“What is it?” Leith asks. Paisley nearly drops the book, as she jumps, her wide eyes looking from me to him. She actually puts it behind her back, like a little child hiding a stolen cookie, as if that will stop him from seeing it.
“Oh, nothing,” she says, her cheeks coloring. She turns to me. Islan snorts, and Leith is not amused.
He crosses his arms on his chest, not letting her change the subject, though I’m relieved to know Bailey’s doing well.
“What are you hiding, Paisley?”
She brushes him off. “It’s a romance novel, Leith. Nothing you’d be interested in.”
“Then why are you so eager to hide it from me?”
Her lips twitch, and then a giggle bursts forth as if she can’t contain it anymore.
“Welll…” She bites her lip and her eyes quickly flit to Islan.
Islan rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath. “Oh, for the love of God, it’s because the cover model looks likeyou,brother, but don’t fucking flatter yourself.” She yanks the book out from behind Paisley’s back and shows him.
Oh my. Itdoeslook like him. It’s almost uncanny. I look from the book back to Leith, then back again. I thinkI’mthe one that needs to read that one.
Leith rolls his eyes heavenward. “I take back what I say about you two getting jobs,” he mutters. “Perhaps it would be a good thing after all. Cairstina, let’s go.”
“Oh, Cairstina, I’ll drop this off when I’m done later!”
“Have at it,” he mutters.
I can hear Islan talking to Paisley as we go upstairs. “Should’ve seen the two of them text-fighting.”
Is that what we were doing?
We get to the landing, and instead of going up a second flight of stairs, he points down the hall. “This way.”
He opens the door to a room, and I blink in surprise. It’s several rooms, a suite of sorts, and when we enter the room, the first thing I see is piles and piles of boxes and bags.
Are those… for me?
I don’t remember the last time I’ve had something new to wear, or to own. There’s no way everything in this pile is forme.Justone person? The Scots are known for being frugal, and my family is no exception. We use our possessions until they practically fall apart, and nothing ever goes to waste. My mother prides herself on making food last, and not throwing a thing out until she’s used every drop or scrap. How could one person own all of these things? And why would he give them to me if I’m to be a prisoner?
“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “They did what I told them alright, but I won’t easily bring these all upstairs.”
I text him.Would this many things even fit in that little room?
He growls as he reads it. “Not easily.”
I hate that I feel rejected, that he doesn’t want me here, but what more do I expect? I’m not hisdate.I’m his prisoner. Still, I dislike that he wants to eject me from his private life and sequester me in that room again.
“Well,” he mutters, hands on his hips while he looks at the boxes. “Let’s unpack them and be sure they all fit.”
A little blip of excitement skates through me at that. Will I… try them on in front of him?
When I don’t move, he waves his hand impatiently. “Go on, then. What are you waiting for?”
I hasten to the boxes and bags, and quickly begin to unpack them. One bag has denim trousers, faded with little rips in the thighs, the trendiest thing I’ve ever touched. Another has buttery soft leggings, and another a cardigan and jumper. There are skirts and boots, tops to layer, in dark reds and various shades of pink, navy, and black.
My cheeks heat when I open a pink bag with dainty boxes in it, for when I open the boxes, I remove tiny scraps of silk and lace that I suppose are some sort of knickers, and pretty satin bras that look more expensive than my entire wardrobe at home.
I quickly tuck them back into the bag before he sees, but I swear I see a corner of his lips quirk up.
He leans against an overstuffed chair in his living room, perched on the edge.
