Page 41
Sighing, I roll carefully to my back, missing my mattress at home, missing my pillow even more as my shoulders and delts spasm, as my spine protests my night of keeping myself on my half of the tiny bed. It took forever to fall asleep, and I knew that while Violet had gone quiet too, she hadn’t slept for a long time either.
It should be awkward, considering I’m paying her to be with me, that we don’t know each other and are staying in my childhood home, lying to my family, and sharing a bed surrounded by posters of women with fake tits.
But that’s not why it was odd sleeping next to her.
It’s…well, I kind of like her.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face before carefully pushing myself up.
It’s not until I’m sitting that I realize I didn’t need to be quiet or careful—the other half of the bed is empty.
My room is empty.
Which means that Violet is…where?
The shower?
Downstairs?
I’m on my feet in an instant. Because she’s either performing some torture on that beautiful hair of hers by wrestling it into another bun, or she’s downstairs with my family.
Both are crimes against nature that have me moving to the door, whipping it open.
I head to the bathroom first, see the door open, feel the hint of a shower in the sticky air that clings to my skin.
Damn.
I turn for the stairs, hustle down them, move by the empty living room. Voices are coming from the front of the house. From the kitchen, I realize as I move through the doorway and see my entire family gathered around the table while Violet is standing at the stove.
Looking like a perfectly crisp ice princess.
My mom is in complete and utter thrall, joy practically radiating out of her pores as she watches my fake fiancée pour pancake batter into a pan.
“It’s so lovely of you to cook me breakfast for a change”—a glance at my dad, who’s ignoring her as usual, his focus on downing the stack of pancakes on his plate—“I don’t think anyone has ever cooked me breakfast before.”
Lex snorts, but doesn’t otherwise display his asshole because, he too, is focused on cleaning his plate.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Violet says. “I like cooking.”
Something I don’t know about her.
Because she’s not my real fiancée.
Why does that hit wrong?
Because my dick is talking and Violet is beautiful and I haven’t fucked anyone since that last disastrous one-night stand and—
“Here you go,” she murmurs, handing a plate with a steaming pile of pancakes to Beck who accepts it with a smile.
With a fucking smile?
When was the last time I saw my brother do anything but scowl?
Years. Fucking years.
“Did you want some more, Steve?” Violet asks.
“Yes, please,” my dad says, holding up his plate for her to refill.
