Текст книги "The Singles"
Автор книги: Emily Snow
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Part 2
Expose
verb ik’spōz
Make (something) visible, typically by uncovering it.
“Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free.”
–Jim Morrison
Chapter 8
I pressed my palm against my chest, uselessly trying to calm the erratic beats. The skin beneath my fingers felt hot to the touch. But to my mortification, the fact that Oliver had caught me—and that I might lose what little leeway I’d gained in unraveling my past—didn't seem nearly as monumental as what he had said a moment ago.
That perfume makes me think of fucking you.
I was twisted for focusing on that. Twisted and wrong for wanting more of him. I shifted, the hem of my knee-length gray bodycon dress riding up on my thighs. He rapped his knuckles on Margaret’s desk gently, and I jumped.
"Okay," I whispered breathlessly. “I’ll come!”
He released a ragged breath and then stated in a suggestively low voice, "Well, in that case, stay right where you are, beautiful. I'll come down there, too."
I nearly bumped my head scrambling out, and I wasn't prepared for him to touch me, but his hands hooked under the tops of my arms. Dragging me to him, he pinned me against the side of the desk.
"You're hiding under the desk in my mother’s office.” He stroked his thumb under my chin and tilted my face until his blue eyes penetrated mine. “And I want to know why."
“She’s my boss.” I reached behind me and spread my hands out on the glass, but my arms continued to tremble. That was something that probably wouldn’t stop until Oliver was far, far away from me. “Why else would I have been under there?”
He moved his face closer to mine, and I arched my back, my breasts swelling against his chest as he leaned over me. “That didn’t answer a damn thing,” he murmured, feathering his fingers over the sides of my face. “Should I let you go and make that call down to Carl?”
He had to be teasing, but the tiny hairs on the back of my neck still stood on end. Regardless of whether or not he was threatening to call security just to get a rise out of me, I had to tell him something if I didn’t want him watching me like a hawk for however long I was at Emerson & Taylor.
Think, dammit. Think!
My brain clawed through a dozen excuses, struggling to come up with one that would rapidly get him off my back. When the right one hit me, I almost let out a sob of relief. It was so perfect. And so believable, especially given how every nerve in my body was reacting to him at this very moment.
“I was under her desk—” I stared up at him from beneath my lashes, and his lips thinned into an impatient line. “—because I came in here to grab something for Margaret. And when I ... when I heard you out there with Dora, I thought the worst.”
“You thought the worst?” he repeated, accentuating each word, and I nodded, lying back a little further on the desk. His body followed mine. One of his hands dropped from my face to my back to splay dangerously over the clasps of my bra, and I gasped. “Unless you don’t want to keep making that noise, I’d suggest you explain, Lizzie.”
“I thought you were bringing her in to...” I stopped speaking deliberately, swallowing hard, hating that even though I knew that hadn’t been Oliver’s intention, the thought of him touching another woman’s body like this infuriated me. “I wanted to see for myself whether or not you were involved with Dora.”
The fingers stroking my back stiffened, and I watched as all emotion disappeared from his naturally tanned features. Had he bought it? I held my breath, waiting for him to move. Waiting for him to give me some sort of response. When his face stretched into a smile, I knew that I’d not only sold the bullshit excuse to him, I’d also stroked his ego.
“Oh, Lizzie,” he said, cupping the back of my neck and leaning his forehead against mine, “haven’t you realized? You’re the only one in the office I want to fuck.”
Wow. Self-control. Vanquished.
I wrapped my fingers around the blunt glass edges behind me so I wouldn’t reach up and drag them through his disheveled brown hair. “If your mother finds me in here with you, she’ll fire me,” I warned, butterflies spreading through my belly as he nudged my knees apart with his. I felt the coarse fabric of his pants sliding up between my bare legs, and a second later, his muscled thigh gently grinded against my sex through my lacy underwear.
My core clenching tightly, I tossed a panicked stare at the closed French doors on the other side of the room. “Oliver,” I panted, rubbing against his hard quad, “I can’t do this with you.”
“Don’t worry. You’re not.” Reluctantly, he released me. I lowered my head toward the onyx floor, breathing in deeply to catch my breath while he sat down in Margaret’s chair. His rough voice drifted casually from behind me. “When we do this, there’ll be no inhibitions between us. There will be nothing between us. You will be mine.”
