Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3)

by Veronica Larsen

  "I will kick his fucking ass," Ava growls under her breath.

  "No. It's not him. I'm just not feeling this anymore. I want to go home."

  I don't need her making a bigger deal out of the whole situation. Humiliation is still drumming away at my skin, making my face warm and my stomach cold all at once.

  Ava eyes me carefully, hoping I'm going to spill the truth. What would I say? That Giles turned me to mush under his touch and made me beg for him to screw me, just to gloat under the satisfaction of scoring on the board of a game I didn't realize we were playing? It sounds as pathetic as it feels. And I'm sick and disappointed with myself.

  "Okay. But none of us can drive. Are you okay to drive?"

  "I'm not sure." My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls, but I doubt half a drink is to blame.

  "Never mind. Let's just call you a cab. But, Julia? We won't be home until Sunday night, you sure you want to spend the weekend alone?"

  Two days to myself sounds like more than I can ask for considering the situation. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

  Ava calls me a cab and when I come back from grabbing my backpack of clothes, I catch sight of her questioning Giles. He's rubbing his face again and shaking his head.

  I'm sure he wants me to think he's sorry.

  Around seven thirty in the evening, the cab drops me off at the house. I'm starving. I haven't eaten since lunch. Scavenging the fridge, I find half a burrito wrapped in foil. At first, I don't know if I'll eat it, though I'm sure it belongs to Giles and I feel no guilt eating his food. The asshole deserves worse. It can't be more than a day or two old. I don't remember seeing anything wrapped in foil the other day when I loaded my stuff into the fridge.

  I heat up the burrito and take an immature pleasure in eating the asshole's food without his permission. Petty, as far as revenge is concerned, but I don't have the energy for anything else.

  The next morning, I call in to the restaurant and ask if I can pick up a shift later in the day. I'd rather earn money than spend July Fourth alone in the house.

  By five o'clock, I'm calling them back to tell them I'm not sure if I should come into work anymore, since I've spent the past three hours hunched over with awful cramps in my stomach. The manager sounds annoyed until he hears me vomiting into the toilet. I try to muffle the phone in my pants, but when I pull it back to my ear to apologize, he tells me I should absolutely not come in.

  I'm shivering in my t-shirt and pajama shorts. My stomach is in my throat, heavy and disgusting. It's the most awful feeling I've experienced in a long time. My head is throbbing and I've camped out by the toilet by the time Ava calls to ask me if I'm sure I don't want to come back today. My response comes in the form of what probably sounds like a bucket full of water splashing into the toilet, if it weren't for the accompanying grunting.

  "Jesus, are you sick?"

  A groan seems like a sufficient response.

  "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

  My eyes are closed and I shake my head a few times before remembering she can't see me. "No. No, it's just a stomach bug. I can't…I can't talk right now."

  "Wait, Julia, maybe you need—"

  I'll never know what Ava thinks I need, because I hang up on her. Not trying to be rude or anything, but puking my brains out is taking precedence over social etiquette.

  It's not until forty minutes later, when I've just finished a less aggressive bout of sickness, that I realize what Ava's done.

  "Julia?" a low voice calls from somewhere in the house.

  No. No, no, no.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Giles

  I KNOCK ON THE bathroom door. No answer. I knock again.

  "What do you want—" Julia's strained voice cuts off to the sound of a grunt and liquid hitting the toilet bowl.

  I open the door a crack, then a sliver, until I see her, sitting on the floor, head back against the tiled wall. When the door creaks, her eyes flash open, lock with mine, and panic widens them.

  I take a step inside as she lunges forward, closes the toilet lid, and flushes. Her sudden exaggerated movement seems to drain her because she remains slumped over the closed toilet lid.

  "Go away," she groans, shutting her eyes again.

  "Are you okay?"

  She lets out an impatient breath. "I'm fabulous."

