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Nowhere good.
Chapter Nine: Knox
“Dammit,” I hiss, watching Hunter run in the exact opposite direction I was hoping for—away from me.
She’s so fucking skittish, and I’m not used to kissing a woman and then having her bolt like the hounds of hell are after her. Shoving a hand through my hair, frustration bubbles up.
My little Sparrow has flown the coop.
What the hell can I do to make her understand she isn’t like all the other women I’ve known? I admire so much about her—her spirit, her strength, her intelligence. It’s so much more than her beauty that’s attracting me. I can’t ignore the way she’s making me feel. It’s throwing me for a loop. There’s so much I want to know about her, but damn, she’s definitely making this difficult.
What the hell happened in her past to make her so fearful and hesitant? So guarded.
Or, maybe it’s just me. Maybe for the first time in my life, my charm isn’t helping. If I had to guess, it’s hurting me.
But what else do I have?
Grabbing my duffel bag, I sling it over my shoulder and stomp down the hall to find a room. As I traverse the intricatelylaid tiles and observe the opulence surrounding me, my dirt-poor upbringing, and everything I did to overcome it, flashes like a movie in my mind. In order to get what I wanted, I had to learn how to make myself attractive to other people. So, I honed my charm and smooth, laidback nature into a weapon that works for me.
It’s never failed me before. Not until now. Until Hunter.
The more suave I try to be, the more she pulls away. The usual approaches and tactics that make every other woman swoon aren’t working.
What do I have left?
I suppose I could try to just be myself. But who wants that? Nobody did when I was growing up, so why would she? Experience taught me women prefer the self-assured bachelor with a hefty bank account and unlimited supply of beguiling compliments.
But when I turn it on, Hunter looks at me like I’m full of shit.
Maybe I am.
The thought hits me hard as I walk into an empty guest room. It’s bigger than I’m used to and beyond luxurious, the king-size bed covered in a pristine white blanket and throw pillows trimmed in gold. A crystal chandelier hangs above it and I sigh, dropping my bag on the floor and heading over to a set of double doors that open onto a private patio.
I pace back and forth, the sound of a distant fountain filling my ears. This place is really too much. Too excessive, too in-your-face, too—
I stop abruptly. Is this how Hunter views me? AmItoo much?
Fuck me. Clarity strikes and I drop down onto a piece of fancy patio furniture that’s more artsy than functional. I’m sure it cost a fortune, like everything else in this place.
But that doesn’t make it better than the comfy hammock I used to swing in as a kid back in Chicago. Growing up with five sisters in a small apartment was hard, but I knew my family and friends loved me for who I was, not for what I had or projected to the rest of the world.
Sure, we had a crappy place on the South Side and money was so tight I used to wear the same Salvation Army clothes until they were embarrassingly worn. One summer, I sprouted up so quickly Mom couldn’t afford to buy me a new pair of pants. I wore boots so no one could see they were several inches too short, exposing my ankles. Damn, I had such gangly legs.
I’ll never forget when we would flip on the kitchen lights and the roaches would scatter. Those fuckers would get into everything. If there was an open box in the cupboard, you better believe they’d find a way inside and feast on what little food we had. I used to take great pleasure in smashing them to smithereens.
I watched my parents struggle to make ends meet every damn day and I vowed to change that by any means necessary. Meeting Angel and Addie gave me the opportunity to make something of myself and, more importantly, a chance to make good money.
My family has no idea what I really do. They think I’m a big shot at some Fortune 500 company who invests well. I also“invest” their money, because taking care of them is my most important job. I’ll never let poverty affect another Beckett again.
So, I’ve learned to rely on what I have in my arsenal—my good looks and charm. I’m not an idiot, though. I know women use me just as much as I use them. They want to be on the arm of the good-looking man in the tux. They want me because they think I have an endless supply of money.
They don’t want the kid who grew up in the rundown apartment. Who shared a bedroom with his five older sisters. I was trash, and if they knew that, they’d never give me a second glance, never mind stick around for more than thirty seconds.
Well, except maybe one. Perhaps Hunter wouldn’t care about my impoverished past. That doesn’t mean I want her to know about it. I’ve come a long way and don’t ever look back or regret the things I’ve done to get where I currently am.
I give my head a shake. Now isn’t the time to dwell on my childhood. There’s a heist to get ready for, and that means transforming into The Charmer.
Or maybe I should start calling myself The Pretender, because I’m beginning to feel like an absolute fraud.