Pretending

by Shanna Clayton

  “Hayes told me,” she admits. “He said you asked him to help you with a personal project. He also told me about the bar fight.”

  “Hayes has a big mouth,” I grumble. Matter of fact, I’m beginning to think that’s how Black Templar found out about the sword in the first place. “But yeah, I think that’s what this is about.”

  She stays silent for a long time. Probably realizing she should hate me for this. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  “We should install generators and get a really good security system,” she says, surprising me. “Allowing the Kent legacy to be stolen by some petty thief would be a shame.”

  “Wait a second—you’re not angry?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because chances are, this is all my fault.”

  “Occupational hazards aren’t your fault. It’s Harland’s for not installing generators. He should’ve seen this coming sooner.”

  She shifts her weight, laying her cheek against my chest. My whole body constricts as I try to keep my hands off of her. I’ve never comforted a girl before, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to grope them in the process. I should pull away from her altogether, but I can’t.

  “Sorry I didn’t get here in time,” I say, trying to distract myself. I smooth back her hair, unable to keep from touching the silky strands. “Then again maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t. If I’d have seen him hurt you, I would’ve killed the guy.”

  “He didn’t really hurt me,” she says, her voice a lot calmer than before. “He just scared the shit out of me.”

  “He put his hands on you.” I run my fingertips down the side of her neck, knowing some of those red marks will turn into bruises. “That’s hurting you.”

  She swallows, her throat rising and lowering beneath my fingers. “Should we call the police? Will the call even go through?”

  “Yeah, we need to report it. But I doubt anyone will come right now.” I gesture to the window. “Not in the middle of this.”

  Dahlia breathes in, slowly beginning to collect herself. She slides off my lap and pulls herself up off the floor. “They’ll never catch him.”

  She’s probably right, but I don’t tell her that.

  I stand up and hand her the flashlight. She takes it from me and shines the light on the library door. “Looks like he didn’t get what he wanted.”

  The lock Francisco gave me is still chained to the door. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of collectibles are in there, but if the Black Templar assumed that’s where I’d put the sword, then they’re bigger idiots than I thought. The sword is worth more than everything in the library combined. I’d never hide it in this house, let alone the library.

  “Wes?”

  “Yes?”

  Dahlia folds her arms across her chest, hugging herself. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but is it okay if I um…” She can’t seem to finish her sentence. “Is it okay if I…”

  “Whatever it is, the answer is yes.”

  I can’t see her face very well in the dark, but I think that makes her smile. “I was going to ask if it’s okay if I hang out with you for a little while.”

  “You kidding me? I wasn’t planning on letting you out of my sight.” I reach for her hand. “Come on. Help me find the way out of here.”

  She sighs, sounding relieved, and points the light toward the stairwell. “Thanks. I probably shouldn’t admit this out loud, but the thief isn’t the only thing that has me on edge.”

  Almost as if on cue, a strong gust of wind pushes against the house, shaking the walls. Dahlia shudders.

  “You’re afraid of storms?” I ask.

  “Not usually, but it’s my first time going through one alone. There’s always been Harland or my mom. I thought Gwen would be here, but she ditched me for a guy.”

  “Ditched you for a guy, huh?”

  “It’s almost unforgivable.”

  I squeeze her hand, grinning. “Well you’re not alone anymore. Speaking of your mom, where is she? Does she still live in Savannah?”

  We walk down a few steps. When Dahlia doesn’t answer me, I glance over my shoulder. Her shadowed face grows sober. “Um…your dad didn’t tell you?”

  “Why would he tell me where your mom is?”

  We round the corner, heading down the next flight of stairs. “She, ah, died a few years ago. I figured Harland would’ve said something.”

  I stop in the middle of the stairwell, going still. Her mom is dead?

  “When did she die?”

  “A little over a year before Harland.”

  I turn around, grabbing the flashlight from her hands.

  She squints as I shine the light in her face. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find out if you’re joking.”

  “Why would I joke about my mom dying?” Her voice sounds slightly annoyed. “Are you suggesting I think it’s funny?”

  Her mom is dead.

  I can’t fucking believe it. That’s why my dad kept her with him. All this time—I never understood. “Dahlia, I feel like such an idiot.”

  She narrows her eyes on me. “He really never told you?”

  “No.” I rub the back of my neck, looking away. “Then again, I never gave him a chance to explain much.”

  I feel the weight of her eyes on me. A few seconds pass, and then she shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not a big deal, Wesley. I don’t know much about your mom either.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It is a big deal.”

  I’m unsure of how to explain myself. Part of me has always suspected the only reason Dahlia stuck around was to get a piece of my dad’s money. Now I’m beginning to see Harland was all she had. My mind drifts back to the day Francisco read us the will. She seemed so lost, so devastated, and I couldn’t understand why. The possibility of her genuinely being lost and devastated never crossed my mind. “I misjudged you, Dahlia. Completely.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m telling you I thought the worst of you.”

  A slow smile pulls at her lips. “I understand—and it’s okay.”

  “Amazing.” I shake my head. “I tell you I’m a judgmental asshole, and you smile.”