“All that just for one night?” I readjusted my dress and turned to him. From the tiny pinpricks exploding over my skin, no doubt my face was red. “And here I was thinking you wanted a quick lay.”
“All that just because it’s one night,” he corrected. “Never confuse yourself for a quick lay. And there will be nothing quick about us.”
I hated the tingle in the passage between my legs where his thigh had touched me. “Pompous, aren’t we?”
“Honest,” he corrected. Stretching his arms up, he linked his long fingers together behind his head. “I don’t want to keep you any longer, Ms. Connelly,” he said, his tone suddenly one hundred-percent professional.
Two can play at this crap, I thought.
“Of course not, Mr. Manning.” I started toward the door, but froze because a low chuckle erupted from the back of his throat. I glanced over my shoulder to see the look of blatant enjoyment on his face. “Yes?”
“You’re walking out of here empty-handed. I’d assumed that since you were in here to grab something for Margaret, you’d be taking it with you.” Using his thumb, he scratched the end of his slightly crooked nose. “But maybe you’re so attuned to her needs, you realized she changed her mind.”
Shit. Stalking over to the desk, I snatched the first thing that snagged my attention—the folder I’d given her yesterday with her new Paris itinerary. I coaxed my expression into a grateful smile. “Thank you for reminding me.” I walked away, and the sensation of his blue eyes strategically peeling away each article of my clothing seeped through my body, making me ache all over with need.
Just before I stepped across the threshold to cross the hallway, his husky voice addressed me one last time. “You’re welcome, Ms. Connelly.”
I didn’t have to turn around to know he was grinning.
*
Oliver continued to wait in Margaret’s office, even though she didn’t return until after the takeout from a nearby Italian restaurant was successfully delivered. Despite the double doors being closed, I could hear the argument taking place on the other side. As I chewed the lasagna I’d ordered for myself, it didn’t take me long to figure out the reason behind his visit.
His mother was intervening in his love life, specifically by trying to pair him with one of his former flames.
And he didn’t like it one damn bit.
“I don’t care why she’ll be in the area; I have absolutely no interest in her. We’ve gone over this before. It’s not happening again,” I heard Oliver growl at his mother, followed by a cry of frustration from Margaret.
“But she’s—” my boss began in a frosty voice, but a second later, something slammed, cutting her off. The sound of footsteps marching closer to my door startled me, and I hastily rolled my chair across the hard floor, wheezing for air when the edge of my desk hit me in the stomach.
“You’re very bad at pretending to not give a damn, beautiful,” Oliver commented as he passed my door. “I’ll see you early next week when I get back from out of town.”
I was dying to know what he was leaving for, but I shook the thought of asking out of my head. Not smart. Especially since I was still shaky from what had happened in Margaret’s office.
“Have a wonderful afternoon, Mr. Manning,” I called after him.
He muttered something under his breath, and I could have sworn it was, “It would be wonderful if it ended with you in my bed,” but I didn’t have the chance to ask him because I heard the ding of the elevator opening down the hall, signaling his departure.
Several minutes later, I was finishing up my lunch before I was due to return to the board meeting to take notes for Margaret and answering a few emails she’d forwarded to me, when a new message from Oliver showed up in my inbox. It was the first he’d sent me since he had Easton remove the block, and I almost considered ignoring it until the end of the day.
The last thing I needed was for him to get me all worked up, just so I could spend the next few hours with wet panties, parked in a seat right next to his mother.
Popping a piece of gum in my mouth, I tossed the rest of my lunch into the trashcan beneath my desk and gave myself a fast once-over with the compact mirror I kept in my desk drawer, right beside the unused gift card Oliver had given me. As I smoothed stray strands of my hair back in place, my brown eyes kept darting over to the screen and the unopened email waiting for me. Teasing me.
Dammit.
Snapping the compact shut, I clicked on the message, the pressure in the pit of my stomach returning when I scanned the email.
I can’t get your scent out of my head. It’ll be the only thing I’m able to think about while I’m in Philadelphia. Not good for business, Lizzie.
My desk phone rang, and I breathed into the receiver, “You’ve reached Lizzie Connelly, how can I help you?”
“I need you in the boardroom, Ms. Connelly,” Margaret snapped. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t answer the phone like that. This is a business, not a phone sex operation.”
