by Ivy Layne
I wanted to be with my family, that’s why I came home, but the collected mass of my relatives and their significant others was a crowd, loud and rambunctious. I craved them and wanted to flee at the same time.
After a solitary dinner, I went back to my suite and sat at the desk to make a list. I needed to get in gear, to get my life back. At eighteen I’d walked away from my future, from the life I’d planned for myself, and if Aiden’s attitude was any indication, no one was going to hand it back to me.
That was fair. But if Aiden thought I was going to sit back and let him push me out of my own company, he’d learn he was mistaken. I could give him time. I owed him that. But I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for him to get over himself.
I needed the basics. A new phone. A laptop. A wardrobe that consisted of more than athletic shorts and cargo pants. I wasn’t flying to London for my suits like Aiden - the thought of sitting through a crowded flight twisted my gut in a knot - and I wasn’t asking Aiden for access to the company plane. Not yet.
I’d talk to Vance. My little brother wasn’t so little anymore, and he had good taste. He also wore clothes aside from suits, had little patience for shopping, and was speaking to me. All things I couldn’t say about Aiden. I made a note to call him in the morning.
The phone and laptop were easy enough. A quick trip to a big box electronics store and I’d be in business. I added a tablet to my list. Mine had broken shortly before the mission that had derailed my career and my life, and I hadn’t had a chance to replace it.
Setting down my pen, I stood from the desk and stretched. Once I had the laptop, I could get to work. I had a lot of catching up to do on Winters Inc., and I could start with everything available in the public record.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and paced the sitting room of my suite. I needed something to do. Even after my nap, I should be tired. I had months of broken sleep to make up for.
I was tired. There was a part of me that was so deeply exhausted, I doubted I’d ever sleep enough to fill the well.
Still, after months of insomnia, I knew I wasn’t close to tired enough to sleep. Another workout wasn’t the answer. I thought about a movie but rejected that idea. Maybe later. What I really wanted was a book.
The library was deserted, a single lamp lit in the corner of the room. I went straight to the built-in shelves on the right side of the fireplace, to the bottom where Uncle Hugh always kept his mysteries. Aunt Olivia made him hide them below eye level, the brightly colored spines clashing with the more formal leather-bound volumes that made up the bulk of the collection.
I’d read most of Hugh’s books when I’d been a teenager. I’d always gotten along well with my uncle Hugh, even before my own father had been killed. Our shared love of mysteries was just one of the things that bound us together. It burned that his death was still unsolved, not unlike the central plot to one of the books we’d loved. He deserved better.
I forced my thoughts off that path. If I started thinking about what Hugh and Olivia deserved, it would be a short jump to remembering what I should have done. How I might have saved them if I hadn’t been an immature, selfish asshole the night they’d died. If I was going to dwell on the past, I might as well pick up the decanter of whiskey in the corner and drain it dry.
I owed my family better than that. I’d run from my problems once. I’d run and stayed away. Thirteen years was long enough. I was home, and I was sticking. Alcohol was just another way of running. I was done with running.
Gritting my teeth against the desire to pour just one glass, I grabbed a book at random and settled into the couch. A click of the remote on the end table and the fireplace came to life, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow.
I’d read the book before, in high school, but I didn’t mind. Stretched out on the library couch, with one of Uncle Hugh’s favorite books in my hands, I felt at home for the first time in years.
At home, but not relaxed. A shuffle of bare feet in the hall reached my ears, and every muscle in my body drew tight, prepared to act, only moments before a shadow fell in the doorway to the library.
Chapter Three
Sophie
I couldn’t sleep. I was used to it. Years had passed since I’d had a decent night’s rest. Before my marriage I’d been a champion sleeper, able to ignore the bright light of morning streaming into my bedroom and sleep until noon, then take a nap a few hours later. I used to love to sleep.
Marriage to Anthony cured me of that indulgent habit. I didn’t usually have trouble falling asleep. It was staying asleep that caused me problems. Like clockwork, I’d jerk awake in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, my mind caught in a nightmare.