  The bathroom is wide enough for me to remain by the door without getting too close. I sag against the opposite wall and rest my hands on my knees, watching her. Her typically olive skin tone is pale and tinged with a sickly hue. Her hair is pulled up into a lopsided bun and there are beads of sweat on her forehead.

  "Go away," she says again, then buries her face in between her folded arms.

  "I can't."

  Her voice is muffled. "Why not?"

  "I told Ava I'd keep an eye on you."

  Julia's head snaps to my direction. "Why would she send you?"

  "I was the only one not drinking."

  She lays her face down again, but keeps her eyes on me. "You do realize I hate you…"

  "I know."

  "I'd strangle you if I had the energy."

  "I don't doubt it."

  "I'd throw the toilet brush at you if I could reach it."

  "Please don't do that."

  She closes her eyes. "Why did you come, Giles?"

  "I came because I feel like shit."

  She laughs, a fake laugh that lacks energy.

  "I'm sorry," I say. She pulls her head up to look at me, but her face is drained of any humor. "I was the biggest asshole," I go on, "and I regret it more than you'll ever believe."

  "Whatever," she says. "You got what you wanted, anyway."

  I don't have a response to that. The anger in her eyes is aimed at me like a death beam. But I know it's not just me she's mad at. She's mad at herself. She's upset at the noises she let trail from her lips when I touched her. How could my apology make up for that?

  "I didn't get what I want," I say. My forearms are resting on my knees and I'm staring at them like I can see scars there, the scars that belong on my mother's arms. "I thought I wanted to end the prank war, but last night, when I realized you were so mad at me you might never talk to me again, I hated the thought of you just disappearing. Moving out. I hated the thought of never seeing you again. The thought of not being able to talk to you every day, even if it's just to pick on you. Because this juvenile tug-o-war between us has been the best antidote I've had in a long time. I want things to go back to how they were before."

  She's watching me through tired, beady eyes, the expression in them softening in a way that makes me think she feels the same. That we've both been seeking to numb our troubles, that we both find comfort in the strange way we interact.

  Silence falls over us for several long seconds.

  "I think it's over," she says, almost to herself, a hand pressed to her stomach like she can feel its fate. "I think I'm done now."

  She tries to pull herself up on wobbly arms, but I'm on my feet and scooping her up by her underarms before she can rise on her own.

  "Don't touch me," she snaps, yanking free from my hold and insisting she can walk on her own.

  She goes over to the sink and brings a handful of water to her lips. I open one of the cabinets and hand her a bottle of mouthwash. She takes it and rinses out her mouth. When she finishes, she heads to the bathroom door. I follow beside her.

  "Where do you think you're going?" she asks.

  "I'm taking you to bed." When she stiffens at my side, I add, "No offense, but that's the last thing I want from you right now. I promise."

  She must be too weak to argue because she just half drags her body away. Her trajectory down the hall is an uneven line. I hang back slightly and watch her shuffling her feet along the hardwood floor. I know I insinuated I don't find her attractive right now, but that must not apply to her backside. Because she doesn't look sick from behind, in those tiny shorts that ride up as she walks.

  She reach
es her bed and burrows under the covers like a worm, burying her face in her pillow. I leave her to go retrieve a water bottle from the refrigerator for her and a drink for myself.

  Back in the room, I stand over the outline of her figure, curled up under the covers.

  "Here," I say, opening the water for her.

  She looks up at me, eyes narrowed in suspicion the way they always are. I've always liked her eyes on me, but the expression in them is guarded and tinged with suspicion. I want her to look at me like someone she trusts, someone she knows. I don't know why I want that. But in this moment, it's all I want.

  "Thanks," she says in a low voice, sitting up.

  The bun on her head is now ridiculously lopsided and amusing to look at. She must see me eyeing it because she tugs at the band until her hair falls over her shoulders.

  God, she's beautiful. I'm the last person that should be here, trying to make her feel better. Not just because I hurt her feelings to begin with, but because she's heartbroken over someone else.

  And I'm not the kind of guy who knows how to mend broken things.

