I might as well start looking for new jobs now.
“He’s not my friend, and we weren’tplayinganything,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well, now he’s not going to want to play with you anymore,” Arabella says with an air of condescension that makes her sound just like her mother. “I’ll keep him then,” she whispers. “He’s really cute.”
“No, he’s not.” A bald-faced lie. I’ve been refusing to admit to myself just how “cute” the thief lounging in the corner of the room is. He’s not a boy anymore, though he never really was. He was always larger than life—the literal definition of “too cool for school.” But now, each of those features I used to love are more pronounced. The stubble on his chin is a full, well-groomed beard that does wonders to highlight the rigid line of his jaw. His eyes are as dark as always, but his hair falls a little messier, a little fuller. Don’t get me started on his muscles. He’s always had a lean build, but there’s definition visible through his pitch-black ensemble.
“Geez, you’re grumpy tonight,” Arabella grumbles. “I know! We need hot chocolate!”
“No—” I try to stop her before she can make a mess of the pristine kitchen. The girl is a walking tornado. But she doesn’t listen, and I’m out of energy to fight the spinning room.
“You need to get out of here,” I hiss at Soren the second Arabella is out of earshot.
He crosses one leg, resting it on his opposite knee. “Believe me, I would love nothing more. But you need to be under observation for the next while, and I’m not leaving until you agree to let me take the painting.”
“Then I guess we are stuck together forever.” The words echo through the room, living on longer than I intended.
Forever.
Something once promised but long forgotten.
Soren’s only reaction is an uncomfortable shift in his seat.
“A few hours should suffice,” he says in a clipped tone.
A few hours? With him? He’s insane if he thinks I’m going to allow him to stay here, looking at me like that. Like he cares what happens to me. I’ve barely survived twenty minutes in his presence; any longer might kill me. “I’m fine. Please just leave.”
“You lost consciousness,” he says. “I’ve committed a few crimes, but killing someone crosses a line even for me.” He rests his arms on the armrests like he intends to get comfortable, but he’s still wearing his backpack, and he picked the wrong chair for comfort.
“Oh, you do this kind of thing often, do you? Where’s my phone? I need to keep a list of your atrocities.”
“You don’t have one already?” His lips twitch. “I’m disappointed.”
“It got too long. I’ll have to start a new one.”
“Sorry, no screens for the next twenty-four to… ninety-six hours. Possibly never again.” There’s that smirk on his lips, and for a split moment it takes me back to physics class senior year. The way he teased me every time I set out my three different colored pens to take notes. He’d make a habit of stealing one during class, and I made a habit of trying to catch him. I fell behind in that class, yet somehow, he always knew what was going on. I wouldn’t have passed without him. And then I started to fall for that bad boy with the sad eyes and—
There’s a loud pop in the kitchen, like a gun, and I scream.
Soren bolts from his chair and races to the kitchen. There’s a second bang, and Arabella screams. Soren curses, and then, what sounds like a million noodles fall to the floor.
I pinch my eyes closed, wondering what hot chocolate recipe requires noodles. She’s a miniature mad scientist, and it frightens me. My first day on the job, I found one of her “experiments” when I opened the dryer. She had riggeda soda bomb to explode on me. Every day it’s something new. Dead bugs in my water bottle. A bucket of water on my head. She’s seenHome Alonefar too many times and has access to anything her scary little mind can dream up. Her antics are terrifying, yet I can’t help but be impressed.
I think she’s purposely pushing me away to see if I’ll stay since her parents rarely, if ever, give her any kind of attention.
So, whether or not Arabella appreciates it, I’m going to stick around as long as I can to show her she’s loved.
If she doesn’t kill me first.
Soren marches back into the room, hauling—not forcefully—a little girl covered in flour behind him. He has flour on 60 percent of his body and his expression is icy.
“Well, if it isn’t Jack Frost.” I grin, only too grateful he found the trap that was no doubt laid out for me.
“She made an explosive. With flour and macaroni. In a balloon over my head that she shot with a dart.”
“Oh yeah, the house is rigged with them.”
Arabella covers her mouth with her blonde pigtails to hide her laugh.