I’d sit in bed, gasping for breath, the memory of hard hands on my legs, dragging me from sleep, alive in my mind.
Anthony is gone, I’d remind myself. You’re safe now. Everything is okay.
I knew that was true. I was safe. Anthony was dead. In the six months that I’d been living at Winters House, those words were even more true. The Winters family had a high-tech security system. No one was getting into this house uninvited. I had nothing to fear here.
I knew that. Well, the logical part of my brain knew it. The animal part of me, the part that knew what terror was…that part was afraid to trust in safety.
Once, I’d thought I was safe. I’d thought I was marrying the prince from a fairytale and had ended up in a nightmare. Two years had passed, and I still woke almost every night shaking in remembered terror.
To be honest, I was sick of it. I was ready to move on. I was done with being damaged Sophie. Scared Sophie. Most of all, I was finished with victim Sophie. I’d made a mistake, trusted the wrong man.
How many other women could say the same? A ton. Anthony was dead, and I’d moved on. I had. I just needed my subconscious to move on with me.
For now, I strode down the halls of Winters House, my path lit by the moonlight streaming through the tall windows, considering whether I wanted to try the new tea Amelia had recommended for insomnia. I adored Amelia, but that tea smelled like something better left in the bottom of the trash can. Insomnia might be a better option if it tasted anything like it smelled.
Flickering light caught my eye, for a second sending a bolt of fear through my chest. Fire. Winters House was on fire. Then I realized the smoke alarms would have gone off if it had been a real fire. At the very least, I would have smelled smoke. This was nothing more than someone forgetting to turn off the gas fireplace in the library before heading to bed.
I took a detour, intending to turn off the gas and the lights on my way to the kitchen, and stopped short. Gage Winters was stretched out on the leather sofa reading a book, the light of the fire flickering over his cheekbones. My heart kicked into a thumping beat at the sight of him.
Unlike our first meeting, this time he was relaxed, or as relaxed as I imagined Gage Winters ever was. Even at ease, lounging in front of the fire with a book, he gave off the same sense of barely leashed energy he had the night before. This was not a man who knew what it meant to chill out.
His blue eyes pinned me in place, scanning me in a slow pass from the top of my head to my bare feet, heating as they moved. His full lower lip curved into a smile.
“Do you have more paper bugs?” he asked in that deep, smooth voice.
I shook my head, no.
“Another prank Amelia dreamed up? I heard the screams this afternoon. She must have been happy.”
I cleared my throat. “She was. Mrs. W has a very convincing scream. And she pretended to scold Amelia, which I think she secretly enjoyed.”
Gage chuckled, the sound floating across the room, drawing out my own, small laugh.
“If you’re not setting up another of Amelia’s pranks, what are you doing awake in the middle of the night?”
I was suddenly conscious of how I must look, wrapped in my oversized robe, my hair in a loose braid down my back. I dressed casually at Winters House—the family
didn’t want me to wear a uniform—but a robe and bare feet were inappropriate. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d run into anyone, despite my encounter with Gage the night before.
Tightening the belt on my robe, I smoothed stray wisps of hair back from my face and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, I thought someone left the fireplace on. I was just going to make some tea. I’ll get out of your way.”
Cheeks pink with embarrassment, I was ready to flee to the kitchen when Gage said, “Can’t sleep?”
I turned back, shaking my head. “I wake up in the middle of the night a lot and have trouble falling back to sleep.” My curiosity took hold of my tongue, and I asked, “Is that why you’re awake in the middle of the night again? Trouble sleeping?”
Gage took a second to answer, a second during which I lectured myself on asking him personal questions. I wasn’t his friend. I worked here. And asking a virtual stranger personal questions was rude.
I took a step back toward the door, expecting him to dismiss me. He didn’t need to explain why he was up reading in the middle of the night. It was his house. I was an employee.
When he spoke, Gage’s voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear, the words a vibration in the air I felt more than heard.
