AllFreeNovel
Share Us
In the distance, a flashy green bus pulls into the palm tree–lined circular drive.
“This is your fault, you know.” He finally breaks his silence.
“What do you mean?”
“The water toast.” His expression is deadpan serious, but there’s a playfulness in his tone. “I told you those are bad luck.”
The rumble of the bus grows louder as it approaches, and the scent of diesel exhaust fills the air, overpowering both Dorian’s cologne and his misery.
When we climb on, the only two remaining seats are so far apart they might as well be on different continents.
Vivi squeezes between me and another partygoer once the bus gets moving.
“Someone said they saw you and Dorian go into the bathroom together at the first bar . . . ,” she says, cupping her hand and speaking into my ear so I can hear her over the Prince song blaring overhead.
I clap my hand over my mouth. “Viv, it wasn’t like that. I swear. We were just—”
She doesn’t give me a chance to explain. She simply takes my hands in hers, tucks her chin, looks me dead in the eyes, and says, “Oh, thank God. Because believe me when I say that one will break your heart into a million pieces.”
CHAPTER SIX
BRIAR
Present Day
“How do you think it went?” I pull back the covers on my half of the king-size four-poster bed we’re sharing. “So far, so good?”
I spent the last ten minutes washing up for bed, changing into a set of matching satin pajamas in an en suite bathroom easily the size of my Lower East Side apartment. As I washed the day off my face, I eyed the claw-foot bathtub in the mirror’s reflection. I never realized how much I missed taking actual baths until I moved into a place with a shower the size of a coffin and water that only stays hot in unpredictable three-minute increments. I have every intention of taking as many bubble baths as humanly possible during these next eight weeks.
Burke unfastens his watch, placing it on a leather tray on his nightstand, next to his charging phone—which may as well be a decorative object at this point, much like the bowls of seashells, branches of dried driftwood, and coastal New England–themed coffee-table books that adorn this palace.
“You did well,” he says, speaking like a boss would to his assistant. “The whole frolicking-on-the-beach thing was a nice touch. Good call.”
I got the sense at dinner that we were under more scrutiny than I’d anticipated, and the energy between us felt stiff and stifled. We had to do something, and a nighttime stroll on the beach seemed innocent enough.
Besides, I also needed a break from Dorian. Being in the same room as him was stressful; he sent my stomach sinking to the floor every time his heated gaze steered in my direction.
I can only imagine what he thinks . . .
I nestle myself under the covers, sliding one of the jumbo pillows between us.
“I hope you don’t mind . . . I just don’t want to accidentally spoon you or something in the middle of the night.” I chuckle. He doesn’t. “I’m a touchy-feely person.”
“I’ve gathered as much.” He climbs in beside me, the bed shifting with his weight, and then he switches off the lamp.
The room abruptly darkens.
There’s no TV in here for some ambient light or sound to fall asleep to, though the open window to my left offers the gentle, lulling sound of the ocean.
Turning to my side, I slide my hand under my cheek. “I don’t think your sister likes me.”
“Nicola doesn’t like anyone,” he says. “And besides, she doesn’t have to like you. She just has to believe you.”
“She obviously likes her kids. Seems like a good mom.”
“Sure.” His tone is indifferent.
Burke’s silhouette tosses and turns in the dark, and he rubs his eyes a few times before yawning. A second later, he sits up, punches his pillow to make it fluffier, then tries to get comfortable all over again. After a few more attempts, he throws the covers off his legs, tromps to the bathroom for a glass of water, and returns.
If this is his nightly routine, it’s going to be a long summer . . .
That, and I didn’t pack nearly enough Ambien. Without it, I’m a tragically light sleeper. Every little sound or movement rouses me from the deepest of sleeps. I tried to refill it before we left, but the pharmacy said it was too soon.
“Are you always this high maintenance at bedtime?” I ask, half teasingly.
He shoots me a look in the dark as if he doesn’t understand my question at first.
“Can I ask you something?” I clear my throat and change the subject.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is your dad . . . is he sick?” I ask one of the numerous questions that have been on my mind all evening. Between Nicola giving Redmond a handful of pills, his coughing fits at dinner, and the fact that he retired for the evening by eight o’clock, I have my suspicions. Then again, he’s no spring chicken. He could simply be . . . aging.
