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I close my eyes and release a breath, content with the silence. The emptiness of this place contains familiarity. It keeps me sane. It gives me space for a few stolen seconds when all the bullshit is stripped away. But today, someone decides to ruin that for me.
“Did you write it yourself?”
My eyes snap open, colliding with a pair of brown eyes I wish I’d never seen. I’ve already given too many of my thoughts to this girl, and the last thing I need is her following me around like a stray kitten.
“Are you lost?” I stare her down like she’s the devil incarnate.
Discomfort tightens her features, but she recovers almost immediately. If I had blinked, I would have missed it, and that’s how I know I was right about her. She’s an actress. A fraud. Another fucking pretender in a world overflowing with them.
“You’re in my spot,” Her eyes move over my face as though she hasn’t been staring at me every goddamn day since she got here. “That’s my tree.”
What the hell is it with this girl? Can’t she feel the acidity rolling off me? She must be deranged to follow me out here. Maybe she secretly has a death wish, and she thinks I’m the danger she’s looking for.
“Your tree?” I arch a brow at her. “So that’s it, huh?”
“What?” She frowns.
“Entitlement. Is that your mysterious character wound? Mommy and Daddy can’t figure out how to tell you no, and now the world owes you.”
“Seriously?” Her eyes flash with fire. “Where do you get off?”
The moment the words are out of her mouth, a flush colors her cheeks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, stalker.” I offer her a smug grin. “But I’m not into exhibitionism.”
“God,” she groans. “That isn’t… I didn’t mean it that way.”
I let her squirm beneath the weight of my stare for a full minute before I decide I’m done playing with her.
“You’ll have to find somewhere else to paint your nails, princess,” I tell her. “This spot’s taken.”
“Don’t you have something criminal you should be doing right about now?” she snaps.
“Cute.” I snort. “Real original.”
“Original like this whole vibe you’ve got going on?” She gestures at me. “I have to give you credit, you really throw yourself into it. All the brooding and stomping around. The dark hoodies and busted-up knuckles. You might as well add a couple of gang tats while you’re at it.”
“I didn’t realize you were so obsessed with me, Bianca.” Her name rolls off my tongue like velvet. “Does it get you off laying in your cottage at night while you think of me?”
Despite all her bravado, her pretty blush spreads farther down her neck, and she jerks her head in disagreement. “You wish.”
“It would make sense.” I shrug. “You can’t stop staring at me. And now here you are… following me around like a creepy little fangirl.”
“I’m just trying to figure it out.” Her lip quirks, waiting for me to take the bait.
A moment passes, and I hate myself a little for indulging her, but I do.
“Figure what out?”
“Your big secret,” she says. “What’s locked up so tight in angry boy’s vault?”
Her words burrow under my skin and irritate the fuck out of me, but I don’t show it.
“There’s no mystery to solve here,” I tell her. “You seem to have missed the PSA. I’m not fit for public consumption, so if you know what’s good for you, you might want to scamper off while you still can.”
She stares back at me, expressionless, and for a moment, I have serious doubts about her comprehension skills. Then, without warning, she bursts into a fit of laughter, leaving me to question her actual sanity for the first time since she arrived. I let her have that moment because, honestly, I don’t know what the fuck to think about it. She’s still smiling when she takes it upon herself to come sit beside me, clearly amused by my threats.
I side-eye her, unsure how to handle an actual lunatic. Everyone at the ranch wants to believe they have a whole load of shit wrong inside their head. They get off on it a little, I think. It’s the game they all play when they look at each other. Who’s more deranged, you or me? But this one… this one I didn’t see coming. The angelic, brown-eyed princess who respects all the rules is possibly the most screwed up of all. Because here she sits, plucking a piece of grass to twirl between her fingers like I didn’t just tell her to fuck off.
“I don’t believe the stories,” she says.
“What stories?” I glance at her and then immediately regret it because, up close, her eyes feel like a trap. They’re warm, deep, and magnetic. It bothers me that I don’t want to look away.
“The things they say about you. I don’t really believe you’re as bad as they make you out to be.”
