“Hey!” I call out louder. “Hobble…Hummus?” Man, I can’t remember her name to save my life.
She hears me and turns around, pulling the buds from her ear. “My name’s Gwen,” she says, narrowing her eyes on me. “Gwen Hubbard.”
Hubbard, that’s right.
“Do you know where Dahlia is?”
She arches a brow, giving me a funny look. “I think she’s in the library. Would you like me to give her a message for you?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll find her myself.”
She nods slowly. “You’ll…find her yourself?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I don’t regularly seek my roommate out. Most times I forget I even have one. I guess it doesn’t go unnoticed around here.
Weaving in and out of the library’s bookshelves takes forever. Row after row, they never seem to end. I’d forgotten how huge this place is. The windows are all open, and the curtains are drawn back. Lint particles swarm around in the sunlight, the only movement in an otherwise lifeless room. In a way, it’s depressing. The greatness it used to hold is gone.
Looking for Dahlia becomes frustrating after a while. This place is a fucking maze. Worse, it reminds me too much of my dad. I’m over this. I should’ve left a message with her maid.
A faint rustling comes from the back corner. Circling around the last shelf, I thought I’d finally find Dahlia, but it’s not her. Just another maid standing on the top of a wooden ladder, organizing the books.
I give up.
It’s almost as if that girl knows I’m pissed at her, and she’s gone off the radar. Oh well—probably a good thing anyway. The resentment I carry for Dahlia goes beyond her firing my cook. I would’ve ended up saying things I’d regret.
The maid stretches her arm far above her head to reach a stack of books. Grabbing one, she brings it down to her eye level and blows across the top, scattering dust everywhere. “Nope, you’re not the one,” she says solemnly to the book.
I’m not sure why, but I grin. Who the hell talks to books?
She steps down the ladder a few legs, tossing the dusty old book into a box on the floor. As she lowers herself, she steps directly into the sunlight, her features coming into view. I freeze.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
I can’t tear my eyes away. All I can do is stand there and stare, immobile in my spot across the room. Every movement she makes, every small gesture has me captivated. I’ve never been struck by a girl like this, and I’m not sure why, but something about her keeps me frozen in my spot.
Loose reddish-brown waves frame her perfectly oval face in a chaotic way. She’s wearing a snug pair of jeans that hug her hips nicely and a T-shirt with…wait—is that Yoda on it?
It is.
I’m in love.
Climbing back up the ladder, the maid takes each step slowly, as if she’s afraid of heights. Although she’s unaware, she’s giving me a great view of her ass. I lean against the bookshelf beside me, no longer in a rush to leave. I’m good right where I’m at.
When she gets to the top step, she raises her arm, intent on reaching the stack of books on the highest shelf.
The ladder sways.
My body tenses up, knowing she’s about to fall. She grasps the shelf for support, but her hand slips. I break out in a run, but she falls backward before I can get to her, landing on the floor with a hard thump. Dozens of books topple around her, smacking against the carpet loudly.
“Ow,” she groans, rubbing her back.
She starts to cry, and I hurry to her side. “Are you okay? Did you break something? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” It all comes out in one huge breath.
She looks up at me, and there’s a huge grin on her face. She’s not crying…she’s laughing.
I don’t believe it.
“I’m fine,” she says, pushing her hair out of her face. “I mean, I think I’m fine…oh God.” She laughs again, and falls back against the carpet, holding her stomach.
Amazing. Any other girl I know would be screaming bloody murder. The fall alone had to be at least fifteen feet. Hell, I would be screaming bloody murder.
She lets out a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m okay. Physically—and mentally—just in case you were wondering about that too.”
I yank her up by the arm in one swift motion. “That was a huge fall.”
“Yes, but…” Her sentence trails off as she locks eyes with me, the humor disappearing from her face. “Oh…wow…you.”
Up close she’s even more gorgeous. Her eyes are a warm amber color that glow beneath a ridge of the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. She’s not wearing any makeup, but still looks like something I’ve dreamed up. I’m so mesmerized, I just stand there staring.
Until what she said hits me. “What do you mean you?”
“Oh, I um…” She takes a step back. “I just didn’t expect to see you here.”
I don’t like the way she squares her shoulders or the way her body tenses up. She obviously recognizes me, and I seem to make her uncomfortable. Fucking hell, I think she’s another one of Dahlia’s maids. Gwen didn’t seem comfortable around me either.
“Something is wrong,” I say, calling her out on it. “You stopped smiling the moment you recognized me. Tell me why.” I cross my arms over my chest, letting her know I’m not giving up any time soon.
CHAPTER FOUR
DOLL
I wish I could smile right now. I really do. Smiling would prove I’m taking this all in as if it’s just another ordinary, everyday thing. As if Wesley taking notice of me for the first time in three years doesn’t matter at all.
The truth is, here in this moment, I’m incapable of smiling. I’m also incapable of talking, moving, breathing, or making any verifiable sign to my claim as a fully functioning human being. Instead I become a statue. A very awkward, inarticulate statue.
“Tell me,” he says again, softening his voice. “What did I do to take the smile from your lips?”
