Page 25

I look into the shower—a pink loofah. At least something has some color. Why pink though? My fingers pinch the little string and I hold it up. A flick of water hits my face. Thoughts of other women using the loofah on his incredibly perfect broad shoulders runs through my mind, and my temples pulse.

Gritting my teeth, I look for any other indicators that he has regular guests. A razor or conditioner. Something to tell me who else uses this shower. The only thing I find is two bottles. A men’s body gel and an all-in-one shampoo. Picking up the bottle of body gel, I unscrew the top and sniff. Of course, it’s a perfectly balanced scent of pine and sea salt.

Heat pools in my belly. My traitorous pussy vibrates. Delectable. Screwing the top closed, I place the bottle back in shower. I pull back and a smile breaks my face. Reaching into the shower, I turn the pump to side, so that it’s facing away from its mate. Much better.

I exit the bathroom and walk to the entrance. With a final glance over the desk to make sure I didn’t miss something, I head down the hallway, hoping there’s a room somewhere in this house with signs of life. The door at the end of the hallway remains open. The wall on the back is lined with books of all sizes. A small touch of character. My eyes widen as I cross the threshold.

The navy-blue study is beautiful. Built-in bookshelves line the walls. Stepping forward, I run my fingers across the spines of the volumes tucked in the shelf. Mostly self-help. Textbooks, in all kinds of subjects—history, English Literature, a ridiculous number of volumes on the Light Brigade.

My eyes drift to the open book atop of the walnut desk. I turn it over to see the cover and smirk. Wuthering Heights. How adorable. He’s a romantic. I place the book down and drawer handles catch my attention. I don’t hesitate to pull them open. So far, this has been the only room with any semblance of hope at learning more about this man. Unfortunately, the only thing inside is a stubby pencil. Lifting the three-inch spear, I purse my lips. All this for exactly nothing. I push my thumb against the side of the spear until it splinters in half. Placing the pieces back in the drawer, I turn to examine the opposite wall.

Finally! A small photograph in a plain silver frame. Ethan’s arm rests over the shoulders of another man. Both men have numbers pinned on their chest. A marathon or race? Pulling out my phone, I take a photo and send it to Litza. She responds immediately.

He has hot friends too…interesting…

Rolling my eyes, I examine the photo more closely. A glistening bead of sweat on Ethan’s temple has me mindlessly biting my lip. His refined but rugged features are accentuated by the light hitting the sheen across his skin. What I wouldn’t give to⁠—

A box in the corner behind the sofa catches my eye. I step away from the wall and dip down on one knee. My arm strains, but I finally hook the box with my fingers, pulling it closer. The tops of the box have been folded in to seal its contents. Unfolding the flaps, I pull out the packing paper.

A lump forms at the back of my throat. My stomach churns as I look down at the clear box encasing the manuscript. Running my fingers over the top of the glass, I look at my father’s handwriting along the edges. I do my best to blink back the tears, but fail.

Hauling the manuscript out of the box, I clutch it to my chest. The memories of us gathering around Father in the living room and listening to him read the latest story play in my mind like a home video. A mountain of memories from my childhood held in one little box. Remnants of the man who loved us, who saved us, diminished to a box on the floor of a stranger’s house. Like it’s nothing. Like he was nothing.

This whole fucking house is immaculate, yet he leaves my manuscript on the floor. I should save it. I should rescue it. Hearing my father’s voice in my head, I shake that thought away. My moral compass is a bit skewed when it comes to killing the world’s scum. However, I am not a thief. Wrestling with the emotions warring within me, I put it back in the box and close the lid, sliding it back into place before I leave the room.

Anger and sorrow flood my veins as I wipe the tears away. My mind is a jumbled mess of thoughts as I descend the stairs. Asshole. He may be gorgeous, but he’s fucking soulless. I glance at the bare walls, which I now know reflect his lack of humanity.

The drive back to my home is a blur of emotions.

My manuscript. My flowers. My fucking life.

This man seems hellbent on pushing me toward the precipice of a mental breakdown.

Slamming my hand into the steering wheel, I try to release some of the violent thoughts but fail. If he wants a war, I’ll give him a fucking war.

Stopping my car at the red light, I text Litza and ask her to find out where his next marionette is planned. She’s been keeping tabs on The Puppeteer via an internet crush. He’s going to find out how pretty his little marionettes bleed.

12

Idespise charity events. Not the charity part, of course. That’s the only reason I agree to attend these things.

It’s the celebrity status. I’m not even a celebrity. Yet they still suck up to me. It’s like having an unwelcome army of sycophants assessing every motion for distress. Imagine looking into the eyes of a child who recently survived from a war zone and trying to learn their story, only to be interrupted by an over-enthusiastic event assistant tasked with refreshing the ice into your glass. It’s mortifying. Unfortunately, my mother founded this charity before her passing. She’d be cursing us from the beyond if we didn’t make an appearance.

I look at my brother. At least I’m not alone in my suffering. A blonde Barbie-like woman wearing something that might as well be a slip yips in Mark’s face. I can’t help but smile. It looks as though he’s trying, unsuccessfully, to bore holes in her head.

He looks up to lock eyes with me and instantly smirks. Leaving the blonde blabbering, he shoulders past her, making a zigzag through the guests over to me.

“Hello, brother. You look nice today. Did you finally figure out how to hang your clothes? Or is this a new one you bought last minute?” I shake the lapel of his suit, cocking a smile.

“If we’re going to talk about hanging clothes, I want to know if you still use a measuring stick to space your hangers?” he asks, plucking a drink from a passing waiter.

“I said nothing about a measuring stick.”

“You didn’t have to. Bend over. I’m curious to see if you’re keeping it in the same spot?” He pins me with a look.

“Hysterical.” I knit my brows. “I have gotten much better on that front.” The thousands of dollars spent on therapists and a six-month participation in a neurobiological program ensured it.

“Oh, good. Well, if you’re ever in need of one, just bend over and I’ll show you where there’s a spare.” He tosses his champagne flute back, like it’s a college party, and I roll my eyes. Years of these events, and he might as well be holding a red cup. The fact that he managed to show up in something other than jeans and a polo is a miracle.