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For whom, Ophelia?I chide myself.
Will a bit of makeup take you from your solid six, maybe six point five in a dress, to his solid ten?
Look around this place. His car. His face. Those shoulders. The man’s probably got supermodels lined up on his online dating accounts.
I’d be his swipe left, and that’s fine with me.
Pfft.
I grab my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder, and think how nice it was that Haze carried my stuff to the car last night. Carter never offered to help me before. I think back… nope, not even when I was carting a storage bin of dictionaries to a classroom on the third floor for French Club.
Carter never took you prisoner, either. Or stuck anything up your ass…
Okay, okay, moving on.
The smell of freshly brewed espresso and something newly baked hits me as I descend the stairs. I tiptoe around the corner, peeking in the kitchen. Gian stands by the oven, an icing bag in his hands.
“I heard you like those little American cardboard pastries you put in the toaster. I decided to make my own. Fresh fruit filling and no preservatives. Better for your health.” He turns over his shoulder to toss me a smile. “Though you have flawless skin despite your teen diet.”
The scent is divine. This must have been a lot of work. “You do not have to go through this trouble for me! I can make oatmeal or something.”
He raises his thick brows. “Sit.”
“Yes, sir,” I laugh.
The one time I don’t have to question myself for allowing a man to boss me around—when he’s about to feed and caffeinate me. I slip into one of the high-top barstools at the counter, pulling my computer from my backpack.
“Here you go, Tesoro.” He slides a vanilla latte with a cinnamon sprinkle across the counter without my even making a request.
Wrapping my hands around the heat of the clay mug, I bring it to my face, inhaling the sweet-spicy scent. “Gian, you’re too much.”
“I think I’m just enough.” He plucks a perfectly iced pastry from the cooling rack, popping it onto a plate. “Now, how do you sayit’s a lovely morning to studyin French?”
CHAPTER 11
Haze
The morning suncomes in through the windows, blinding me as I feel for her in my empty arms. I blink. Twice. She’s not here. I pull my pillow closer, inhaling deeply. I swear her sweet scent lingers on the pillowcase. My memory tortures me, playing flashes of her crawling into my bed for no other reason than to seek comfort from me.
I’m a deep sleeper and sometimes wake up not knowing up from down—another reason my dad called me Haze. This is one of those mornings, my mind a dense fog.
She was never in my bed.
Even when my head is clear, the girl has my mind turning like one of those toy tops you twist between your fingers, release, and watch spin right up to the edge of the table before it falls off, hitting the floor.
I’m tumbling. Soon, I’ll crash.
Shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on my hips, I leave the bed, padding barefoot down the hall to her room. I run a hand down my bare chest, feeling my warm, smooth skin to ensure I’mawake. I lean against the frame of her doorway, searching for evidence she was with me.
She’s not in here, either. The piles of feather duvets I had Gian buy her are rumpled on her empty bed, proving she slept here last night. Her coming to me was nothing more than a dream. Of course, it was.
After all, what girl crawls into her monster’s bed for comfort?
I clean up her bathtub for her, tucking the toy safely away in my own bathroom. I shower and dress, preparing myself for the day ahead. I don’t spend enough time on my appearance, not as much as the day warrants.
I’m greeted at the top of the stairs with the scent of baking pastries and coffee. The thought of having either turns my stomach. I have a huge task before me, and waking up with my head in a daze over her is not the start I need.
Caffeine and sugar won’t help me.