Pierre jumped to his feet, looking like a heart attack waiting to happen. Judging by his puzzled look, a dozen questions were swimming in his head, but the only thing he seemed to have managed to stutter was, “H-home?”
Her hair smelled of onions and garlic as I dropped my arm around her shoulder, just to see the blood draining from the fat chef’s face. But I was surprised when Sparrow’s reaction was to wrap her hand around my waist like we were an actual couple. We walked out of the restaurant, and she looked up at me, her eyes bright.
“Stop smiling at me,” I said.
She started laughing.
“Cut it,” I groaned. Positive attention is the kiss of death to natural born killers. We just don’t know how to deal with reassuring feedback.
“I can’t!” she giggled. “I can’t. I’m sorry. My friend Lucy is going to piss in her pants when she finds out.”
For the first time since we got married, I didn't feel the bitterness that accompanied looking at her face. The burden I had to endure when having her around.
We walked into the chilly summer night and I disconnected from her touch. The valet who’d parked my car immediately broke into a run, cutting into the alley where he’d left the Maserati. I gave him a fat tip for the extra hours and for waiting, and ushered Sparrow into the car. She was still laughing like a drunk.
Secretly, I had to admit, her laugh was not that horrible to listen to.
That should have been my first warning that Sparrow wasn’t the only one cracking up. Her laugh was not that horrible to listen to. At all.
SPARROW
DRUNK WITH HAPPINESS and high on bliss, I could barely contain myself during the drive home. The thought of working in the kitchen of a high-end restaurant made me want to break into a silly dance in the middle of the street. I was going to get five shifts a week, which meant my culinary school days were over. But my real career was only just beginning.
Sparrow Raynes. Runner. Summer-air lover. Boyfriend-jeans enthusiast. Chef. Hear that, Mom? Your daughter, the girl you so easily tossed away like an empty soda can, is someone.
Will be someone.
My imagination went wild. I could gain some experience and then go and do my own thing. Truth be told, I wasn’t the fancy-food type of girl. I’d buy a food truck and serve blueberry pancakes to all the suits working in downtown Boston. Be the height of their gray working day. I’d hire Lucy to work alongside me, and maybe Daisy, too. She couldn’t bake or cook to save her life, but she was always good with people.
I practically jumped up and down in my seat next to Troy. He shook his head and ignored me for the most part, but occasionally, I’d glance sideways and catch him grinning to himself.
Something in him had cracked. I could feel it, and despite my best intentions to stay away, to protect myself, it stirred something in me. Did he feel it, too? Did he care?
In the elevator, I studied his face, drinking in his reaction. Searching, guessing…
“You care.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed.
Yeah, he definitely cared.
Even though I wasn’t tired, I danced my way upstairs and into the bedroom. Troy was left behind to get himself another whiskey and to lock the front door. He had a habit of checking all the rooms in the apartment, looking for God knows what before he went to bed every night. I’d heard him when I was pretending to be asleep.
I guess I, too, should have been worried about my safety, but everything about his security measurements pissed me off.
And especially Connor, my very own guard dog.
I felt Troy enter the bedroom, my back to him, a few minutes later. I was pulling my PJ’s out of my drawer, just about to go into the bathroom and change.
The thing about Troy was that he always walked into a room bringing the atmosphere he wanted to convey. Like a human thermostat, he not only controlled every situation, but also the mood you were in. Sometimes he brought anger and rage, sometimes gloom, sometimes terror and very rarely something positive and hopeful.
Tonight, he brought lust.
He took a step toward me, and then another one.
More heat gripped my body. I blamed adrenalin and the damn alcohol—I’d downed three more drinks while Troy and Pierre were tasting my food. The drinks and the rush from my new job were a lethal combination. Something buzzed in the air, something that made the space between my thighs quiver in response, a pool of heat washing over my lower belly.
I knew if I opened up to him, it would end in tears. The writing was on the wall, the text smeared in blood, no less. Stay away, Sparrow. Don’t let your curiosity get the better of you.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were fogged with condensation, and my breathing grew heavy. My back still faced him, and I knew that if I turned around, I’d cave. I was holding the top of a six-drawer dresser, the expensive kind, my feet still clad in those goddamned high heels. He closed the space between us and stood behind me, his body pulsing heat at mine, wave after wave.