“Yeah, I got spring rolls.”
That was all it took to convince me. I followed him into the kitchen, where his massive white island overlooked the pool glowing in the sunset. He rolled up his sleeves and unpacked the food with effortless efficiency. I found myself staring—at his hands, his movements, and especially his forearms. I’d always had a thing for forearms. Too bad these belonged to Elliott. They were perfect, though. Veins like a roadmap. My mouth watered, and I looked away.
“Elliott, you have enough food here for a family of six. I’m not eating all this.”
He shot me a look that said,Girl, please. I’ve seen you eat.
“That’s fair,” I admitted. “But still. I’ve never finished a plate there. They give way too much food.”
“Stop talking, Ness. Just eat.”
He slid a container toward me, already armed with a fork. I dug in. I sat at one end of the island, him at the other. Every now and then, I glanced up. Every time he caught me, I snapped my gaze away.
“It’s quiet here. You’re quiet.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Maybe the silence had finally gotten to me. Maybe it was just my usual verbal diarrhea.
“You need the noise,” he said, almost as if he were realizing it as he spoke. “I thought you liked the quiet to focus. That’s why I’ve been giving you space.”
It hit me then—something I’d always known but never said out loud. I needed people. I grew up in a house packed full of them. The quiet depressed me. It felt wrong, unnatural.
“I focus best when there’s noise,” I admitted. The honesty made me uncomfortable, so I turned it back on him. “Your turn. Tell me something true.”
He hesitated, sifting through a dozen unspoken things before giving me a shy smile and a shrug. “Can’t really think of anything.”
Uncharacteristic. So I nudged him. “Do you cook?” I gestured toward the kitchen.
I had never seen him cook growing up, but his dad had been famous for his restaurant. People still raved about Christopher James’s recipes, even though another chef owned the place now and had turned it into a chain. Morgan and Elliott were still part-owners, but they weren't involved day-to-day—Morgan sat on the board, and Elliott ran Ever After instead.
“I do,” he said, clipped, like he wouldn’t elaborate.
That was the thing about Elliott—he never talked about his family. I’d learned not to pry, even though it killed me. I was a questions girl. Always had been. Curious to the point of danger. My mouth had saved me before, but it had also gotten me into plenty of trouble.
“Your turn,” he said, throwing my own challenge back at me. “Tell me something true.”
I twirled my fork through Pad Thai, buying time. I didn’t know what to share so I just shrugged my shoulders.
“Tell me about your knee.”
I nearly choked. “What about my knee? It works like yours, bends the way it’s supposed to,” I said way too quickly.
A lie. Some days it hurt so much I couldn’t get out of bed. Some days my limp was so bad people stared. The doctors had done what they could, but there hadn't been much to save. I glared at him, my eyes snarling like a caged lion. Maybe he was right about that cornered animalmetaphor.
He didn’t push further. He just ate in silence, and so did I. Him, probably wondering what he’d said wrong. Me, wondering when the devil in my story had started to care.
And hating that I cared, too.
sixteen
VANESSA
I putthe finishing touches on my niece’s gift and stepped back, proud of myself. I’d always been a good gift-giver, but for Chloe I knew I’d outdone myself. My sister was probably going to slaughter me on sight, but it would be worth it.
I grabbed my things and locked the office where my designs were finally taking shape. The itch to sketch was back, and that alone felt exciting. Still, I knew breaks were just as important; rest always brought fresh ideas later.
Elliott had taken to rummaging through my sketches like it was his new religion. Sometimes, it still triggered flashes of PTSD; watching him hover over my work brought back memories of Javi and his betrayal. But Elliott wasn’t Javi. This was Satan—a totally different ballgame.
He flipped through everything: the bridal sketches and the ones of him as Lucifer. It was the bridal designs that made me nervous. He always complimented them, but I’d started to feel self-conscious. Apparently, it showed, because one day he had handed me a key and told me I could lock the office if I wanted. How did he even know I needed that? Later, I realized it was likely because he knew what it felt like to have your work stolen. Maybe he just wanted me to feel safe.
I almost made it to the front door when I heard his voice.
