Page 172 of House of Payne

My dad sold me out?

He says something, but I don’t hear him.

I shake my head sadly, end the call, and hang my head.

I’m trying to remember how to breathe when Mason finds me.

“I’ll be out of here in a couple of days,”

“I already told you that—”

“I’ll go back to the housing complex,” I interrupt. “I’m not going backon my word. My dad doesn’t deserve to lose the diner.”

Mason shoves one hand into his pocket as his eyes search mine. “I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses.”

“I willnothave sex with you again,” I inform him flatly. “That part is over.”

He comes with too many strings attached, and while I have a habit of wearing my heart on my sleeve, I have no interest in being kidnapped again.

I want to walk away from all of this with as minimal damage as possible.

Being involved with Mason isn’t worth risking my life, no matter how incredible the sex is.

Who am I trying to kid? It stopped being about the sex a while ago.

Still, he doesn’t need to know that.

I can figure out a way to mend by broken heart later, if I live through all of this.

Mason remains unmoved. “You changed your mind once. You’ll change it again.”

I take the container back to the fridge and slam the door. “Don’t hold your breath. I’m going back upstairs.”

“It doesn’t matter how much physical distance you place between us. This thing isn’t going to go away, London. And you know it.”

I resist the urge to turn and quicken my pace instead.

I expect Mason to follow me, but when he doesn’t, I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved.

What did you think would happen? He would sweep you into his arms and bare his feelings? Come on, London. This isn’t a romance novel. Grow the fuck up.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door a while later. I walk across the room and press my ear to the door but don’t hear anything. When I wrench it open, there’s a tray of food and a note. Scowling, I crumple the note without reading it and toss it aside. I take the tray inside and kick the door shut. Then, I perch back on the edge of the bed and rip off a piece ofbread.

Don’t let him suck you back in, London. He’s done enough damage. Rescuing you doesn’t change anything, and neither does him leaving you a tray of food.

Showing the smallest bit of decency and kindness doesn’t change who he is or what he does.

The bread is stale, the tomato soup is cold, and my stomach rumbles as I sit there, watching the window. When the first patches of light emerge on the horizon to illuminate the world in soft hues, I sink to the floor and stretch my legs out in front of me.

I wait for the sun to climb into the sky as I study the tiny particles of light on the hardwood floors of the guest bedroom.

Then, I get to my feet and, without changing my clothes, I crawl beneath the covers and draw them up to my chest.

Sleep eludes me as I lay there, staring at the cream-colored ceiling, unable to ignore a sense of foreboding.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

London