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Chapter Twenty-Two
Creed
Sleep escapes me for yet another night as I toss and turn in the luxurious bed, the high thread-count sheets soft against my skin. Despite my comfortable surroundings, I have a feeling this week will be filled with restless nights, my mind consumed with thoughts of the woman sleeping on the other side of this wall, another man sharing her bed.
I don’t want to like him. Don’t want to find anything remotely redeemable about him. That would make this easier. Would make me feel better about the fact that I can’t stop thinking about Esme. Can’t keep my hands off her whenever I’m alone with her.
But from everything I’ve seen, he is a good person. He treats Esme with respect. Doesn’t touch her inappropriately, even though something as innocent as a brush of his finger against her skin causes jealousy to bubble inside me.
Because I can’t do that.
Because I’ll never be able to do that.
And it’s killing me.
The sound of a door opening and closing cuts through the quiet stillness, and I snap my eyes toward my own door, holding my breath.
Then, much like last night, I make out faint footsteps tiptoeing from the room next to mine. I throw the covers off me and pad across the room, putting my ear against the wood.
Like last night, I sense Esme pause just outside.
But unlike last night, she doesn’t sigh, then continue down the hallway. Tonight, she knocks.
I don’t immediately open the door. Just stare at it, unsure what to do.
The last few times we were alone together, things got out of hand. That’s only added to the awkward tension between us. If we keep going down this path, it’s only a matter of time until someone figures it out.
Until Jameson figures it out.
I may not know him well, but I doubt he’d take kindly to the idea of Esme and me fooling around behind his back.
But despite how wrong it is, I can’t seem to resist her.
So instead of returning to my bed and pretending to be asleep, I open the door.
Light filters in from the hallway as I rake my appreciative eyes over her. Long blonde waves are piled on the top of her head, her body clad in a loose t-shirt and pair of boy shorts. She barely resembles the put-together, fashionable princess the public knows her to be. I love that I get to see this side of her. The side most people don’t know.
“Esme, are you—”
“Can I come in?” she asks, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I… I need to talk to you.”
I nod, stepping back.
She offers me a forced smile as she crosses the threshold. There’s a nervousness about her that’s never been there before, even when she propositioned me to sleep with her.
“Is everything okay?” I ask once I close the door.
It’s a stupid question. Nothing is okay. It hasn’t been since we slept together. I still don’t regret it.
She lifts her eyes to mine, blinking, lips parting. But no words come.
Tearing her gaze away, she spies a bottle of scotch on the dresser and stalks toward it, pouring some into a rocks glass before gulping down more than I could probably stomach.
She winces through the burn, face scrunching. Then she exhales, taking another swallow, this one smaller. Gripping the glass as a baby would their favorite toy, she paces, obviously attempting to collect her thoughts.
“I’ve spent the past several weeks convincing myself this arrangement with Jameson won’t be that bad,” she finally begins. “I’ve done my research, like I always do so I can be properly informed about an issue.” She stops, fully facing me. “Do you know what the divorce rate is for arranged marriages?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