“I haven’t been sleeping much lately…” He trailed off.
“Trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?” I asked.
“Both,” he admitted. “I have nightmares.”
My training kicked in, and without thinking I said, “That’s normal, considering what you’ve been through. Did they talk to you before you left the military hospital? Tell you what to expect?”
Gage’s face shut down, his eyes flicking away and his mouth going hard, that lush lower lip compressing into the top in a thin line.
Shit. None of my business. I took another step back and shook my head in apology.
“I’m sorry, sometimes I forget everyone isn’t a patient. I’ll let you get back to your book.”
“Wait,” Gage said, his voice carrying a demand I knew better than to ignore.
Men like Gage Winters were used to being obeyed. I’d had enough of obeying men to last me a lifetime, but I worked for his family, and I liked my job. More than that, I realized I wanted to hear what he was going to say next. I fought the urge to give myself another lecture and stopped, turning back to face him again.
The hard line of his mouth had softened, but those blue eyes were still sharp and on guard. “The tea—does it help?” he asked.
“I don’t really know,” I said. At his raised eyebrow, I explained. “The tea I usually drink when I can’t sleep helps a little. But this is a new one. Amelia ordered it for me off the internet. I have no idea if it’s any good, but I promised her I’d try. Do you want me to make you a cup?”
I expected him to refuse. I have no idea why I even offered. I was usually good at watching my words but with Gage my tongue out-ran my brain. Something about him made me speak without thinking. I tried not to remember that speaking without thinking could be dangerous. I was safe here. If Gage ended up being a problem, nothing was stopping me from leaving.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” Gage said, something warm drifting through his eyes. “Do you need any help?”
“No,” I said, the sound almost a yelp, before fleeing to the familiar comfort of the kitchen.
They say a watched pot never boils but the electric kettle in Winters House didn’t get that memo, because it was happily boiling away long before I was ready to face Gage again.
I should get an electric kettle for my room, I thought. Then I wouldn’t have to come to the kitchen at night and wouldn’t risk running into Gage in my robe again. I could do that. It would be convenient, but I’d miss my nightly trips through Winters House.
There was something about traversing the sleeping house in the dark, alone, the way the moonlight turned the house into a fairytale, that made me feel as if I’d stumbled into my own happy ending. I loved this house. Loved to be alone in it.
Though, I wasn’t alone now. I poured steaming water over the tea bags in matching mugs, wincing at the odor as the hot water hit the tea. Yuck. I couldn’t imagine something that smelled this bad could possibly help me sleep. The stench alone would keep me awake.
I’d promised Amelia I’d try the tea, so I dutifully carried the two mugs down the hall to the library, thinking wistfully of a nice mug of honeyed chamomile instead.
Gage was sitting up on one side of the sofa when I returned, leaving the other side open for me. I wasn’t sure about sharing the sofa with him, but it was wide enough to give me space, and sitting in one of the arm chairs by the fire would have been weird when he’d moved to leave me a seat.
I felt awkward enough with Gage; I didn’t need to make a point by sitting across the room and make it even worse.
I handed him one of the mugs, warning, “It’s hot.”
Holding my breath, I raised my own mug to my lips, blew across the top, and took a hesitant sip. I have no words to describe the taste that hit my tongue.
Acrid and yet organic. Organic the way a rotten stump is organic. This tea was not about fresh fruit and flowers. It tasted like old gym socks and wet leaves from beneath a dead animal.
Gage took a sip and choked. Wiping my hand across the back of my mouth, I watched as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to swallow. It was a good thing he hadn’t spit it out. I wasn’t sure Mrs. W would be able to get the stench out of the carpet. It would have been a shame to abandon the library because it smelled like this tea.
“What the fuck is in this stuff?” Gage asked, his eyes narrowed on his mug as if he was plotting the best way to destroy it.
“I have no idea, but it’s horrible,” I said. Saliva pooled in my mouth and I swallowed. I needed something to get rid of this taste.
