by Layla Frost
After changing into clothes that actually fit, I headed into the hall.
I was pretty sure Maximo was home, but I didn’t go to him. As odd as it was since he bankrolled the whole shebang, I didn’t feel comfortable asking him for anything. It was easier to pretend things just magically showed up.
Like I had unlimited wishes from a genie.
Going downstairs, I searched for one of the men or Ms. Vera but had no luck. The kitchen was empty, too, and I swiped a couple Starbursts for my trouble. I was about to leave when Marco came in.
He looked guilty until his eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing in here?”
I hid the candy behind my back as I shot back, “What’re you doing?”
“Just looking for Freddy.” He picked up a big pot like he was casually checking it out.
“Freddy moved the Oreos.”
“Dammit. Where?”
I shrugged.
“What’d you go for?”
“Starburst. In the flour canister.”
“Thanks.” He grabbed a much larger handful and pocketed them. “What’re you up to?”
“Can you get me a needle and thread?”
His eyes went alert and he scanned me like he was searching for an injury.
I wonder if he’s ex-military or a commando or something.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not looking to do battlefield stitches, I actually want to sew.”
“Need fabric?”
I shook my head. “Just gray thread.”
“Got it.” He grabbed another handful of Starburst and checked one more pot before leaving.
And I went upstairs to plan my new hobby.
Maximo
“WHAT IS SHE doing?”
Juliet sat on her floor, her body hunched over, but I couldn’t see what had her attention.
Ash didn’t need to glance at the screen to know. “She’s altering one of her outfits.”
“I can have my tailor do it.”
“Marco already offered when he dropped off the supplies and saw what she was working on. She said she wants to do it herself.”
Since she’d barely moved in hours, she was determined enough.
“Why’d Marco tell you?” I asked.
“To give me a heads-up she was armed with sharp-as-fuck fabric scissors.”
I wasn’t worried—and not just because I wasn’t home to get shivved.
She’d had countless opportunities to leave. She wasn’t locked in her room. The front door was unguarded. Hell, she had access to Freddy’s knives and could’ve used one to demand a car to aid her escape.
She never tried.
My little dove likes her gilded cage.
I pulled my eyes away and moved on to a topic that was far less enticing. “Any new Dobrow sightings?”
He shook his head. “Nada.”
There’d been a handful of suspected sightings, but they could’ve been cases of mistaken identity—wannabe Bond villains were a dime a dozen in Vegas.
But I didn’t trust it.
My eyes went back to the monitors over Ash’s shoulder. “Have Cole run an optics check on the security systems as a precaution.”
He stood. “On it.”
When he left, I leaned back in my chair and ran my palm down my face. I couldn’t shake the feeling shit was about to go sideways.
And my gut was never wrong.
Juliet
A Week Later
Holding up the fabric, I inspected my handiwork.
After adjusting the romper’s straps so they fit without drooping, I’d watched a ton of tutorials before turning the shorts into a skirt.
And it’d worked.
Kinda.
My stitches were janky, my hem wasn’t quite even, and there was a good chance none of the seams would hold.
But so long as I didn’t look too closely and barely moved, it’d worked.
Running into my closet, I changed into the dress and did a spin in front of the mirror.
I actually did it.
I slid on a pair of wedge sandals and went in search of Ms. Vera. I didn’t have to go far. She came out of one of the guest rooms as I neared it.
Catching sight of me, she stopped and clutched her hands against her chest. “Beautiful! It’s much prettier as a dress.”
“I think so, too.”
I’d been working on the project, fixing and refixing until my back was numb and my fingers were stabbed more than a pin cushion.
And I’d loved every frustrating second.
Finishing was bittersweet because I didn’t have another project yet. I’d looked through all of my clothes, but minus altering my tees into crop tops or extending my crop tops into tees, there was nothing I could do.
“Can I have some regular fabric to mess around with?” I asked.
“Make a list, and we’ll go tomorrow.”
I nodded even though I had no clue what I was going to do, let alone what I’d need to do it.
Only one way to find out.
Returning to my room, I grabbed a notebook, pen, and my MacBook. Then in my pretty dress, I sat on the floor and researched all afternoon, through dinner, and until I was falling asleep at the coffee table.
Christmas
Knock.
Don’t even knock. Just say ‘Merry Christmas’ then go eat breakfast. Two words. No big deal.
Walking down the hall, I stared at the closed office door. My steps slowed as I neared it.
Ms. Vera and the men are off. He’s probably gone, too.
Using that flimsy excuse to chicken out, I sped past and went downstairs.
‘Twas the morning of Christmas, and all through the big-ass mansion, no one was around, which made it eerily quiet.
Not quite as charming as the original.
Going into the kitchen, I opened the fridge to find heat-and-eat meals stacked for me. I grabbed the two labeled for Christmas morning and opened them, practically drooling at the sight of fruit salad and breakfast casserole.
I popped the casserole into the microwave and turned to grab a fork when my eyes landed on something.