Is that an attempt at charm? I’d heard he could be charming. I’ve just never been around him long enough to find out.
A million questions spin around inside my head, firing off one after the other. Why’s he here? Why’s he speaking to me? Why’s he being nice?
Relax, Doll. Breathing in through my nose, I try to calm myself. Whatever his reasons are, it’s important I get some composure. Harland had hoped his son and I would become friends. I can’t think of another reason he pushed us together. Deep down it’s always bothered me that he never got what he wanted. Or that he probably never will. However, I can be nice enough to speak to Wesley. Out loud hopefully. If I can manage to get a grip.
I start by clearing my throat. “Sorry, one of those books must’ve hit me on the head.”
Wesley’s face breaks into a grin, ending the awkward moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” I look up at the stack of books I’d been trying to reach and then back at him. He looks like he’s around six feet tall or so. Perfect height for what I need. “Actually, I was just wondering…well, I was wondering if you could—”
“Anything,” he cuts in with devastating seriousness.
This time I’m able to smile with no problems. He is sort of charming.
“Good thing I’m only asking you to get that stack of books up there. What if I’d asked you to buy me expensive jewelry or something?”
He climbs the ladder with ease, making me feel like a dumbass for falling from the thing. Over his shoulder, he says, “Too bad you didn’t. I would’ve asked if you prefer diamonds or sapphires.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah right. I’m sure that’s exactly what you would’ve done. I’ll have to remember that for next time.”
He grins down at me, but doesn’t say anything. Reality sinks in as I realize what I said. I stupidly assumed there would be a next time. I’m not sure what made me jump to that possibility. Aside from the reading of Harland’s will, this is the longest we’ve been a
round each other. Chances of next times aren’t all that good.
Wesley climbs back down the ladder, then hands me the stack of books.
“You made it look so easy,” I say, taking them from him. “Thank you.”
“Like I said, anything for—”
“You’re bleeding!”
I didn’t mean to shout, but there’s a crimson circle soaked onto the front of his gray shirt, expanding by the second. That must be the gash Tyson told me about last night. It wasn’t there before, which means Wesley opened it while climbing the ladder. Guilt claws at my insides. Asking him to get those books was stupid.
He looks down to see where I’m pointing, then simply waves it aside like it’s no big deal. “That’s nothing compared to what it used to be.”
My mouth drops—is he for real? It’s not like there’s a few speckles of blood on his shirt. It’s the size of freaking donut.
“Hey, do you know how to change a bandage?” His eyes brighten. Dark blue, just like I remember. Except now there’s something different about them. They’re weightless. Intoxicating. Smoldering. Beautiful.
I swallow. “Um…” What the hell did he just ask me?
“Come on. It will only take a minute.”
Oh, yeah. The bandage. I start to tell him no, but he grabs my wrist. By the time I’m able to say anything, he’s already pulling me across the library. What is going on here?
All I’m aware of is the way he’s holding my hand. Tingles soar up my arm as he links his fingers through mine. This doesn’t feel like type of handholding that happens between strangers.
Coherent thought returns only after he’s pulled me halfway through the main hall of the house. “Um, I think this is a bad idea.”
“You’ll be fine,” he promises. “I’ll walk you through it.”
I groan, but he doesn’t hear me. Either that, or he’s pretending not to.
We pass by Gwen in the hall, who does a complete turnabout when she sees Wesley tugging me alongside him. The feather duster in her hand falls to the floor, and her eyes widen. She gives me a look as if to ask me what the hell is going on. I shrug. I’m just as confused as she is.
Before long, we’re both in Wesley’s bedroom. He leaves me standing by the door while he goes to get a first aid kit. I wait there for him, feeling completely out of my element. Being in Wesley’s bedroom while he’s passed out drunk is one thing; being here while he’s wide awake and sober is another.
He returns a moment later with a fresh bandage, alcohol, gauze, and some water. He sets everything down on his nightstand and motions for me to join him. “Why are you hiding out by the door?”
I suppose it does look like I’m hiding, standing halfway in the room, my body veered to go back the way I came. I can’t help it though. Talking to Wesley like we’re old friends, it’s setting me on edge. This isn’t the way things work between us.
Wesley pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Swallowing, I take a step forward. His chest is covered in painful looking bruises, cuts and scrapes. Imagining what he’d gone through to end up looking like that makes my stomach clench.
“I’m a little beat up,” he admits.
“A little?”
“It was three to one,” he says, removing his bandage. “They had the advantage.”
I notice the muscles contracting beneath his battered chest. There’s a ruggedness about him; the combination of his bruises and muscles look downright lethal. This dangerous version of him could be the real one—and if the frat guy personification could all be an act. After all, he wouldn’t be here right now if Harland hadn’t made college a stipulation in his will. But if that’s the case…who the hell have I been living with all these years?
Wesley tosses the rest of the bloodstained bandage away, revealing a jagged cut lined by black, uneven stitches. The cut stretches from the right side of his abdomen across his upper torso, ending right below his ribs. Seeing it makes me place my hand over my own stomach. It looks like it could have been fatal at one point.