The irony was almost too much.
Promising her that I was on my way, I hung up and returned to the boardroom—my thoughts pinging between the photo I’d seen on Margaret’s laptop and Oliver.
*
For the next week, he was freakishly silent, which I attributed to him being away on business. Not that I had much time on my hands for flirting. With Margaret’s Halloween event quickly approaching, I hardly had time to breathe. Before I even made it out the door to go to work Tuesday morning, she was already sending me a string of text messages.
I will be out of town until tomorrow. Stop by the Heritage to check in on Roche.
Did you schedule a driver for my guests and myself for Thursday night?
Make sure you meet the Scotts at my home this afternoon and see to anything they might need.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sank down on the edge of my leather couch, rereading her texts. Not only was this the first I’d heard of her going out of town today, but I also had no idea she had guests coming in.
“The Scotts,” I whispered under my breath, wondering if Oliver’s former girlfriend would be among whomever was scheduled to arrive. After his argument with her last week, I would have thought Margaret had let that go, but it was too much of a coincidence not to be Finley. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I pulled up my work email on my phone, scanning through the messages until I found the one I was looking for buried under a handful of messages my boss had sent to me yesterday. With the subject line IMPORTANT, it hadn’t been opened, and I groaned as I scanned the contents.
Ms. Connelly,
As I have an important engagement in New York tomorrow morning, I will need you to meet my guests at my home and let them in. The access code to the gate is 0451 and the combination to the lockbox and the alarm is 1283. DO NOT MISPLACE THE KEYS, and give them the blue key. Below you’ll find my guests’ itinerary, along with my address, to give you an idea of what time you’ll need to be at my house. These are very close family friends, and it’s imperative that you make sure they’re comfortable.
I will be back on Wednesday, in plenty of time for the event on Thursday.
-M
“That woman,” I whispered, my brows pulling together. The sound of rubber sliding against the laminate flooring drew my attention up to Pen, who was coiling her dark hair in a bun on top of her head. Even though it was well before nine, she was already dressed for the day in a pair of ripped skinny jeans, turquoise flip flops, and a matching tank top that made her giant chest seem impossibly larger.
“My boobs are jealous,” I said, causing her to stare down and grab her chest.
“You don’t think it’s too much do you?” When I nodded, she straightened the hem of her tank top. “So what did Margaret do now?”
“It’s more what I didn’t do,” I explained, carefully studying the Scotts’ itinerary. Three people would be arriving at two-thirty this afternoon, which would give me plenty of time to check in on the event planner and catch up on my in-office duties. “She sent an email yesterday asking me to let some guests in—” As soon as I said those words, my breath caught.
Holy crap. Margaret had just given me access to her house.
“You’re creeping me out,” Pen announced in a singsong voice, kneeling beside the couch to look inside her laptop bag. “What’s up?”
“She’s out of town and left me the key to her place.”
My best friend’s head whipped around, and she stood upright, her hands on her curvy hips. “Get the fuck out of town.” I flashed my phone up at her. She took it, reading over the message before tossing it back to me. “What kind of idiot sends all their passcodes in an email?”
“The kind who doesn’t think their system can be penetrated and who doesn’t put a password on their laptop.”
Pen snorted. It had taken her all of two days to get into Margaret’s laptop this past weekend, and she was slowly starting to sift through the hundreds of files. There were more pictures of Margaret and my father, more proof that he was involved with her while he was married to my mom. I tried not to let it bother me, but it did.
No matter how jaded I might be, I still wanted to believe in that happily ever after.
Two purple-painted fingernails snapping in my face jerked me out of my thoughts. My best friend’s grayish-blue eyes hovered in front of mine. “How long is she gone for? You need to get off your butt and get the hell over there.”
“Just until tomorrow.” I slid on my shoes. “I’m supposed to be meeting her guests at her place this afternoon.”
“Screw this afternoon,” she said, reaching for her laptop bag and slinging it over her shoulders. She backed toward the front door. “Go. Now.”
Nodding, I drew myself to my feet, hobbling a little on my high heels. “Where are you going?”
A guilty expression passed over her features, but she replaced it almost immediately with a frown. “Unfortunately, I can’t go with you,” she said evasively, sounding genuinely sorry.