Something magical.
Something with my name on it—literally.
It’s a true Christmas miracle.
Freddy was already on my Nice List since he’d promised to teach me to make beignets when he returned from visiting family in New Orleans.
Him leaving me a stash of coffee put him on my Super-Duper Nice List.
I followed his written directions to brew it using the pour over thingy.
A Mr. Coffee would’ve sufficed.
When it finished, I took a sip.
Never mind.
This is the nectar of the gods and Mr. Coffee is a sin against coffee.
I didn’t bother eating at the big table since it was just me. I sat on the counter and ate, enjoying the delicious food and loving the coffee.
To some, it would probably be a shitty way to spend Christmas morning.
But to me, it was the best Christmas I’d ever had.
I had food that wasn’t a frozen turkey dinner.
No one was drunk.
There was no random cocktail waitress cooking me expired eggs because she felt bad I was eating dry cereal in a house with no decorations or presents.
Instead, I was warm. I was fed. I was caffeinated.
And, most of all, it was peaceful.
A smidge creepy in all its expansive emptiness, but still better than drunk screaming—or worse.
Full and happy, I backtracked upstairs. I was trying to decide whether I wanted to take a nap or watch one of the fifty-billion Christmas movies on TV when I noticed something.
One of the normally closed doors was ajar.
That wasn’t open earlier.
Was it?
I wasn’t sure. My focus had been aimed at Maximo’s office, which was opposite the ajar one. It was entirely possible I’d missed it.
I slowed to sneak a peek.
It’s probabl
y just storage.
Or yet another boring guest room.
Or it holds government secrets, hostages, and Jimmy Hoffa.
But when I glanced in, I saw none of those.
I saw something even more unbelievable.
Positive it was a hallucination, I pushed the door all the way open and stared.
In the center of the room, there was a L-shaped desk with a sewing machine on top. Two of those headless torso mannequins were positioned next to it. The wall was lined with racks filled with all sorts of bits, doohickeys, and bolts of fabric.
So much fabric.
It was a lot.
Too much.
Beyond anything I’d asked for.
It was beautiful and amazing and perfect.
Too perfect.
There’s no way this is for me.
No way in hell.
My type got toys from a family who picked a name off a charity tree.
My type got cheap presents from church handouts.
My type had a dad who pawned all the donated gifts because he was feeling lucky and claimed he’d be able to win enough to buy better gifts.
My type had a dad who never replaced any of the hawked gifts, let alone with better ones.
My type was poor trash who didn’t get a spectacular life, even temporarily.
I don’t know who it’s for, but it’s not me.
Even as the denials raced through my pessimistic mind, something else bloomed in my heart.
Hope.
That stupid emotion I’d thought I was too smart to feel grew as I took in the details. The oversized green and red bow stuck to the top of the sewing machine. The cotton sleep shorts I’d been hand sewing positioned on the desk. The notecard with the familiar masculine scrawl.
And the canvas prints on the wall.
A handful of different sized pictures were hung around the room. They were simplistic, just a single white dove with a gray backdrop, but that minimalism was what made them breathtaking.
Even without the note or the bow, the doves made it clear this room was meant to be mine.
Like it was armed with boobytraps and I was trespassing, I took a tentative step inside. Then another. And another. Once I reached the desk, my heart pounded so hard, I was surprised it didn’t beat right out of my sternum. I grazed my fingertips along the machine that was loaded with so many buttons and settings, I couldn’t imagine all it was capable of doing.
I picked up the card.
Merry Christmas, little dove.
It’s actually for me.
No.
No, no, no.
As much as I loved the room—and I loved every single aspect of it—I couldn’t use it.
I’d stayed to ease his guilt.
I’d taken his help getting my diploma because I wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the priceless opportunity.
I’d accepted the clothes because clothes were a necessity. Plus, the cost for all of it was likely less than a payment on one of his cars.
Even the hobby supplies I’d asked for were meant to be cheap and inconsequential.
Temporary.
Just like me.
A sewing room was not something I could bring with me when I turned eighteen.
And if I allowed myself to use it—if I fell in love with it—how was I supposed to return to janky hand sewing?
Turning to leave the room, I froze.
My movements.
My breathing.
My thoughts.
Hanging on the wall opposite the sewing machine was the largest canvas print.
A dove in an intricate cage.
In black and white, the gleaming bars of the ornate cage and the bright white dove contrasted with the dark background. It looked beautiful, each bit of shadow and light playing perfectly against each other.
The beauty of it twisted in my gut for reasons I couldn’t fully comprehend, let alone explain.
I was pretty sure that was how good art was supposed to make people feel.
Dragging my eyes from the canvas, I looked out the open door to the closed one across the way.
He needs to return everything.
All of it.
Except maybe this print. I’ll let myself keep this one.
I steeled my spine and marched across the hall, rehearsing how to turn down his thoughtful gifts without sounding ungrateful.
