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I hate that whenever I’m here, I feel as if he’s won.
As if he owns me.
Put a smile on your face. Pretend to be happy.
It’s hard to pretend I’m not bothered by Trent.
The alternative, however, is letting him win.
So, as I walk through the barren hall, I think of a time before. Before I lost my smile. Before the year I turned ten, when my sister moved us into yet another mansion. Before I met the boyfriend, Tony, who owned it. Before I realized he was beyond scary.
Okay, way to not think of depressing shit, Payton.
I shake my head and brush away my memories.
No place for them—here, now, or ever.
“You’re late.” I hear from behind me.
Turning, I see Trent standing at the other side of the hall.
He starts to walk toward me until we are inches apart.
I didn’t expect him here. Doesn’t he work?
I certainly didn’t expect him to be dressed in casual clothes.
It’s four thirty on a workday.
Yet here he is, standing in gym shorts and a T-shirt.
I take him in.
I might not be able to see his chest, but I don’t need to in order to know his body is insane.
I can see that he is lean but cut, even with the shirt on.
Look away.
Don’t allow him to catch you staring.
I lift my gaze from his chest, and of course, my perusal didn’t go unnoticed.
“Enjoying the view?”
“Nope. Don’t bank on making a dime on starring in postcards, honey,” I fire back.
“The lady doth protest too much.” Jeez, what’s up with everyone and Shakespeare.
First Heather, now him. Is this some cosmic joke implying that my life is a tragedy?
“I wish your vocabulary matched your manners, Aldridge.”
“You have drool on your mouth.”
I almost lift my hand to swipe at my jaw. Almost. But thank God, I don’t. I would never hear the end of it if I did.
“What do you want?” I ask.