Wesley notices. “Increased feelings of empathy?” he asks, amused.
“Blood and violence was never my thing.” Looking away from his stomach, I meet his gaze. “Aren’t you in pain?”
“Not like before. The worst part was when Chase stitched me up. Let’s just say his hands aren’t the steadiest.”
“You let your friend do this to you?”
“Yeah, why not?”
I’m about ninety percent sure he’s one of those thrill-seeking deranged people, the kind that go skydiving, run with the bulls, and shoot themselves in the leg just to see what it feels like to take a bullet.
And I’m living under the same roof as this lunatic.
“I’m not sure if you know this, but there are these places people go to when they get hurt. They’re called hospitals.”
“I’m not a caveman. I know what hospitals are.”
There’s a cocky smirk plastered to his face. I get the feeling he’s not taking me seriously.
“Then why didn’t you go to one?”
He shrugs. “I don’t like the smell.”
“You don’t like the smell?” I gape at him, trying to read his face to see if he’s kidding in any way whatsoever. He’s not. “So you’re telling me you’d rather risk dying than go to a hospital because you don’t like the way they smell?”
“If the last thing you want to inhale before you die is a combination of vomit and disinfectant, that’s your business. I prefer not to.”
“So you’d rather let your friend do some crap stitch job on you, what, in a bed of roses? Next to vanilla scented candles?”
He walks toward me, closing the distance between us. “Technically we were in the desert.” He places a cloth in my hands. “No candles or roses around. Now are you gonna help me out or not? According to you, I’m dying over here.”
I look down at his stomach again, feeling dizzy. “I’m not sure I should be doing this.”
“You can’t do any worse than me.”
That’s probably true. It’s easy to see why he asked for help. The cut is long and rises to areas he would have trouble reaching on his own. Part of me still wants to refuse in hopes that he’ll seek some actual medical assistance, except I think he is genuinely too stubborn to do that. If I don’t help him, I’m not sure he’ll get the proper care he should.
Taking a deep breath, I press the cloth against his stomach. My hands feel awkward and stiff. Immediately, I look up at him. He has no reaction.
Some of the tension in my body releases; I think I was expecting him to scream, shout, curse me out, I don’t know—something. Since none of those things happen, I set to the task of cleaning his wound, trying to be gentle so the stitches won’t come loose.
When I apply the alcohol, I tense up again, certain this time it will hurt. He doesn’t even hiss. His jaw stays relaxed. He’s either silently suffering through the pain or impervious to it. I sniff the alcohol—did he switch it out for water?
“Seriously?” he asks, catching me in the act. “You think I’m trying that hard to impress you?”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I set the bottle down. “If it were me, I’d be screaming my head off by now.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” He lifts his arm and turns slightly, so I have better access to his side. “Especially after watching you fall from the bookshelf and then laugh about it.”
I wince at the reminder. “I hate that you witnessed that.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” He makes a little cross over his heart. “And if it makes you feel any better, that stuff stings like a bitch.”
I raise a brow, surprised to hear him admit he’s in pain. “Well you had me fooled. I was convinced you had superpowers.”
“Maybe I am trying to impress you.”
I catch him grinning from the corner of my eye. He continues to watch me as I go back to bandaging him up. He really is handsome—too handsome. It’s unnerving. And knowing h
e’s watching only makes me more uncomfortable. I fumble with the gauze, wishing he’d stop.
A piece of my hair brushes over his forearm. He picks it up, twirling the strands between his fingers. “You have pretty hair,” he says. “Soft, too.”
My stomach does a little flip-flop. As soon as it happens, I stiffen, straightening my shoulders. I’m not usually so nervous around guys. This only happens when I’m…oh God. It hits me like a bomb going off inside my head.
I’m attracted to Wesley.
My heart rate picks up, beating wildly beneath my chest. Is this really happening? The realization isn’t something I can deal with right now. Not while I’m in the same room with him. The only thing I can think of to do is to distract him—and myself—until I can get out of here.
“So what happened to you?” I try to sound interested instead of being nosy. “Or do I even want to know?”
“I took the beating for a friend. It was a beating that should’ve been mine in the first place.”
“How so?”
“Because my friend was in trouble for helping me.”
“And that makes it your fault?”
Wesley’s jaw tightens. “It damn well means I should shoulder some of the blame.”
“But instead you shouldered it all.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Several long seconds pass before he speaks. “He’s just a kid. Getting beat up would’ve humiliated him.”
I finish wrapping his bandage, pretty sure now that Tyson and Chase had been referring to my friend Hayes last night. He’s a senior, but he’s only eighteen because he skipped two years of high school—one of those genius types. I wonder what Hayes did to help Wesley, and why he almost got his ass kicked for it. I can’t even begin to guess, so I make a mental note to ask him later.
Whatever it was, Wesley definitely proved he is capable of compassion. Hayes looks like a string bean, all gangly skin and bones. He probably wouldn’t have been able to withstand that beating.
I get the choking feeling I may have misjudged Wesley. Maybe there is a lot more to him than this shell of a bedroom and the stories I’ve heard. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him all along.
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