Page 8 of The Stranger

My mum has now been informed about my dinner guest, and when she asked who, I shrugged. I don’t want to say much just in case she doesn’t show.

I’m deep in the zone listening to my uplifting playlist—I have a few depending on my mood—when I feel a tap on my foot. My eyes spring open to see a smug-looking Abigail standing at the foot of my bed. I pause the song I’m listening to and sit up.

“What do you want, Abby … if you came here to gloat, I’m not interested.”

“I came in here to give you this,” she says, throwing her framed picture of Spencer on the mattress beside my leg. “You know, since you’re in a relationship with him now.” She lets out a small, spiteful laugh before turning and heading towards the door. She pauses before exiting, adding, “You’re so pathetic, as if someone as good-looking and successful as Spencer Prescott would be interested in a dumb loser like you.”

Her words hit hard, but despite the tears that sting the back of my eyes, I manage to will them away. She’s been calling me Dumb-Dumb-Delilah for the majority of my life, and I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry again.

Leaning forward, I pick up the picture frame and glance down at it. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a good look at him. She’s right about one thing—despite the huge age gap between us—I’ll admit he’s one fine-looking man. Thick brown hair that’s short on the sides and longer on top, perfectly tousled like he used his fingers to comb it, but on him, it looks sexy. And those smouldering bedroom eyes, surrounded by long inky lashes, are the colour of milk chocolate.

“Ugh,” I groan, dropping the frame back onto the bed. She’s right; he’s way too handsome for a loser like me.

When six o’clock finally rolls around, I begrudgingly leave my room. I find my sister and Kayne sitting at the kitchen table with my father, while my mother stirs something on the stovetop.

I can feel their eyes on me, but I ignore them, heading straight for the fridge to pour myself a glass of wine.Ineed it.If I wouldn’t receive judgement from them, I’d consume it straight from the bottle.

“I was wondering when you were going to join us,” my mum says, glancing at me over her shoulder. “What time is your guest arriving?”

“What guest?” Abigail asks.

“They should be here soon,” I reply, looking over at my mother.

“Who is it?” Abigail repeats. Again, I choose to ignore her. “I doubt it’s Spencer Prescott,” she adds, cackling like a hyena.

“Who?” Kayne asks.

My eyes briefly dart to him, and I’m forced to suck in a sharp breath as I’m reminded of how handsome he is. His skin is sun-kissed from his tropical holiday, and his dark-blond hair looks a few shades lighter on the tips. I hope that piece of shit enjoyed his free holiday with my skank of a sister.

His piercing green eyes are boring into me. Eyes that I used to get lost in. There is a slight frown marring his forehead as he studies me.

Why?

Who knows.

More importantly, who cares.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Abigail says, placing her hand on top of his and entwining their fingers together. I turn away and reach for a wine glass before filling it to the brim. “It’s her fake boyfriend. Someone she’s pretending to be with to get me jealous.”

She’s such a bitch!

“Abby,” my mother scolds.

“Well, it’s true,” I hear her mumble under her breath.

Thankfully, my back is to them, as I feel my cheeks heat. I take a large gulp from my glass before topping itback up. I’m going to need this entire bottle to get through tonight.

I swallow back my humiliation just as the doorbell rings.Shit.Eloise is here. I know she said she was coming, but I half expected her not to show.

“That must be your friend,” my mum says sweetly, abandoning her stirring to place her hand on my shoulder. She gives it a light squeeze, which I presume is in sympathy. It’s a little late for that. If my parents cared about me at all, they wouldn’t be subjecting me to this bullshit.

Tilting my head back, I empty the contents of my glass like a beer-guzzling Neanderthal before slamming it back down on the counter.

My clenched fist covers my mouth to smother my unladylike burp before leaving the kitchen to walk down the corridor towards the front door.

I clear my throat and smooth my hands over my hair before reaching for the doorknob, but I’m in no way prepared for who I find standing on the other side when the door opens.

It’s not Eloise.