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He steps closer, robbing me of any protection I thought I still had. My chest rises, brushing against his vest. His breath feathers across my face from above.
I look up, not because I think I can withstand his gaze, but because I need to try. To stand my ground, however shaky.
I meet those dark eyes, my mouth going as dry as a desert. The lingering taste of chocolate from his bar turns sour, or possibly more sweet. I’m not sure anymore.
“Can you, Mila?” The timbre of his voice has a new quality. No longer his usual disinterest and contempt. It’s deep and sensual, and it reverberates deep in my core. He looks at me like he owns me, and for a split second I want to belong to him.
As if we both think the same, we jerk away from each other. Me mortified, and him… I don’t know. Disgusted? I can’t read his face.
“Eat the bar and drink some water,” he orders.
“Yes, sir.” I smile at him, because that’s how I deal with life.
Something passes over his face. It’s brief, but I swear it looks like adoration. He likes my smile? The lack of sugar is making me stupid. I take another bite with gusto, because apparently passive aggressive is my new norm.
He shakes his head and then looks me up and down. Now I’m sure it’s disgust on his face.
“Why would you dress like a hooker?”
Chapter2
Mila
“Excuse me,” I yell, but the print shop clerk turns and gets into a waiting car. I don’t slow down. My rational mind already knows it’s too late, but desperation propels me.
I reach the entrance and wiggle the door. It’s closed. I needed to print and bind my presentation. Hopefully in the morning.
I allow myself a moment of panic, wiping a tear. It’s been a year since I returned to New York to help my family, and to escape Brian. A year later and his words ring in my ears as strong as ever.You screw up everything, darling. You’re lucky to have me.
I know he’s not right. Deep down I know, but that confidence weakens with every day of this exhausting existence I’ve been living.
Deflated, I trudge back to the subway, my mind trying to come up with a plan B. Almost an hour later, I arrive home without a solution, but the screaming that welcomes me snaps me out of the self-pity party immediately.
Ellery is crying in the playpen, her little face stained with tears and mucus.
“Annie,” I call out, picking up my niece, whose skin burns. I dash to the kitchen and find my nephew in the corner, his knees pulled under his chin, rocking.
The floor is wet, spaghetti swimming around, steam mingling with desperation as my eyes connect with my sister’s.
“Ellery, baby, mommy is okay,” Annie croons. Ellery hiccups and reaches for her mom and my heart breaks a little. Annie holds her hands to her chest, her crooked, swollen fingers rigid.
“Sit down,” I order.
She slumps into the chair and I place Ellery in her lap. She wraps her arms around her daughter, her hands and fingers stiff.
“Sh-sh-sh,” she consoles her daughter.
I sit down on the floor by Aidan. “Hey, buddy, Mommy dropped the pot, but everything is okay. Do you think you can help me prepare peanut butter sandwiches and clean up the mess while Mommy reads for Ellery? We both really need your help.”
His eyes dart around for a moment before they connect with mine. The maturity in his gaze, the understanding of his family’s situation, of his own vulnerability, hits me in the chest.
I’m overwhelmed with everything, so I smile. Fake it until you make it. And it’s my smile that pushes him off the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Annie whispers.
“Shut up,” I scowl, but grin at her. “You wanted to cook for your family. Besides, who loves a peanut butter sandwich here?” I raise my hand and the children follow. I shrug. “See, much better dinner is coming up.”
She mouths, “Thank you,” and buries her face in Ellery’s wild curls, hiding her tears.