What were she and August working on that would make her be so secretive? Before I could do something I rarely did when it came to her extracurricular activities—ask questions—she said, “You can make up an excuse why you’re there but explaining me would be a stretch. You remember how to use that app I installed to your phone?” When I rolled my eyes because she’d added several apps recently, she continued, “The scanner one?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You find anything worth reading over, get me a copy. I’m ready to see what this bitch is hiding.” Before Pen rushed out the apartment, she gave me a stern glare. “Be careful and be smart.”
“Always,” I swore.
Although Margaret had given me her address in the email she’d sent, I didn’t use the GPS as I drove the half hour from my Marina del Rey apartment to her home in Bel Air. I didn’t need directions. Some of my happiest childhood memories had taken place inside the house I was heading to, and upon my return to L.A. over a month ago, it had been one of the first neighborhoods I’d driven past. Of course, I hadn’t been able to get through the gate because I didn’t have a code, but Margaret had just fixed all that.
Driving to the end of the cul-de-sac, I parked my Mini Cooper in front of one of the garage door bays—there were five in all—and turned off the ignition. For a moment, I sat in breathless silence, staring up at the Mediterranean-style house with its lavish balconies and stained-glass entry door. I could clearly remember my sixth birthday, following my father up the steps leading to that door. He’d knelt down and grinned over his shoulder.
“Birthday girls get piggyback rides,” he’d told me, and I had giggled and jumped on his back, burying my face into his short blond hair as he took me inside to where my mother and a room full of people whose faces I couldn’t remember were waiting to celebrate.
But then, I blinked, and that memory was gone.
I gulped down the fist-size lump in my throat. Now was not the time for emotion. I could shed my tears over the past—let myself wonder about what could have been if my parents hadn’t divorced or passed away—later.
Much, much later.
Holding my keys so tightly the metal dug into my skin, I gingerly got out of my car and crept to the front entrance, the sound of the pencil-thin heel on my suede booties seeming to echo off the stone driveway. I started to put in the lockbox code, but then I paused for a moment.
1283.
It was Oliver’s birthday, December 6, 1983. And the code I’d entered at the gate to get into the community was a reference to my father’s April 1951 birthday.
Maybe—just maybe the stepmonster was softer than I’d originally thought. I unlocked the front doors and stepped into the chilly foyer. I immediately disabled the security alarm, coughing at the overpowering scent of sandalwood vanilla fragrance oil.
I was home.
Chapter 9
A few years before my mom was killed, we had started a ritual. Even though she swore she was getting old—she was only in her mid-thirties when she died—she had more modeling gigs than ever before, and every now and then, her job kept her away from me. Whenever she was working late or had to leave town for a night or two to do a photo shoot, we would each read the same book, alternating whose turn it was to choose. Our quirky, two-person book club had carried me through some of my loneliest moments. It was why I fell in love with The Outsiders, The Princess Bride, and Blood and Chocolate. It was also the reason behind the Margaret Atwood quote sneaking through my mind.
“When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.”
Because as I stood in the two-story entry, with my head tilted up toward the balcony on the second floor and my legs threatening to give out from the nervous energy slicing through me like a dull knife, I thought of the past. Of the beautiful things about it. Like the memory of attempting to ride the banister to my left, my mother chasing after me and admonishing me in a mixture of English and her native Ukrainian. Or when I saw the family room where we’d opened Christmas gifts and remembered how the stockings always sagged crookedly off the mantle no matter how much my mom fussed with them.
The furniture had changed over the years. Like the executive floor at Emerson & Taylor, it had made the jolting transition from deep, bold colors to the sterile neutrals Margaret seemed to prefer. But the memories—the recollections of my mom and dad evoked from being inside this place again—they stayed the same.
Achingly beautiful.
And a driving force to get something done. “I’ve screwed off too long,” I sighed ruefully. “It’s time I figured this out so I can get out of this place.”
Because the reality was that if I stayed around too much longer, that other force in my life—the one of the tall, blue-eyed, cocky swagger variety—would complicate things even more. It was inevitable. And being in this house—this blatant reminder of exactly who he was—did nothing to stop the harsh tug I felt in the pit of my stomach when I pictured my stepbrother’s face.
“Don’t think of him.” I breathed harshly and coerced myself to move from my spot. “Uncover, expose, and get the hell out of here.”
