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“Nothing.” She shrugs, getting up. “I’m going to shower.”
“Okay.” I release the cuffs of my jumper from my palms and roll up my sleeves. Because . . . heat. It’s anger, I’m sure of it. The man is an arsehole. His anger makes no sense to me. I don’t know why the hell he bothered saving me—he looks at me like he wants to kill me most of the time.
“Morning,” Beau sings, appearing in her yoga kit, James not far behind. I can’t help but smile when I look at them. And Danny and Rose. The love, the fire, the passion.
“Will you back off?” Beau says over her shoulder, prompting a displeased scowl from James. “You’re crowding me.”
“I’ve always crowded you.” He ignores her demand and sweeps her off her feet, sitting her on a nearby stool and getting up in her face. “Have you had your morning juice?”
I grin around my coffee cup as Beau looks at Lawrence, like . . . please, help me. Her uncle, who doubles as an aunt when in drag, shakes his head, moving his rainbow kimono from under his arse so he doesn’t sit on the silk when he takes a seat. “Darling, you chose to marry an over-the-top, protective assassin, so you can deal with it.”
Beau snorts, returning her attention to her husband. He’s half-smiling. Relaxed. I know his history. It’s nasty. Dark. Beau’s is as bad. And yet together, they’re . . . light.
I fall into thought as I watch the comings and goings of the kitchen, everyone stopping by to collect coffees, bagels, or one of Esther’s famous cups of tea. Since I’m British, I can attest. They’re really fucking good. Remind me of home. I flinch that thought away. Home.
I’d rather be in hell.
I stare down into my coffee, watching the brown liquid swirl.
* * *
“Careful, darling,” Mother says as I kneel on one of the chairs, leaning across the table to help her set out the delicate fine china decorated with white wisteria and lilac butterflies. The handle is so tiny, not nearly big enough for Father to get his fat finger through, so he’ll wrap his big hand over the rim and drink from Mother’s fine bone china with much less grace. That’s if he stops by during her afternoon tea, which he probably won’t. The men will be in the drawing room smoking fat cigars and drinking amber liquid from Father’s crystal-cut short glasses. They’ll laugh loudly. The ladies will not. They will sip tea and chat quietly. They’ll wear two-piece frocks.
I hit the cup on the saucer.
“Darling!” Mother scurries around the table and checks the cup for chips, and the moment she gasps, I know she’s found one.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” I whisper, slipping down from the chair and moving away from the table.
“What are you sorry for?” Father appears at the large wooden double doors, his rugged face frowning.
I inhale, taking one more step away from the table.
“Nothing,” Mother places the cup down, turning it so the chip is facing away from him. “Upstairs now, darling,” she says, taking my shoulders and walking me out of the room. I look back at Father, hoping he doesn’t check the cup. They’re expensive and were a gift to Mother for her birthday. He doesn’t check the cup, but he does tweak Mother’s arrangement, taking the little silver spoons she’s placed on the table and setting them where he prefers. On the saucer. “Here,” Mother says, holding her hand out discreetly in front of me. There’s a sugar lump in her palm. I grin and quickly snatch it, popping it in my mouth and sucking it until it’s nothing, looking up at her and smiling. She winks. “Our little secret,” she whispers.
* * *
I startle when the coffee cup is removed from my hand and Esther replaces it with a cup of tea on a small smile, giving my cheek a fond stroke before returning to faffing around the giant kitchen. I love her. She’s the mother I lost. She’s never pressed further on what I’ve told her, no one ever has, but Esther seems to have a motherly instinct that detects there’s . . . something. I worry my time shirking my story will soon be over.
I bite the corner of my lip where the hole remains, a constant reminder of my past, and reach up to my hair, feeling it skimming my shoulders. It’s an inch or two too long. That needs to be fixed. I get up and finish my tea as I walk to the sink, placing my mug neatly on the side above the dishwasher. “Thank you.” I give Esther a kiss on the cheek, halting her conversation with Otto.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
“Just a few errands to run before my shift at the club.” I make it out into the lobby, seeing Rose coming down the stairs in workout clothes, cradling the baby in her arms. Not that she’ll be working out. How the hell can a woman look this amazing a month after giving birth? Her body has snapped back into shape, no workouts required. “Morning,” I say, greeting her with a kiss before fussing over the newest addition to the family.
“Morning,” she chirps, smiling down at her daughter. I won’t ask if it was a good night; I could hear the cries. “Have you seen Danny?” she asks.
“I assumed he was still in bed.”
“I’ll try his office.” Rose carries on her way, looking back. “Want a walk around the garden soon? Go for coffee?” She smiles, and it’s a lovely sight. Coffee dates—just leaving the mansion on a whim to sit in a coffee house—are not a normal thing in Rose’s life. Obviously, Danny has to know her every move, but she can at least move. A giant, hairy guy following aside. It’s freedom. I can appreciate her appreciation.
“I have a few things I need to do.” I take the stairs, feeling her curious look on my back. I won’t feed it. I smile as I jog down the corridor, googling local salons as I go, my mind sub-consciously counting the doors as I pass them until I’m at Anya’s and my room. I walk right on in, reading the reviews of a place downtown as I do. “I’m going to get my hair cut,” I declare to Anya as I look up, all smiles. “And my—” My eyes widen. “Brad?” He’s standing in the middle of my room, a towel held on his wet hair, butt naked. My eyes fall down his prime chest to . . .
Oh Lord.
It’s—
I quickly shoot my eyes to his, all kinds of weird shit happening between my thighs. I’m pulsing. Throbbing. I gulp as I stare at him, and he stares right back. No apologies. Not bothering to cover himself. He’s not looking at me like he wants me dead now. He looks . . . shell-shocked.