But when I got to the door, it wasn’t my fist that hit it. It was my forehead landing with a gentle thud.
Because in that brief delay, I’d thought about how supported I’d been. With my schoolwork. With my reading or swimming. With my less than successful hobby attempts. And with sewing.
It may have started as a way to kill some time and alter a romper, but it had grown into something I loved.
And someone had noticed that.
Choked with emotion, my raw words didn’t insist he take it all back. They expressed the deep, heartfelt gratitude that filled me. “Thank you. I love it.”
For all I knew, I was talking to an empty room, but that was okay.
I’d said what I needed to.
Turning, I headed for my room and my iPad.
If I want to learn how to use that sewing machine before my birthday, I’m going to need to watch videos.
I thought about all the switches and buttons and settings I’d seen.
A lot of videos.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Happy Birthday
Juliet
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
There was nothing happy about any of my birthdays, but especially not that one. I wanted to climb back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend the day—and the entirety of the outside world—didn’t exist.
When I’d gotten up, Ms. Vera had been waiting in my sitting room with breakfast and a birthday hug.
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile I did not feel.
She gestured to the couch, a little bounce in her step as she moved. “Sit. Eat.”
She seems extra chipper.
I, on the other hand, was a gloomy cloud raining on my own parade.
The dreaded day had arrived.
I was eighteen.
An adult.
Able to live on my own, make my own way, all that jazz.
It was time to leave.
“What’s the, uh, plan?” I asked.
She pointed at the food. “Eat. It’s a little chilly, but Cole already adjusted the pool temp so you can swim.”
I smiled, and it was only a little forced.
Of course, they’re not going to boot me out on my birthday.
I would have to ask again later because I needed time to plan and pack. For right then, though, I’d greedily savor my last day in paradise.
Lifting the dome off the tray, the smell of Cajun seasoning and jalapeños burned my nose and made my mouth water. Along with the spicy omelet, there was a piece of toast, a bowl of strawberry and banana slices, and coffee.
A big mug of coffee.
All my favorites.
Happy birthday to me.
Maximo
Heading to talk to Freddy, I stopped as Juliet came out of the kitchen, her strawberry-blond hair in a high ponytail and her body barely covered by a white bikini. She didn’t notice me as she turned toward the backdoor, giving me a view of her rounded ass cheeks peeking out.
Since that meant Freddy had gotten the same view, I clenched my jaw. “Having fun, little dove?”
She spun around, and her startled gasp went straight to my cock. As did the way she breathed, “Maximo.”
Christ, what I wouldn’t give to hear her say my name like that when I’m buried deep inside her.
“Having fun?” I repeated.
She nodded, that damn ponytail bobbing.
“Good.” I was about to turn away when my gaze caught on something.
As I closed the distance, Juliet backed away until she was pressed against the wall, her green eyes locked on me like a pretty doe eyeing a
circling wolf. That didn’t put me off.
It turned me on.
I only stopped when I was close enough to count the freckles smattered across her nose. Slowly, I skimmed my bent finger down her side, her skin so damn soft.
As I reached the hem of her bikini bottoms, her breath hitched.
With fear?
Or something much different?
I ran my thumb along the thin, puckered scar above her hip bone.
I knew what it was.
I had enough of them.
I’d given even more.
Still, I rumbled, “Where’d you get this scar, little dove?”
She swallowed hard, her voice uneven when she lied, “I don’t remember.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
She hesitated before admitting, “My dad owed money. They came after me as a warning to him.”
“Who’d he owe?”
“Everyone,” she said with a small, sardonic laugh. “But in this case, it was the Sullivans.”
The Sullivans were small-time loan sharks and big-time gun runners.
“Didn’t Patrick Sullivan box with Shamus?”
She nodded. “That’s why they let me off easy.”
She thinks that’s getting off easy?
“Patrick did it?” I asked.
“No, one of his goons.”
“Is he dead?”
If her piece-of-shit father had cared about anything other than himself and his vices, he’d have slaughtered the bastard responsible in a way that made it clear Juliet was off limits.
Her pretty eyes went wide at my question. “Not that I know of.”
“He will be.”
She shook her head, but it wasn’t an objection to the violence. “It wasn’t worth the headache.”
How badly did Shamus fuck her up that she thinks she’s not worth it?
I gripped her hip and stooped so my eyes were level with hers. When she tried to glance away, I ordered, “Look at me.” Once I had her eyes again, I spoke slow and clear so there was no misunderstanding. “No one hurts you. If they do, I’ll make sure they spend the limited time they have left on earth regretting it. It will not be a headache. I’ll enjoy making it clear what happens to anyone stupid enough to touch you.”
“This conversation is insane,” she whispered.
“No, what’s insane is you thinking a knife to the gut isn’t worth retaliation.”
“Dad said it would mean war with them.”
“Then I’ll start a fucking war ‘cause you’re sure as fuck worth it. You need someone to take care of you.”