When I was a little girl, my dad’s home office was on the other side of the den attached to their bedroom. He’d often bring his Emerson & Taylor work home, and I’d sit on the burgundy jacquard armchair, my legs dangling off the edge as I pretended to assist him on the toy laptop my mom had bought me.
Halfheartedly, I shook the thought from my mind.
Since it was an incredibly large house—at least ten thousand square feet, twelve times bigger than my apartment in Vegas—the upstairs office was the logical place to start. After locking the front door and donning the latex gloves I’d brought with me, I left Margaret’s keys on the mantle in the family room and inched upstairs, my fingers trailing up the cold metal banister.
I hadn’t been inside this house for more than half my life, the few times I’d seen my father following my parents’ divorce had been on my mom’s terms and far away from L.A., but I still found the master bedroom without having to search. The path was automatic for my feet. My boot heels drumming a staccato beat on the bleached wood floor of the bedroom, I kept my brown eyes straight ahead, but I still couldn’t help glancing at the empty nightstand.
I tried not to compare Margaret to my mother, who’d kept pictures all over the place.
Before I stepped into my father’s old office, I paused. Part of me wanted to believe Margaret would have left it the same. That she would have left some part of this house untouched. I twisted the knob and gradually opened the door. The air left my lungs, making me feel like an iron fist had just slammed into my chest. His office, like everything else in this damn house, had changed.
New furnishings, white and silver Chateau Versailles wallpaper, and a sculpture that reminded me of the one in her office at work– the room reeked of her. Gritting my teeth to hold back the angry sound threatening to burst from my lips, I dropped on my knees beside the desk, yanking open a drawer chock-full of hanging file folders. I would not let this bother me.
I. Would. Not.
Resting my back against the side of the desk, I studied the contents of the folders one at a time, taking care to put everything back in the exact place I found it. Every several pages, I’d pull out my phone and use the scanning app Pen had installed, taking photos of the pages I thought I should keep and sending the PDF files to the secure email she’d set up for me. It was mostly a bunch of old financial records—bank statements and personal investment reports—but I copied everything that had the name Gregory Emerson listed on it.
When I reached the second drawer, I expected much of the same. But the moment I opened the first thick manila folder, I was stunned to see myself staring back. Well, a very young version of myself. The picture I was looking at—of my father, mother, and myself at some company party—was at least eighteen years old, and the corners were frayed. They stood on either side of me, with his hand affectionately touching the top of my white-blond hair and her slim arm wrapped around my shoulder. Both my parents were smiling, but now I could see the distance in their stance, in their eyes. Maybe a week ago, I wouldn’t have noticed that, but I did now, and I almost missed the ignorance.
I dropped my head back, hot moisture blurring the corners of my eyes as I stared up at the chandelier hanging over the desk. Pressing my fist to my mouth, I breathed. So deeply my chest burned.
When I was calm enough to continue, it required everything in my power not to take that original picture and slip it into my bag, but I took the safe road and scanned it. After this was all over, when I went home to Vegas, I’d have it enlarged and hung in my apartment.
Reluctantly, I flipped the picture over to find a few more. Toward the back of the folder, there was a neat stack of papers a quarter of an inch thick. They were court documents dated from ten years ago. Settling back in the seat, I skimmed over them, a dull ache throbbing in my heart every time I saw Olena Andreiko-Emerson’s name mentioned.
She was my mother.
My mother who, up until today, I never realized had tried to contest my dad’s will. From what I could see on the papers in front of me, she’d been much too late—years, in fact. I positioned my phone over the first page of the court documents and started scanning, my fingers almost too numb to press the buttons.
Why hadn’t she mentioned any of this to me?
And, more importantly, why had she waited so long to ask questions? My father had been dead for five years at that point, and she went out of her way not to talk about him with me. What had changed?
My phone vibrated in my hand, startling me. Dragging my gloved hand over my face, I took in a deep breath and checked the caller ID. Since I didn’t recognize the number—and it could easily be Margaret checking in on me—I decided not to ignore it.
“This is Lizzie,” I answered, speaking softly so my caller wouldn’t hear the tremor in my voice.
“It’s Oliver.” At his low growl, that tremor extended to the rest of my body, changing to a shiver that made my toes curl. No matter what I was doing, that man’s voice seemed to have an effect on me. “Did you miss me while I was away?”
