Page 33

Nothing does. Nothing occupies my mind for longer than five minutes before my thoughts start straying, before the ache in my back, my ankle, my entire goddamn body starts to make me twitch. To make me want .

To make me scour every square inch of the kitchen in search of a single drop of alcohol.

When I find none, I slap my palms against the counter in frustration. I glare at the marble, clucking my tongue as I try and fail to drown the overwhelming urge to drink by chanting that stupid, useless prayer.

It doesn’t work. It never has for me. I need something else, something that’s actually distracting, something that doesn’t make me think of alcohol or alcoholics or the fact that come tomorrow, I’ll be sitting in that fucking draughty hall again.

Grunting my frustration, I stalk the length of the living room, my footsteps so fucking loud despite my bare feet, so fucking grating as they echo around the lofty room.

From where it’s stashed in the pouch pocket of my hoodie, I fish out my phone, fiddling around with shaky hands until I solve at least one of my problems.

As a melodic, thumping beat connects to the bluetooth speaker sitting on the mantlepiece and blasts my eardrums, I sigh with relief.

But that restless energy still simmers beneath my skin so I keep pacing, but then my ankle starts bitching so I rock restlessly on the balls of my feet to the erratic rhythm.

Eyes squeezing shut, I mumble the lyrics beneath my breath, swaying in time because fuck it.

Unhinged dance session it is.

I’m positive there isn’t a single thing attractive about the way I bounce around the living room, but I don’t care.

That’s not the point. It’s not like I have an audience, not like I’m dancing for anyone.

I just need to burn this energy off, to get it out, and if that involves some frenzied arm whirling and a few arrhythmic high kicks, then so be it.

Half a playlist passes before I wind down—before I feel like I can wind down.

Panting, I stoop to lower the volume, and it’s as my fingers brush my phone where I dropped it on the sofa that something in my peripheral catches my attention right as a low voice remarks, “That doesn’t look like resting. ”

I yelp.

Whirling around with a hand pressed over my racing heart, I scowl at the unexpected intruder. “You scared the fuck out me.”

Lounging in the open doorway like he’s been there a while, the man who brought me breakfast-in-bed two mornings in a row smiles. Kind of. It’s a little squinty, a little dazed, a little… not Finn. His voice is the same, a catch to it when he quips, “Quite the show.”

Snorting, I choose to blame exertion for the heat flushing my cheeks. “Should I charge you for entry?”

“Hope this is enough,” he says as he strides inside and tosses me something that I catch mid-air, hiding a strained wince. “‘Cause it’s all I got.”

I follow him into the kitchen, propping my hip against the counter as I peel back the deli paper hiding a stacked sandwich. “Hm.” I chew slowly on a bite, acting like my rumbling stomach wouldn’t accept a bowl of fucking gruel. “Guess it’ll do.”

That odd smile twitches.

Before I can ask what the hell is wrong with him, he remarks, “Your hair’s down.”

“Wow.” I twirl a loose lock around my finger, irritated by the reminder that I couldn’t even do my own damn hair this morning. “You are the pinnacle of observance.”

“It’s never down.”

I shrug, which makes me wince—which makes Finn nod and say ahhh , all knowing and annoying and shit. “You can’t lift your arms, can you?”

My pesky, tight shoulder blades throb at the mere accusation. “Can so.”

It just hurts like a bitch. Hence why I’ve barely eaten today—all the good shit’s stashed away in the upper cabinets.

Pointing an index finger to the ceiling, Finn gives it a twirl. “Lemme see.”

Though I huff, I turn around. As I do, I recognize the cloudy glass bottle he slips out of his pocket, damn near whimpering with relief as I eagerly, awkwardly , whip my hoodie over my head, leaving me in pajama shorts and a matching tank. “You really like me stripping for you, huh?”

A familiar, medicinal scent tainting the air, calloused fingers lightly trace the outline of the bruise that turned a slightly terrifying shade of dark purple overnight. “You don’t need much encouragement.”

I glance over my shoulder, crooking a brow. “You calling me easy?”

“Don’t think anyone would call you easy , princess.”

I bark a laugh. Can’t exactly disagree with that, can I?

Fingers pinching the base of my neck redirect my head forward, and then they’re moving downward, sweeping my hair over one shoulder.

Braced for the contact, I don’t bristle when he starts smoothing ointment across my back.

In fact, the opposite happens—with a quiet sigh, my shoulders drop, every pass wiping a little more tension away.

I’m actually disappointed when he stops, but both the emotion and the retreat are fleeting.

As those fingers thread through my hair, I shiver. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing as good as one of your fancy hairstyles.”

I half-turn to frown up at him. “You’re doing my hair?”

Finn hums and gently turns me around again.