“Are you sure she’s not pranking you?”
I thought about it. It was possible. “No, I don’t think so. I control Amelia’s access to cookies. I don’t think she’d risk cookies to tease me.”
“You control her access to cookies?”
“She’s diabetic. It’s not severe, but she has to limit sugar. Amelia is serious about her sweets. And sneaky. I search her room every day for contraband. I don’t think she’d risk dessert just to see me squirm. Especially since she missed the show.”
“Good point.” Gage stood. “I’m going to pour this out. Want to come find something to wash the taste away?”
“Yes, please.”
I followed Gage down the hall to the kitchen, holding my breath so I didn’t inhale the steam wafting off the tea. Whatever was in this, it was the foulest brew I’d ever smelled. I tipped my mug over the sink with relief, turning on the faucet to wash the tea away.
Gage picked up the box on the counter and turned it over, looking for the ingredient list. “It’s all in Hanzi,” he murmured. Then, louder, “It’s in Chinese. I can read some Chinese, but I don’t know any of these characters.”
“Herbal medicine wasn’t included in your Chinese lessons?” I asked, rummaging through the cabinets for something to clear our palates. There was no way I’d sleep tonight if I couldn’t get the taste of this tea out of my mouth.
“Not exactly,” Gage said with a wry smile. “I don't need to know what they put in this tea. All that matters is it tastes disgusting.”
Gage handed me his cup to pour out in the sink and crossed the room to rummage in the cabinet above the electric kettle. Pulling out a box of tea, he handed it to me, saying, “Here, make two cups of this. I'll be right back. I've got an idea.”
He strode out of the kitchen, making a face as he swallowed hard, trying to get the taste of that tea out of his mouth. I did the same. I should've known anything that smelled so bad would taste worse.
Again, I filled and started the electric kettle. Gage had given me a box of decaffeinated English breakfast. I wondered what his plan was. Decaf English breakfast wouldn't be my first choice to cure insomnia. I usually dra
nk a chamomile based blend that was supposed to be relaxing. It wasn't bad, but it didn't do much to help me sleep.
Gage was back a minute later, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He went to the pantry and returned with a jar of honey.
“Tell me that's not your brother’s whiskey,” I said, eyeing the bottle cautiously. Just a few weeks ago Charlie Winters's fiancée, Lucas Jackson, had stopped by to ask Aiden's blessing for his proposal to Charlie, and after receiving it had made off with Aiden's best bottle of whiskey.
Though, apparently, that had actually been his second best bottle. His best bottle had been stolen by Charlie six months before. Aiden Winters was not easygoing on the best of days, and he was not happy about losing two bottles of expensive liquor. Secretly, I thought it was funny, and suspected that deep down he might too, but I was an employee. The last thing I wanted was to get caught raiding the liquor cabinet.
Gage turned the bottle over in his hands and his lips quirked up. “I heard about that,” he said. “It'll be a while before he finds something good enough to replace the bottle Lucas took. This is just the company whiskey from the library. I usually try not to drink when I can't sleep, but I don't think tea alone can scrape the taste of Amelia's tea off my tongue.”
“Good point,” I said. I watched as he poured hot water over the teabags in our mugs, added a generous dollop of honey to each, and a much bigger slug of whiskey than I would have. Almost to myself, I said, “I don't usually drink when I can't sleep either. I'm not much of a drinker anyway, and I'm up almost every night—” I trailed off.
“I know what you mean,” Gage said. “It feels like asking for trouble. Because if it works—”
“Then you're just trading insomnia for a drinking problem,” I finished.
Gage nodded, his blue eyes meeting mine in understanding and sympathy. He gave a final stir to my mug and handed it over. Still cautious after the last sip of tea, I took a careful taste. Whiskey was not my favorite drink, by far, but the thick honey and familiar English breakfast smoothed the edges just enough. It was delicious, and even better the bite of the whiskey washed the taste of Amelia's tea from my mouth. Heaven.
