Page 49 of None Of Your Business

He stares at me for three seconds, then walks over to the kitchen counter where my keys are sitting.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking your studio key.” He slides a silver key off the ring and holds it up. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

I stare in disbelief. “You can’t do that! You don’t even know which key it is!”

He looks at the key, then back at me. “I’m guessing it’s the one that has the word STUDIO stamped on it.”

Dammit.

“I’ll bring it back in the morning,” he promises, dropping it into his pocket and tossing the rest of the ring onto the sofa. “As long as you don’t die overnight.”

“I’m far too petty to die.”

“Good. Hold onto that until 8 a.m.” He pauses at the threshold, hand on the doorknob. “Good night, Rowan.”

“Good night, Shrink Wrap.”

The front door clicks shut.

I stay on the couch, listening to the quiet rumble of his engine turning over. I’m a loner. I like the silence. So why does the house feel so much bigger than it did ten minutes ago?

Fourteen

Hudson

It’s 8:00 a.m. on the dot, and Rowan looks—as I fully expected—completely unimpressed to see me.

Her gaze drops to the grease-spotted paper bag in my hand. “You brought food.” Her voice is raspy from sleep.

“You need to eat before you take your medication.”

She lets out a defeated huff and steps back, swinging the door open.

I set the bag on the coffee table, unpack the containers, and slide a steaming cup of black coffee toward her end of the couch.

She watches me, her green eyes wide. “You got coffee too.”

“You seem like a person who requires high doses of caffeine to interact with society.”

She reaches for it like a drowning woman, takes a slow sip, and opens the breakfast box. The second she smells the food, she grabs a fork and starts eating like she hasn’t seen a meal in days.

I take the armchair across from her.

Mouth half-full, she looks up. “You’re not eating?”

“I ate an hour ago.”

She mumbles something that sounds vaguely like appreciation, then goes right back to stabbing her eggs.

“As you can see,” she says after a moment, gesturing wildly with her fork, “I’m alive. Survived another day. All thanks to my big hero.”

“Eat your damn breakfast.”

She smiles into her food. I feel a dangerous twitch at the corner of my mouth and shut it down.

She’s wearing the same oversized green sweater from last night, paired with paint-stained gray sweatpants. Her red hair hangs loose around her pale face, the bandage stark at her hairline.