  “That’s because I did the same to you. Granted, you never really allowed me the chance to get to know you, but I filled in the blanks where you didn’t. So you see, we’re both judgmental assholes.”

  “I don’t understand. What blanks did you fill in?”

  “Well,” she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m not proud of this, but I summed up your personality to a box of condoms and a set of dumbbells.”

  “Okay, now I’m really confused,” I say, laughing. “Why condoms and dumbbells?”

  “Because those were the only things I found in your—” She slaps her hand over her mouth.

  “In my room?” I finish the rest. “You went through my room?”

  “No!” She hides her face in her hands, groaning. “Well, sort of.”

  “Why?” I can’t help but grin. She’s still hiding her face, assuming I’m pissed, but I’m shocked as hell she was curious enough about me to go to those lengths. These past few days, she’s made me believe she wants nothing to do with me. Knowing she’s as curious about me as I am about her unsettles everything I’ve stamped down because of that.

  “I wanted to know who I was living with,” she finally says, her voice coming out muffled.

  I reach for her hands, peeling them away from her face. “That’s an invasion of privacy. You should be ashamed.” I’m having difficulty keeping a straight face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I know.” She winces. “I am really sorry. Trust me, it only happened once, and I’ll never go in there again.”

  As much fun as I could have with this, I figure it’s easier to let her off the hook. The embarrassment is practically killing her. “I hope you don’t mean that.”

  Her brows furrow together in confusion. “You want me to snoop
through your room?”

  “You can go in my room anytime you want, babe,” I say with a wink. “I promise I won’t mind.”

  Speechless, she stares at me for a moment, then punches me on the arm. “I thought you were angry.”

  “Let’s just call it even.” I tug her by the wrist, heading back down the stairs. But there’s still one thing I want to know. “So tell me, what exactly were you hoping to find?”

  “I don’t know. Pictures on the wall. A collection of hidden treasures. Your room is boring, by the way.”

  I laugh to myself because I’ve always hated having too much stuff. This house is filled with pointless things. Simple is better. For a treasure hunter, I suppose that’s a strange habit. But the treasure doesn’t drive me. It’s the hunt.

  “So you thought I was boring too?” I ask her.

  “Not boring, exactly. More like vacant.”

  “That’s not much better.”

  “If it makes a difference, I don’t think so anymore.”

  “And what do you think of me now?”

  “Um…I’m not sure yet.”

  We step off the staircase, entering the foyer together. Candlelight glows from the living room, brightening the space. I turn the flashlight off.

  “Guess I’ll have to help you make up your mind,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.

  Somewhere in this moment, I realize I’m going to pursue Dahlia with everything I have in me. She may have turned me down earlier, but I’m beginning to think it’s all a front.

  Who knows.

  Maybe she’s the kind of girl Sam dreamed about finding. Maybe she really is worth the chase.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DAHLIA

  The police tell Wesley pretty much what I figured they would. Since there is no immediate threat, they’ll send an officer out to the house as soon as it’s safe.

  Wesley hangs up, tossing his phone on the couch. He moves to a cabinet in the corner and opens it, removing a small decanter. “Welcome to Hurricane Survival 101,” he tells me, setting out two glasses on the coffee table. He pours an amber liquid into each glass. “First off, you need whiskey. Strong whiskey.”

  “Never tried it,” I admit. He raises his brows at me, and I shrug. “What? I’m a wine drinker.”

  “Wine is for girls,” he snorts, handing me a glass.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I fit into that category.”

  “Trust me, I noticed.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Cheers.”

  I lift the glass to my lips. “Wow.” I crinkle my nose as the liquid sears its way down the back of my throat. “That really burns.”

  He laughs. “Forgot to mention that it takes some getting used to. Now let’s get the second thing you need for hurricane survival.”

  “And that would be?”

  He leaves the room, coming back a moment later with a deck of cards. “Do you play Crazy Eights?”

  I lower myself onto the floor and tuck my legs underneath the coffee table. “Correction. I win at Crazy Eights.”

  His eyes widen for a brief moment. “Those sound like fighting words, little girl.”

  I don’t mention how Harland and I used to play this game all the time. I also don’t mention my photographic memory or how I’ve yet to be defeated. “Let’s make things more interesting,” I suggest.

  “You want to turn it into a drinking game?”

  I shake my head. “I mean, we can do that too, but I wanna figure out a way we can make it last longer.” I chew on my lower lip, thinking. “How about this. Each time one of us is forced to draw from the stack, we say something about ourselves. Something we don’t already know about each other.”

  Considering how we’re basically strangers, it shouldn’t be too hard to come up with things to talk about. But I have an ulterior motive. I want to get to know Wesley. Badly. We’ve got three years of not speaking at all to make up for. This might be the sneaky way of doing it, but at least I’ll learn a few things about him in the process. “So are you up for it?” I hold my breath waiting for him to answer.

  He trails a finger across his jaw for a moment before nodding. “Okay. But only if we drink every time that happens.”

  “Deal.”

  I bite back a smile. Before he knows what hits him, he’ll be drunk and telling me his life story. I’m going to enjoy kicking his ass.