  "What are you staring at?" she demands, from behind the bottle of water.

  Even while sick, even while visibly miserable, she can't help but turn up the snark for me.

  "Mind if I stay?"

  Her fleeting hesitation gives me hope. She sits up and pulls the covers over her waist, snuggling in. "What? You want to watch me sleep like a stalker?"

  "Are you going to sleep?"

  "Probably not." She runs a hand over the side of her neck.

  I sit on the edge of the windowsill, watching her. "Let's play a drinking game, then." When she gives me a look, I laugh. "You drink water. I drink this." I lift up the small bottle of rum I snatched from Ava's stash.

  "Why would I even want to talk to you?"

  It's unclear if her question is directed to me or to herself, but I answer it, anyway. "Because I'm a sorry son of a bitch, and I just want to make things right. I crossed a line, I realize that."

  "I don't trust you anymore," she says, sitting back against her headboard. "Not that I ever really did."

  "I know. But I have a feeling you don't want to spend the Fourth of July alone, sick in bed. When you can spend it with me, sick in bed."

  "Playing a drinking game with water?"

  "I'm trying to level the playing field here. You're half dead. What got you sick, anyway?"

  "Your stupid burrito."

  "Burrito? What burri—Oh, shit. Please don't tell me you ate that burrito. That's like two weeks old."

  She shuts her eyes tight and gags a little, hands covering her mouth. "Great. I'm going to die from my own petty revenge plot."

  "I won't let you die," I promise, smiling despite the topic of conversation. "I'll stay here and make sure you don't suffer the most humiliating death in human history. Death by burrito."

  Whatever she sees on my face causes the edge in her eyes to soften a bit more. She groans as she sags against the headboard to reach her bedside table. I watch, curious, as she pulls out a small object in a black case and sets it beside her.

  "Fine. Let's play your stupid game. But if you try to touch me or do anything shady…" She waves the object in front of her. "I'm tasering you in the nuts."

  I groan, my hand automatically shielding the crotch of my pants. I can only imagine how awful that would be and how it's probably exactly what I deserve.

  "Sounds like a deal," I say. "Let's play Never Have I Ever or I've Never, for short. Any objections?"

  She shakes her head.

  "Let's do this, then," I say, unscrewing the cap of the rum bottle. "You go first."

  She thinks for a moment then says, "I've never cheated on someone I was dating." The surprise is evident on her face when I don't take a drink. "Oh come on," she says, "you're lying."

  "I'm not. Why would I lie?"

  "Oh, I don't know? To make yourself look good?"

  "That's not how this works. But if you have to know, I've only been in one serious relationship and that ended in cheating, just not on my end. Cheating requires commitment so I just don't put myself in that position."

  "Not ever?"

  "This isn't how the game works, either, Julia. You don't get to ask twenty questions."

  She nods slowly. "Okay. Go. It's your turn."

  Tapping a finger on my knee, I consider a question that could broach my curiosity. I want to know about the guy who broke her heart.

  "I've never been in love."

  Her lips part slightly but her hands remain in her lap, cradling the bottle of water. Interesting. This puts a dent in my theory that she's heartbroken. It doesn't make sense.

  "Love makes people stupid," I say. "All right, your turn."

  Tucking her hair behind her ear, she turns her sights toward the ceiling. "I've never…had sex with one of my professors."

  I bring the bottle up for a sip then I bring it back up for another, with a small grin. Her mouth drops into an O shape, eyes narrowing.

  "Two? Which ones?"

  "I don't kiss and tell."

  She rolls her eyes. "What a gentleman."

  "My turn."

  She sits up with a little more enthusiasm. Already, there's color returning to her face. I can tell her enjoyment is distracting her from feeling sick.

  I don't think my next statement through. "I've never made a sex tape."

  Stupid. That was a waste of a turn. I expect her to roll her eyes again, or maybe call me a liar. To my surprise, her eyes widen just slightly and the color in her face drains. I think she's going to be sick. But then, she brings the bottle of water up to her mouth and swallows.

