Page 55

I think of my father. If I close my eyes tight and conjure up the scent of cedarwood in my mind, I can feel him. His face is a hazymask of images I’ve conjured up over the years, but deep within my chest, I feel him holding me. I feel his love. The story Mom tells about him kidnapping me and taking me away—it can’t coexist with the way I remember him, so I push it away.
I fool myself into thinking they’ve gotten it all wrong.
Why would they keep every name, every photo, every scrap of everything away from me if they were telling me the truth?
I carefully tuck the necklace back in the drawer, hidden under cotton underthings. I don’t know why I took it off in the first place or when I’ll wear it again but now, I leave it where it is. I grab a pair of panties.
On second thought…
Holding the soft cotton garment between my fingers, I remember lying on the bed, naked, my shirt pushed up over my breasts, my body exposed. How he stood over me, taking me in with those dark eyes filled with nothing but desire. I think of his words, how they warmed something inside me and made me feel wanted.
No panties. No bra. You are officially declared the sexiest creature on this earth.
I leave the panties in the drawer, untouched, forgotten, and go without.
There I go again, doing something to please him.
I shut the drawer a wee bit too hard in my frustration. I try to be mature and tell myself that any young woman in this situation would be hit with a tsunami of conflicting emotions—especially one who doesn’t let many people in.
Honestly, other than family, I don’t let anyone in.
Why do I guard myself with an iron sword and mile-high gates? Maybe it's because of my unresolved dad issues or because I constantly feel like an imposter at the prestigious school where I was on a scholarship.
Even with Carter, I only let him in my window.
I never let him in my heart.
So why Haze? Why now? I’ve let him “in” in many ways, haven’t I? The thought makes my heart pound harder and stirs an aching between my thighs.
Even in the chaos of this situation, I somehow feel safe with him even though I know the man could ruin a girl like me. A great white shark devouring his trusting little prey. And here I am, the naive wee one only wanting to let him swallow me whole.
I dress quickly, brushing and drying my hair until it gleams like water down my back. There really is a difference between drugstore shampoo and the expensive stuff they have here.
A soft knock draws my attention to the door. “Come in.”
The opening door reveals him looking like a god, dressed in a simple black V-neck sweater and jeans. He’s somehow holding two bowls of pasta in one arm like a waiter, and the smell filling the air is incredible. “You seemed like you needed some space to breathe. I tried to stay away as long as I could. Sorry, but this is all the time I could take.” Then he smiles, wide and clean and free of arrogance, and his damn near angelic face disarms me.
“Thanks. I did.”
He crosses the room, standing only an arm’s reach away from me. He eyes me, then holds out one of the bowls. “Gian’s famous at the Villa for his sauce. Have some.”
I take the bowl, inhaling the delicate scent of roasted garlic. My stomach rumbles. “Any word from him?”
“He left a note. I missed it—it was on the counter by the sauce.”
“What did he say?” Relief comes over me. I pierce a noodle with the prongs of my fork, popping it into my mouth, and a ripe tomato bursts on my tongue. “This is delicious.”
“He said he had a few things to deal with, but I know he’s giving us space. And threatened me with death if I didn’t feed you,” he says. “The message was vague, and I don’t like vague, but at least I could call off the brothers from putting out a search and rescue mission now that I’ve heard from him.”
We eat in silence. “Let me clear up.” I take his bowl. I hate the way the oil in tomato sauce stains.
He follows me down to the kitchen. I go to the sink. He stands beside me, resting against the edge of the counter so he can watch me as I clean. His stare is so focused. I’ve never had anyone show me so much interest, especially when doing something as mundane as rinsing a bowl.
His question surprises me as he asks, “Do you trust me?”
I stare back at him.
Do I trust him?