Again, I twist to the side, still frowning. “Why?”

Kissing his teeth, he redirects me once more, holding me in place for a minute this time to really make his point. “Stop moving or I’m doing something really ugly.”

I still. Try not to fidget. Try not to fucking moan as fingernails scrape my scalp. “Is this another friendly thing?”

“Very good,” Finn croons, toeing the line between condescension and praise. “You’re learning.”

“Does that make you my teacher?” I lean back until my eyes find his. “Should I call you sir ?”

Lips pursed, he yanks on the braid quick fingers deftly fashion.

Declining to respond, I hear the rustle of denim as he reaches into his pocket, and an accusatory noise leaves me when he dangles a suspiciously familiar length of red ribbon over my face.

“Do your employers know you’re such a dirty little thief? ”

“Hm.” My scalp pulls as he secures the end of the braid, eyes still locked on mine. “Call me sir again. That was nicer.”

That deep timbre caresses my skin, making it prickle, and my next breath stutters. He must hear the slight gasp because his eyes dip to my lips, like he wants to see the noise being made for himself, and I assume that’s why it tracks the slope of my throat too.

Before it gets distracted by the swell of my chest.

And I guess the excellent view his taller stature and my lack of a bra provide accounts for why his gaze lingers.

I let it go on for longer than I should—I like it far more than I should too—before tutting. “That’s not very friendly.”

Dark eyes blink twice, then return to mine. “How would you know?”

Before I can muster an adequate retort, a clearing throat draws my attention to the front door—where my brother suddenly stands, eyeballing the two of us curiously.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he says to Finn, the words much more of an accusing question than the casual, throwaway statement he tries to make it.

Abruptly dropping my hair—when he wrapped it around his fist, I’m not sure—Finn steps back with a rough cough. “Looks like we had the same idea.” He nods at the Tupperware his boss is clutching before tilting his head towards the open door. “I was just leaving.”

Jackson makes a weird noise, his expression just as odd. As odd as the way Finn scurries past him, avoiding eye contact as he deigns to toss me a, “See ya, princess.”

I don’t watch him go—I watch Jackson watch him go, watch the thinning of his eyes, watch his mouth move to silently repeat that fucking nickname. When the sound of a truck engine roars to life, that narrowed gaze shifts to me. “Do I wanna know?”

Just to be a shit, I grin not-so-innocently. “Nope.”

Jackson grunts.

Sidling towards me, he drops my second lunch onto the island before resting his forearms on the marble. “I wanna talk to you about something.”

I sigh dramatically. “No, papa, I am not banging your precious ranch hand.”

“It’s Ruin.”

My humor falls. My face too. Fuck, I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked down to find my heart, pulsing and bloody and wrecked, at my feet. Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I croak, “Is he gone?”

I figured he was. I figured they wouldn’t waste any time, wouldn’t leave any room for argument.

I figured that’s half the reason why I’ve been sequestered to the A-frame for the past couple of days, not just because of grossly overexaggerated injuries—all complaints aside, I’ve had papercuts more debilitating—but so they could get him off the land without me doing something rash.

Except my brother says, “No.”

And then he inhales deeply, exhales shakily. “Don’t make me regret this, okay?”

Jesus. Does this ominous shit run in the family? “Regret what?”

“He can stay.”

I think I might screech.

“ But ,” he continues, trying to maintain his serious, severe composure against the grin attempting to break through. “He’s not your pet, Lottie. He’s your job now. You help train him.”

Now there’s a word I don’t like. “Help?”

“You do have a way with him, Lot, but you’re not qualified. You don’t know what you’re doing. Ruin needs a professional. You know that.”

I do know that. I always did. I just didn’t want that professional to be somewhere else. “Not Van de Fuckface though, right?”

A big, belly laugh bursts out of my brother as he shakes his head before he sombers.

“I need you to understand that what you did wasn’t okay.

I know you had the best intentions, but you could’ve been hurt.

Ruin could’ve been hurt. This isn’t a reward, okay, Lottie?

This is a second chance. You do shit like that again, he’s gone and you’re on kitchen duty permanently. Got it?”

My fingers twitch at my sides with the urge to salute. “Got it.”

“Good. It’ll take me a couple of weeks to organize a decent trainer. Until I do, you’re Eliza’s sous-chef, okay?”

As much as I want to, I don’t dare argue. “Okay.”

Before I can talk myself out of it, I round the counter and lunge at my brother, wrapping my arms around his waist in a rare display of affection as I mutter words that are even harder to come by against his chest. “Thank you.”

Complete and utter shock are what slow his movements as he returns the gesture. An almost violent exhale leaving him, he squeezes me tightly, the heavy weight of his chin digging into the top of my head. “You’re welcome, kid.”