  "Wait. Seriously?" I can't keep the disbelief out of my tone. "You made a sex tape?"

  There's no amusement on her face and when she talks again, there's considerably less energy in her tone, as though she's no longer enjoying the game. "It's my turn to ask a question."

  I open my mouth to protest, not wanting to drop such a scandalous subject. Until I realize the sickened expression on her face has nothing to do with her not feeling well. It's all to do with her admission. That piece of information isn't one she meant to part with. I feel a stab of guilt at having forced her to.

  She clears her throat. "I've never had a one-night stand."

  I chug a few mouthfuls of rum. "Now you're just trying to get me drunk."

  She shakes her head at my show. "You're going to feel that in a minute."

  "I'm feeling it right now." I get to my feet and make a show out of swaying slightly. "Does this mean you've won?"

  "Not until I've wiped the floor with you." Her half-hearted smile tells me she doesn't want our game to end just yet. If I leave, she will be left alone for the rest of the weekend.

  The fact that she wants me around, even after what I did, makes my chest swell with satisfaction.

  "Fine. My turn," I say, sitting back down to think of my next question.

  She's only willing to let me glean information from the game and not directly. I think on it for a few seconds. The word heartbroken keeps slipping into my thoughts. That's the only word I could use to describe the vibe I got from her last night. And her saying she's never been in love just makes me more curious about it.

  "I've never been heartbroken."

  She hesitates before taking a long sip of water. When she finishes, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and avoids my eyes, taking the time to smooth out the blanket over her lap.

  I thought so. But…"You said you've never been in love."

  "You don't have to be in love to get your heart broken."

  I think of what my father did. Of what my mother did. And I nod. "True," I admit, before taking another swig of rum.

  Her expression falls just a hair, realizing what I'm also admitting. And when her eyes meet mine, there's a struggle there between her wanting me to elaborate, wanting me to share, and not wanting to pry.

  I get the sense she has secrets she's dying to r
elieve herself of, but she's still hesitant to trust me. I have to give a little to get a little.

  "I know a lot about heartbreak," I say, my head already light from the alcohol. "Mine cracked in two when my father died."

  The silence that follows is awkward and I realize I don't care. I might be half drunk already. Julia looks down at her hands. She starts to say something, only to stop herself, then utters, "I'm so sorry."

  "Well," I start, getting up and feeling the floor shift a little under my feet, "now that I've thoroughly killed the mood, I'm going to go to bed."

  I've taken maybe three steps when her voice reaches me, soft and almost timid. "You don't have to go."

  "I don't have to, or you don't want me to?" The familiar combative sparks shoots across her eyes, as I knew it would. Though I enjoy seeing her reaction, I'm instantly worried she will take back her words just out of pride. So, I backpedal. "Fine. I'll stay. Move over."

  "What?"

  Before she can concede, I'm wedging myself onto the bed beside her, and though she makes a noise of protest, she slides over a few feet to allow me room on the mattress. She's under the covers from the waist down and I'm lying on top of them. Nothing about this should feel remotely sexual, I remind myself. But I'm not sure I know how to be around her without being aware of how much I want her. Tonight needs to be different.

  Heartbroken. The word repeats in my head. And somehow, that word is enough for me to remember she isn't as put together as she seems. She has cracks in her and I'm not even sure where those cracks are. If I lift her the wrong way, she might fall apart in my hands. And that, that's pretty damn scary.

  We sit side by side, no parts of our bodies touching, staring ahead at the painting of a beach on the wall.

  "I wasn't kidding about tasering your nuts."

  I laugh. "I know. My hands are staying right here, on my lap."

  "And I know you realize you have no chance in hell of getting into my pants."

  "Shorts," I correct. "Tiny shorts…" That could slide off really easily if the circumstances were different.

  "You just saw me puking my brains out an hour ago. You're gross."