’s dress fluttering around her thighs.
She stood in the mess of his closet, ankle-deep in ribbons of white. Gone was all evidence of the previous night. Her hair fell around her shoulders in soft curls, the front pieces tied back with a large pink ribbon. Her face had been scrubbed clean of tears, and the pink puff sleeves of her dress covered up the shallow lacerations in her wrist. In her right hand sat a pair of sleek silver sewing scissors. In her left was one half of a black silk tie, the end shorn at an angle.
For several seconds, he stood perfectly still and took in the damage. The closet was in shambles, the wire hangers empty on their racks. His ties were in tatters. Buttons dotted the floor in pearlescent coins. He wondered how many thousands of dollars of her stepfather’s money she’d just destroyed.
And it was just that—Philip’s money. Thomas couldn’t have afforded this closet full of suits in a thousand years. He couldn’t have afforded thetiefor one of these suits. He’d made that clear well before agreeing to take the job, and in return Philip Farrow had agreed to outfit him in an entirely new wardrobe.
She let the tie flutter to the floor, handing him the scissors as though he’d asked for them.
Was that your girlfriend?she signed, index fingers hooking one over the other.
He set the scissors onto a barren shelf. “Who?”
On the phone.
“Sure.” He surveyed the damage at their feet. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
You too.Her brows pinched together.Don’t ever speak to my friends without my permission.
“That’s what this is about? You’re upset with me for talking to Reed Connolly?”
You went after him.
“I didn’t goafter him, Vivienne.” He took a step toward her, shredded shirts bunching around his feet. “What, did he call you and tattle?”
You harassed him.
“Harassedis a strong word. We had a conversation.”
You shoved him into a brick wall.
Hehaddone that. Shame tunneled into him—not because he regretted what he’d done, but because he hadn’t meant for her to find out. He knew it was the exact wrong way to feel, and yet he couldn’t stop himself feeling it. He didn’t bother to try.
“Something has you scared,” he said. “You can’t expect me to do nothing.”
Anger sparked in the hard amber of her eyes.It is not your job to baby me.
“I’m not babying you,” he said, indignant. “I’m—”
But he didn’t know what he was doing. He was punching blind. He was chasing shadows. He was, above all else, getting in too deep. This was meant to be a paycheck. Apaycheck. Philip hadn’t asked him to drive out to New Haven and accost some unsuspecting art student. He’d done that all on his own.
“I have a question for you,” he said, pivoting. “Who’s Grayson?”
If she was surprised to hear the name, she didn’t show it.Who I spend my time with is none of your business.
“I disagree,” he said. “Everything you do is my business.”