  Wesley shuffles the deck, then deals us both a set of cards, putting the remainder of the deck between us. “Ladies first,” he says, gesturing for me to go ahead.

  I reveal the seven of hearts. I place my nine of hearts on top of it.

  He sets down a nine of spades.

  This goes on for a few turns until Wesley is forced to pick up a card. He sips from his whiskey. “So what do you want to know?”

  “Anything. You can tell me what day your birthday is or you can tell me your darkest secret. It’s up to you.”

  “Hmm…birthday or darkest secret.” He looks up at the ceiling as he decides. “Obviously I don’t know you well enough to reveal my birthday, so that’s out of the question.”

  “And here I was, looking for something to blackmail you with.”

  “I’m fluent in French. Does that count?”

  I look up from my cards. “Really?”

  He nods.

  “Prove it.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, then says, “Tes yeux, j'en reve jour et nuit.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. That was seriously hot. Coupled with Wesley’s rugged good looks, the soft romantic French is a huge contrast to everything I know about him.

  “What does it mean?” I ask.

  “It means, ‘Would you like fries with that?’”

  I frown, feeling let down. “Well that’s lame.”

  There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, which makes me wonder if he’s telling the truth. “Sorry, babe. You can say anything in French, and it would sound pretty.” He sets down a card—the king of clubs. “Your turn.”

  I set down the two of clubs. “How did you learn to speak it?”

  “Sam and I spent a few summers with our uncle in Morocco. He wouldn’t speak to us in English. Only Arabic or French. Guess the French was easier for us to pick up.”

  “Harland never mentioned a brother.”

  He sets down the ace of clubs. “Because he doesn’t have one. He’s my mom’s brother. That’s how my parents met, through my Uncle Rooney. He’s a geologist in Morocco. He and my dad teamed up on one of his expeditions back in the eighties. My mom was there visiting, and she and my dad got to know one another pretty well. They hit it off, and the rest is history.”

  I want to ask Wesley what happened to his parents, why they didn’t work out, but I feel like it isn’t the right time. There’s still bitterness there, and I don’t want to ruin the lighthearted mood with a heavy subject.

  “What’ll it be, babe?” he asks me. “You out?”

  Tapping my fingers against the top of my cards, I look to see what I have. I don’t have aces, or clubs for that matter, which leaves me kind of stuck. I do have an eight, but it’s too soon to give up my wild card. Holding onto the eights until the perfect moment to strike is how I usually win.

  I draw from the stack and take a swig of whiskey, coughing because the taste hasn’t gotten any better. “I served as a waitress in a sport’s bar for two years,” I say, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. “The cook was Italian, and he taught me how to make the best lasagna in the world. My mom and I practiced his recipe for a month before we got it right. That was our thing, cooking.”

  “You do know you’re going to have to make this legendary lasagna now, don’t you?”

  “Didn’t you hire a professional to cook for you? Why don’t you ask her to make you lasagna?” I’m teasing, but there’s a hint of contempt in my voice. I did a bad job of hiding it.

  “Not anymore, I don’t.”

  “Oh?” I say casually, setting down the ten of clubs. “What happened to H
annah?”

  “My underhanded roommate fired her.”

  “Thought you rehired her.”

  He sets the ten of spades down. “I planned to, but then I realized how awful her food is. Don’t know why I kept her around as long as I did.”

  Shock ripples through me. I thought for sure he’d let Hannah come back. The thought of never having to deal with her again, of never having to listen to her and Gwen’s fights—oh man Gwen is going to be so freaking happy. I can’t wait to tell her.

  “She’s really gone?” I ask, just to make sure I heard him right.

  “Yep. Try not to look so pleased with yourself.”

  Am I that easy to read? I’m doing a little happy dance in my mind, but I thought I was keeping it suppressed. Guess not. “Who says I’m pleased?” I set down another card. “I couldn’t care less who you keep on your staff.”

  He watches me over the top of his hand. “You’re definitely pleased. Because deep down you know I did it for you.”

  My cards become a blur of numbers and shapes. I can’t see any of them. “What do you mean you did it for me?”

  “You didn’t want Hannah here. And for whatever reason, the things you want are beginning to matter to me.” He shrugs noncommittally. “So I let her go.”

  I hide my smile behind my hand of cards, feeling a blush work it’s way into my cheeks. “Well…thanks for thinking of me.”

  “Anytime.”

  We continue to play, and Wesley reveals more random facts about himself. He hates cats, but he found one injured on the side of the road when he was eight, so he took it in and nursed it back to health. He’s a huge soccer fan. Football is just okay, but I’m not allowed to say anything, because we live in Gator Nation, and it smacks of treachery. Like most guys, he can stay up until dawn playing video games. His favorite is Call of Duty. His favorite city is London. Also, he ended up telling me his favorite color, which is blue. “But I’m beginning to like amber too,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about my eyes. I’m smiling so much over this, my cheeks start to hurt.

  “I’m a huge Star Wars fan,” I say, drawing a card. “But mostly because of the old ones, not the new ones. I’m not an old movie aficionada or anything like that. I just think the old ones have more heart.”