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“Make some sandwiches, please,” Jake calls after me. “Just put them in the fridge to grab and go. Doesn’t matter what kind. We’re not picky.”
We’re not picky.
I walk into the house, head for the kitchen, and yank open both fridge doors. Then I pull open the crisper and freezer drawers below as I take stock of everything I have to work with.
He’s keeping me busy. I should be grateful. And he’s giving me a chore where I don’t have to talk to anyone. I like to cook. I can listen to music and be left alone.
And sandwiches aren’t hard.
I tap my fingers on the door handle as I hold open the fridge. I don’t know. He just rubs me the wrong way, like he’s enjoying his guardianship a little too much. My parents wouldn’t have cared if I’d had orgies in my bedroom as long as nothing wound up on Snapchat.
This guy, though…
Already he’s flexing his dominance. Mind you, I have no interest in orgies—or men right now, anyway—but I’ve been raising myself for years, and now I have to downshift. It’s too much to ask. I may only be seventeen, but that’s only on paper.
Why the hell does he want lunch now anyway? Breakfast was an hour ago.
And at that, my stomach growls. I falter a moment, holding my hand to my stomach.
I didn’t eat breakfast.
Or anything since the berries at breakfast yesterday.
Pulling out lunch meat, the condiments, and some lettuce, I get busy, building some sandwiches, taking bites of one to get something into me, and then I cut them diagonally and place the triangles onto a large plate. I find the Saran wrap in a drawer on the island and wrap up the tray, setting it in the fridge.
Not sure if that’s their lunch, but that’s all they’re getting out of me. I’ll see if he needs me to run into town for anything. I could use a drive.
But just as I go to close the refrigerator door, I see a drop of water hit the glass just above the crisper drawer. Bending down, I put my hand in a small puddle of water.
It’s leaking.
Peering into the back of the fridge, I try to gauge where it’s coming from and see the motor frosted over and caked with ice.
I stand up straight and chew the corner of my mouth. Should I tell him? I’m sure he knows.
Spotting their iPad on the counter, I grab it and turn it on. A password prompt comes up, and right away I enter “nomercy,” hazarding a guess. It immediately unlocks.
Heading to YouTube, I check the model of the refrigerator and bring up some videos. Over the next hour, I empty the refrigerator and work it away from the wall, putting all of my weight into pulling it out and unplugging the power. Then, I swipe some tools from the shop and get to work following the video’s directions, chipping away and unthawing the motor, repairing the leak in the tube, and reassembling everything. I’m not sure if it will work, or how mad he’ll be if I made it worse, but that’s a perk of being rich. I’ll buy him a new one.
I stop twisting the screwdriver, realization hitting all of a sudden. Can I buy him a new one? I mean, minors can’t inherit money. Their guardians have power of attorney until they’re of age.
So technically, my inheritance is completely in his hands. Unless my parents put something into a trust, which their lawyer might’ve had the foresight to do, but…
Should I be worried? The money never mattered, but that’s only because I always had it. I talk a big talk, but if I can’t pay for college, then that changes things. Did my parents trust him with me and my well-being, or…was there just not anyone else? I don’t know if I can trust him, but I definitely didn’t trust them to do what was right for me. This guy has my future in his grip.
For the next ten weeks anyway.
Despite the kick up of my pulse, I forge ahead—lost in thought—and refasten the motor cover and reach behind the appliance, plugging it back in. The motor gently purrs and cool air starts to breathe back into the machine. So far so good.
“You did that?” I hear someone ask.
I turn my head, seeing Noah standing at the island, shirt off, sweaty, and out of breath, as he looks at the video on the iPad I have propped up on the counter.
Looking over to where the leak was, he sees it’s now dry.
“Good job,” he says. “We’ve been meaning to get on that.”
I turn back around, but not before I take another quick glance, noticing his torso and arms are completely clean of any tattoos. I don’t know why that strikes me as off. Maybe since his father has one, I thought he would.