“I’ve been working.” Forcing my concentration from the papers in front of me, I stood, placed the folder on the desk, and paced over to the tall, round top window. I stared down at the tennis court. “Besides, since you were able to get my number this easily, you knew I was only a call away.”
Denying nothing, he said, “Talking to you makes it impossible to not want to see you right then and there, so I’ve refrained.” I heard his hand covering the mouthpiece as he spoke to someone else before returning. “As far as you working, I was just at your office and even checked with Ms. Marchand. You were nowhere to be found.”
“You tracked down my coworker?” When he murmured a confirmation, I sardonically added, “I’m touched, Oliver.”
But it was flattering. Breathtaking and ridiculously flattering.
“You’re upset.”
I flinched. “Excuse me?”
“Your voice just trembled. Lie all you want, but I can tell you’re angry about something.”
Turning from the window, my eyes swept over the open folder on Margaret’s desk. The sight of it made me nauseous—it was full of more problems that I wasn’t quite ready for—and I wrapped my arm protectively over my stomach. “Your mother has me all over the place for this event, and—”
“Say the word and I’ll have someone take care of everything.”
“Oliver—” I groaned.
“I want to take you for lunch,” he said, his voice reaching a sexy low. “I need to see you.”
God, why did that have to sound so tempting? “It’s a little early for lunch, and besides I can’t just pass off my job on someone else. For starters, Margaret would kill me, and secondly—”
“It’s fifteen minutes after one,” he corrected, an edge of worry affecting his deep voice. “Which just goes to show you’re working too goddamn hard. Even you, beautiful, can take the time to eat.”
Jerking my phone from my ear, I held it out in front of me, and my eyes nearly bugged when I saw he was telling me the truth about the time. I’d been in this house for over three hours. How the hell had I let myself lose track of time so easily?
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“If that’s how you’d prefer to spend the meal,” he agreed suggestively. “But once you’re naked, I won’t be able to let you get back to work.”
My stomach fluttered, and I tried not to focus on it as I scrambled over to the desk. “You know that’s not what I meant,” I said, sounding winded nonetheless. “Look, I have to meet someone at your mother’s house, and we both know she will dance on my corpse if I’m late. Sorry, Oliver, I’ll have to call you back later.” Then, I hung up before he had the chance to respond.
Staring down at the folder on the desk, I slowly came to terms with the fact that I’d run out of time to finish what I started. I began to return everything to the drawer.
But I couldn’t do it.
Like the call that had started all this, knowing missing pieces of the puzzle were so close to being within my reach would drive me crazy.
“Fuck you, Margaret.”
I plucked out the last half of the paperwork—the part I didn’t have the chance to copy—and slipped them carefully in my purse. Quickly, I arranged Margaret’s office like I found it. Then I returned to the main floor, pulling off my gloves and shoving them in my bag along with my phone.
*
Less than half an hour later, the sound of the doorbell—the chime was custom, Beethoven’s “Für Elise”—snagged my attention from the only photo in the family room, a giant portrait of Margaret and my dad that hung over the mantle. Adjusting the hem of my lacy off-white dress over my black tights, I plastered a smile on my face and went to the door.
Throwing it open, I was prepared to kiss ass for the sake of making my boss happy, but instead of meeting the stares of strangers, I was looking directly at a rock hard chest. Glancing up the length of the thin, sapphire-colored tie, past the full lips I’d dreamt of having on my body, and at last, to the stunning blue eyes that were burning into me, I swallowed hard.
“I’ve missed you,” Oliver said simply.
I rubbed the back of my neck, brushing strands of blond hair from my nape. “You have a hard time taking no for an answer.” I stepped aside so he could come in. Nodding teasingly, he walked past me, his muscular arm brushing against my breasts. My nipples immediately hardened under the contact, and I turned my body away from him and hoped he didn’t notice. “I was going to call you back.”
“No you weren’t,” he tossed over his broad shoulder.
Slamming the door so hard the stained-glass rattled, I followed him into the family room, where he sprawled out on the white Belgian linen couch. Today, I would keep my distance from him. I couldn’t handle letting him screw with my body when my mind was already so overwhelmed. Resting my shoulder tiredly against the crown molding in the doorway, I watched him furtively, willing myself to stay strong.
