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“You’re high.”
The door behind him flies open, and we both look up to see Victor glaring at us. His gaze melts into a slimy grin, and his eyes glide from my flushed cheeks down to my breasts, barely hidden beneath the thin fabric.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here. Were you waiting for an escort to your bedroom?”
My skin literally crawls at the insinuation, and Hutch looks ready to explode.
“I’m taking care of her,” he growls, clutching my upper arm and hauling me down the hall, away from the rat.
We’re on the other side of the house before he slows, looking up and around the passage. “Is your room even on this floor?”
“You’re hurting me.” My complaint earns me a short jerk.
“Then stop acting like a child.” His jaw is tight, and I’m pissed he’s so fucking hot.
Hutch Winston activated my sex drive three years ago. I was thirteen and he was eighteen, and Dad brought Hana and me to visit Uncle Hugh in Hamiltown for the Fourth of July celebration. Hutch stood on that pier in his swim trunks, a mountain of mouthwatering muscles, and I ovulated for the first time. He seems to have improved with age.
Releasing my arm, he’s still seething. “Go to your room.”
“You’re not my dad.”
In a blink, he grips my arm again, anger rippling off him in hot waves. An uninvited thought sneaks through my brain,I wonder what it’s like when his restraint slips…
“You’re out of control. I’m going to speak to your mother, then I’m leaving.” He pauses a moment, dropping his square chin and exhaling. “Sorry for your loss.”
He leaves abruptly, and I collapse against the door. Hutch Winston is a force of nature, and I fucking blew it. So much for getting his help, not that I’ve ever laid the groundwork to ask him for it.
Scrubbing my fingers against my forehead, I search for a solution. I should’ve just thrown myself in his arms and started crying or done something damsel in distress-like. I should have told him my fears about Victor.
Like that would’ve gone any better.
Hutch wouldn’t buy my tears any more than he’d fall for my teen seduction. Still, he might have listened to my story. My shoulders fall, and I open the door to my massive bedroom. It’s too late for post-mortems. If I’m going to get Victor away from my mother and protect Hana, I have to do it myself.
I’m just getting ready for bed when my phone rings, and I look down to see my mother is FaceTiming me. I accept the call, and I can tell by her eyes she’s tipsy.
Correction, she’s drunk.
“Blake van Hamilton, you are to pack your things at once.” Her eyelids flutter as she sweeps her arm dramatically. “I’ve just secured a spot for you at Bishop of the Holy Family. You’re leaving on the ten o’clock train.”
My jaw drops, and my entire room shifts to the side. “What the hell? What are you talking about?”
“You’d better rein in that tongue, young lady. It’s a Catholic boarding school, all girls. Just what you need to improve your attitude.”
A tiny explosion goes off in my brain. Am I old enough to have a stroke? These are not my mother’s words. My mother doesn’t think about me enough to say these words to me.
“No!” I blurt, cringing at how childish I sound. “What about my schoolwork? Hana? I can’t leave.”
“The sisters have assured me they can work out your schedule. Roman will be down to collect your things in two hours. End of discussion.”
I feel like I’m drowning in a vat of molasses, struggling to find my bearings through thick sludge. How could this happen? What the fuck would wake her from her champagne stupor long enough to even come up with such a plan? Should I run? Hide out at Debbie’s until she finally leaves for St. Moritz?
I’m trying to decide when my eyes land on his, lurking in the background, stony green staring back at me through my mother’s computer screen.
Bastard.
Hutch did this.
It’s only a moment before my screen goes black, and I start to scream. That meddling, arrogant, know-it-allbastard. He’s playing right into their hands.
