Page 136 of Between Secrets and Obsession

“Well done.” He tucks it into his pocket.

Lying to them when they’re so damn worried makes me feel sick to my stomach. I have to do what’s necessary, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“I’m gonna shower and take a nap,” I say.

Walking past him to the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Before heading to my room, I watch as Ty shoots daggers at Eric and wonder why the hell Victoria would send two people who obviously have a beef with each other to an isolated location.

Maybe that’s a bonus punishment for me. Stick me with two macho men who want to kill each other and probably me in the process.

Once I’m in my room, I strip out of my sweaty clothes and get into the shower. For the past two days, I’ve stayed strong, and perhaps in a state of shock, but reading Sophie and Lennon’s text messages and seeing how worried they’ve been has me breaking down. My tears mix with the water stream, and the reality of my situation hits hard.

I have no idea how long I’ll be here, if I’ll see Liam again, or if I’ll get to go back to my old, boring life.

Oh how I’d kill for hectic class schedules and rehearsing until my toes bleed.

After I’m clean and cried out, I change into something comfortable and lie in bed. I end up falling asleep and wake up to the smell of food. Making my way down the hallway, I spot Ty in front of the stovetop in the kitchen.

“You cook?” I ask him.

He doesn’t even startle as if he’d somehow heard my soft footsteps.

“Of course.”

“Interesting. Another thing to add to the things I know about Ty notepad,” I tease, looking inside the skillet. I wrinkle my nose at the weird dish. “What is it?”

“Cajun sausage skillet pasta.”

“Sausage what? I’ve never heard of it.”

He stirs it, the scent of garlic hitting my nose.

“It’s a Southern dish,” he responds as I take a seat at the breakfast bar.

“Wait.” I smile when he looks at me over his shoulder. “Are you Southern? Where’s your accent? Say y’all…”

He turns back around. “Yes. I don’t have one. And no.”

“Who taught you to cook then?”

“My grandmother.”

“And where is she?”

“You ask too many questions.” He turns the burner down and covers the skillet.

“What else am I supposed to do?” I cross my arms when he faces me.

“Eat, behave, sleep,” he repeats robotically though that same half-smirk from earlier surfaces.

“I’m bored as hell. The least you could do is entertain me.”

Something glimmers in his eyes, but then as fast as I recognize it, it’s gone. His throat moves, and he stiffens as ifhe remembers I’m his mission to keep safe and quiet. He’s not supposed to be friendly, and we’re not supposed to be friends.

“I’m from Utah,” I blurt. “My father’s a pastor actually. My mother was a stay-at-home mom and helped him with church duties.”

“Oh.” He busies himself, digging through the drawers and cabinets for plates and forks.

“I have two older sisters, one niece, one nephew, and where did you say you grew up?”