She probably doesn’t know what the fuck to make of me, and that’s exactly the way I prefer it.
“Oh, and I discussed this with Kath earlier today,” Mark says. “Since her house is the smallest of the three, and I doubt you want to share a room with a six-year-old, we’re going to move you into the main house. There’s an extra room next to Waverly’s. I think it’ll be a better fit for you. Give you a little privacy.”
I’m grateful for the privacy, but I know what’s going on here. He wants his little princess to keep an eye on me when he’s not around. That little snitch would rat me out in a heartbeat, too. Not that I plan on faltering from my straight line while I’m here, but I’ve already lived life under Josiah Mackey’s microscope. I was hoping for a break from the constant scrutiny, but I guess it was too much to expect the universe to throw me a fucking bone once in a while.
“Thank you, sir,” I say through gritted teeth and a phony smile. “I certainly appreciate it.”
“Waverly, show your brother to his room,” Mark commands, his voice acting like the snap of two fingers. She dries her hands on a dishrag and motions for me to follow her to the stairs. I wonder if she’s always this docile or if her obedience is only for him.
We climb the creaky stairs to the second level and turn down a long hallway. There are tons of doors. This house is huge. Must be why they keep calling it the “main” house.
She doesn’t speak until she stops short at the last door on the right. With her hand on the knob, she says, “Room’s a little stale. It’s a guest room, but we never use it.”
A cloud of musty air greets us as we walk in and she reaches over to flip on the light and ceiling fan. A double bed sits against the wall along with an oak nightstand and dresser with brass handles circa 1982.
I plop down on the bed and run my hands along the country blue quilt, which I definitely won’t be using. “This’ll do.”
“I’m right next door, if you need anything.” She points to the wall to her right.
“What would I need from you?” I’m fucking with her. I’m bored, and she seems easily excitable. “A bedtime story? A glass of warm milk?”
Her jaw slackens and she takes a step back. I wait for her to come at me with something, to put me in my place, but she doesn’t.
“Dad says you’re going to school with me tomorrow,” she says instead. “We leave at seven thirty. Don’t be late. Bathroom schedule is outside the door.”
Of course there would be a bathroom schedule. All these bedrooms and people and you’d think someone would’ve added a few extra bathrooms.
“You’re sharing the green bathroom with Bellamy and me,” she says. “Two doors down. I shower at six. She showers at six fifteen. You shower at six forty-five.”
“Six forty-five. Got it.”
“Bellamy put a hamper in the bathroom for you,” she says. “You get your own.”
“Our clothes can’t touch?” I laugh. She doesn’t. “Okay.”
“Dad’s rules. You can take it up with him.” She sighs, like she doesn’t have time for my shenanigans a moment longer. I’m guessing she’s itching to get back to Bible study, or whatever she does at night.
Waverly nibbles on her bottom lip. Her innocence is sexy in the most inappropriate of ways. I’d find her utterly fuckable, if she didn’t have such a big stick shoved up her ass. She reminds me of the girls at church who’d stare at me like I was the world’s most eligible bachelor because I was the preacher’s son. In that world, my father was a king and I his princely heir. They looked at me like I was changeable, someone they could mold and shape into their perfect future husband. The joke was always on them. Many have tried, many have failed. No one has ever been able to change Jensen Mackey.
She drinks me in, a soft sigh leaving her lips.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I’ve never been one to beat around the bush, and I sure as hell won’t start now.
“Like what?” Her nose wrinkles like a bunny. Like a sexy, church-going bunny.
I smirk. “You can leave now, Waverly. Report to your daddy that all is good here.”
“What are you talking about?”
I lean back on the bed, folding my hands behind my head and staring up at the ceiling fan and the dust speckles that swirl in the dim light. “See you in the morning.”
“Breakfast is at seven,” she reminds me as she slinks out the door. “Please try to be on time.”
I cross my feet at the ankles. “Don’t usually eat breakfast. This morning was an exception.”