Royal(35)

She takes a drink and sets her glass on a nearby side table, rising to her feet. An assortment of family photos lines the mantle, and she grabs the ones of the two of them, gathering them into her arms.

“I can’t look at these anymore.” She carries them to the kitchen, and I heard the electronic whir of the automatic trash can, followed by metallic plinking and shattering glass as she drops them in. Demi returns, brushing her palms together as if they’re filthy. “Much better.”

She takes a seat across from me, her knees against her chest, and reaches for her wine glass.

“So what do you do?” she asks. “Where do you work? Did you go to college?” Her hand flies out before I have a chance to speak. “Not that I care. Not that we’re friends. I just feel like I need to know these little things. There are so many blanks I need to fill in. So many missing pieces.”

“I’m an auto body mechanic at Patterson Auto Body in South Fork,” I say. “Didn’t go to a four-year. Went to a trade school.”

“You dating anyone?”

Her question catches me off guard. Her brows lift as she takes another sip of her fancy wine.

“Nope,” I say. “Haven’t dated anyone since you, Demi.”

She hides a pleased smile with her glass and cocks her head. “I don’t believe that for one second.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” I say. “But it’s true.”

Her legs fall, stretching straight out, and her hand slicks against her left thigh. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since she sat down again, and judging by her relaxed posture, she’s feeling comfortable around me.

“A guy like you? Handsome. Charming. Rugged.” Her blue gaze falls on my mouth, lingering. “I’m sure women are all over you.”

My hands sail behind my head, and I interlock my fingers and flash a shit-eating grin. Yeah, women are all over me. But I never let them get close. People talk. Word travels. The less people know about me, the better. The last thing I wanted was for information to get back to Demi before I had a chance to tell her, so I kept everyone at arm’s length. A handful of fuck buddies and a steady stream of one-night stands has been my modus operandi in recent years.

“Why are you grinning?” she asks.

“You called me handsome.”

Demi’s eyes flutter to the back of her head.

“Still cocky as ever. Glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

It’s a sad day when a twenty-six-year-old man realizes his glory days are long gone, forever memorialized in a high school yearbook. Crazy to think that some nobody foster child can show up in this cliquey small town and make a name for himself. I had more than enough friends, plenty of pussy on call, and a social life that’d make a New York playboy jealous, all at the tender age of eighteen.

But all that mattered back then was Demi.

Talking to any girl in school was a non-issue for me. I could walk up to any of ‘em and walk away with a Friday night date.

But not her.

Had to work my ass off. Drop hints. Bother her. Tease her. Watch her squirm every time I’d kick her under the dinner table at the Rosewoods.

But it was all worth it.

For eighteen months, she was mine. Completely mine.

Funny how an eighteen-month chunk of your life can feel like the only part that ever mattered.

“So you haven’t dated anyone. In seven years.” Her angled brow arches high. “Not one person.”

I pull in a quick sip from my glass, which is still mostly full, and shake my head.

“Don’t you get lonely?” she asks.

For a sec, I think about rambling on about how I never met a girl who could give me half the butterflies she gave me. But I don’t want to sound fucking lame, so I keep that shit to myself.

“Define lonely.” I’ve been alone my whole life. Mostly. Growing up in foster homes, you learn not to get too attached to anyone. The Rosewoods were the only constant in my life, but they were never really mine. I’m pretty sure Bliss just felt sorry for me, and I’m pretty sure Robert appreciated that I mostly kept Derek out of trouble.

“Now you’re dodging the question.” She stares into her empty wine glass.

“Finish mine.” I hand her my glass, and she hesitates. “Not much of a drinker.”

“Answer my question,” she demands. “Don’t you get lonely?”

I contemplate my response and regret giving away my drink, because for once, I just might need it.

“You want the truth?” I exhale. Flickering flames cast shadows on her face, highlighting the curve of her cheekbones and hiding the telltale circles under her eyes. “Fine. Since you asked. Yeah. I get lonely. But not the kind of lonely you’re probably thinking of. It’s more of a bitter kind of lonely.”