I slink down the door and crumble to a defeated pile on the ground, burying my face in my hands.
But I don’t cry. I’m too exhausted.
“Demi.” The voice of a man penetrates the wooden door. He doesn’t even sound the same.
I guess I shouldn’t expect a twenty-six-year-old to sound like a nineteen-year-old, but I wasn’t prepared for that.
“Go. Away.”
“I need to talk to you.”
I huff, throwing my hands in the air to an invisible audience.
“What do you want now? After all this time?” I call out. My hands fall against the front of my thighs.
It kills me that I want to know what he came here for.
Now.
After seven years of radio silence.
He doesn’t deserve a minute of my time, but I deserve answers.
“Let me in,” he says. “You need me right now. Whether you want to or not.”
My eyes roll to the back of my head. He doesn’t know shit about what I need. And how dare he demand I let him in.
“We’re strangers. You don’t know me anymore.” Being mean to him makes me unreasonably happy. I peel myself off the cold floor. “And you sure as hell don’t know a damn thing about what I need.”
“I heard about Brooks.”
I stumble backward two steps then lunge for the door.
How. The. Hell?
Without hesitation, I yank the door open, my left hand flying to my hip. “What, you stalking me these days?”
He shrugs. “Not really. Read about it on the news. Your name was mentioned.”
I slap the fakest grin I can muster across my mouth and smack my hand against the doorway. “Look. I’m honored that you came all the way here from wherever the hell you’ve been hiding to come and save the day, but really, your services aren’t needed. I survived the last seven years without you. I’m sure as hell going to survive the next.”
I want to slam the door in his face again, but I feel like it might lose its effect. Instead I lift my brows, rise on my toes, and glance at the vintage Challenger parked across the street—windows tinted so dark you can’t see through them, all black with two white racing stripes, and desperately in need of a paint job, yet still tragically sexy.
I recognize that car.
You don’t miss something like that in a neighborhood like this. Brooks always commented on it, saying it made our street look trashy. He wanted to call the neighborhood association about it, but I talked him out of it. We always thought it belonged to the college-aged son of the neighbor in the Tuscan McMansion across the street.
“That yours?” I ask.
He turns to glance at the Dodge; the only street-parked car on the block right now, and glances back at me.
“You have been stalking me,” I say.
His hand rakes along a smile he’s trying to hide, as if my accusation humors him. “No. Not stalking . . .”
Tiny tremors consume my body. Little beads of buried emotions all rupturing to the surface at once. I couldn’t stop them if I tried.
All these years, I’ve been mourning him, missing him, loving him, hating him. Giving anything to know what happened to him.
And he’s been fucking following me.
Royal’s been a silent part of my life, and I hadn’t the slightest idea.
“I hate you.” I say the words under my breath. They come from a deeper, darker part of me. But judging by the way his expression falls, he hears my conviction loud and clear. My lips tingle. My face is numb. It’s thirty degrees outside, and I’m standing in the doorway in little more than a paper-thin robe.
There’s a violent stir in my belly.
Something’s building. Rising. Desperately searching for a release. A molten burn enters my esophagus, and by the time I realize what’s going on, I lose the contents of my stomach with a single . . . liquid . . . retch.
On his shoes.
Watery orange juice and vodka glaze his gray sneakers.
Four
Royal
* * *
“Royal . . .” Her mouth hangs open, her fingers grazing her sticky lips. All color drains from her pretty face as she backs up.
Considering every shitty thing I’ve been through in my twenty-six years, vomit on my shoes doesn’t rank near the top of the list.
Not even close.
“It’s . . . fine.” I lift one shoe, and a hunk of orange goop slides off the toe.
Demi widens the door and motions for me to come in, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her sheer, peach robe.
“Let me grab a towel.” She stumbles down a hallway and returns with a fluffy white towel that smells like a fabric softener teddy bear and looks expensively soft. Falling to her knees, she dabs my shoes, ruining the pure white with splotches of carrot-colored puke.
Demi’s hand flies to her mouth once more and she retches, her shoulders hunching tight.
“Demi.” I reach for her arm to try to get her to stand. She rises, hand covering her mouth and crystalline blue eyes round as saucers. I’m two seconds from asking where the bathroom is so I can escort her there, when she loses it again.
Third time’s a charm.
The scent of ripe vomit floods the small space of her foyer before landing on the tile with a sickening splash.
“How much did you drink tonight?” I step out of it and breathe through my mouth. With strategic moves, I maneuver myself out of my ruined sneakers and hook my hand into her elbow. “Where’s your bathroom?”
Demi covers her mouth and points down the hall, where a white door is ajar. I lead her there, and we make it just in time.
“Jesus.” I hold her dark hair back, gathering it into a ponytail in my hand as she hugs the pristine, white bowl. A jar of fresh potpourri sits on the back of the toilet, and the mirror above the sink lacks a single streak. This house is as perfect on the inside as it looks on the outside.
She rises, moving to the sink and hunching over to rinse her mouth with cool water.
“You don’t have to take care of me.” Her tongue smacks as she speaks, and her expression sours.
“Of course I do.”
Demi scoffs, pushing past me and stumbling into the hallway. I follow, placing my hand on the small of her back as she tries to climb the stairs. These slick, wooden, polished steps are an accident waiting to happen.
Her body reacts to my touch with a jolt, and her neck careens around. A mess of dark hair sticks to her face. She smells like death, which I’m learning is a lot like bile and sour oranges, and she’s giving me a look that would make the Devil tremble in his hooves.
All this, and all I can think about is how fucking beautiful she is.
And how surreal it is to be this close to her again.
How wrong this is.
How I shouldn’t be here on so many levels, and how I can’t stay away.
I pretend not to know which room is hers. When she pushes the double doors to the master suite, she makes a beeline for the dresser. Pulling drawers and rifling through clothes, she yanks out an armful of t-shirts and dumps them on the floor like only a drunk person would.
Pulling in a slow, frustrated breath, she stares at the mound of fabric and releases a defeated sigh.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I can’t decide what t-shirt to change into.”