She arches a brow. "Like what?"
I shift my gaze down her torso and let it linger on her thighs just below the hem of her cotton sleep shorts. "Half naked?"
Shaking her head, she pushes past me and into her room. The shorts shift with each step, and I simultaneously wish they were longer and pray they might become shorter. Because this-the view of the caramel skin at the back of her thighs and the memory of how she whimpered when I rolled her onto her stomach and put my mouth there-this, without the gratification of seeing the curve at the bottom of her ass. This nightmare my life has become-having her so close and knowing she can't ever be mine. This isn't heaven or hell. It's fucking purgatory.
She nudges the door closed, but I catch it before it latches and push into the room. Coming in here is impulsive and foolish, but the instinct to get closer to Mia has been there since the day I first looked into her big brown eyes. Some things never change, even if we wish they would.
She throws up her hands. "Sure. Come on in. Make yourself at home." She gives me her back and heads over to the basket of unfolded laundry sitting on the bed. The room is tidy, and except for the stack of books on the dresser and the laundry on the bed, it's not much different from how it looked when it was the guest room. You'd think she'd decorate-put a poster on the walls or pictures of her and Brogan on the nightstand-something.
"Did you need something?" she asks, as I close the distance between us.
"I don't like you being here." Part of me hopes she'll understand why I have to say it. I want her to know me well enough to see through my bullshit. I'm only trying to convince myself it's true. But she flinches at the words, and I feel like the asshole I am.
"I'm here to watch Katie. It's not for you to like or not like. It's my job." Not bothering to look at me as she speaks, she takes a new item of clothing from the laundry basket.
I snatch it from her hands. Red lace and spaghetti straps-there isn't much to it. "Watch Katie?" I hold the garment by the straps for inspection. "Maybe you're being more than the stand-in mom. Maybe you're also the stand-in screw."
She swings, her open palm coming toward my face, and I don't bother to duck. I let it land and relish the sting of her fingers connecting with my skin. I've been numb for months, but it's no surprise that Mia's the first to make me feel something.
When I open my eyes, her nostrils are flared. Her chest rises and falls with her heavy breaths.
"I don't even know who you are anymore," she says in a sharp whisper. "Stay away from me."
"I'm the guy you fucked behind your boyfriend's back." I scrape my gaze down her body and back up before throwing the red lace nightie on the bed. "And probably the one you think about when you wear that piece of trash."
Her breath leaves her in a rush, and she bends at the waist as if I threw a punch to the gut.
The words I'm sorry sit heavily at the back of my throat, choking me. I want to bury my face in her chest and whimper my apologies like a four-year-old, but she wouldn't understand what I was apologizing for, and I don't deserve her forgiveness. I'll say whatever horrible things I must to make sure she never tries to give it to me.
I leave her before she can reply and before I can say anything worse. Apologies won't change what happened on New Year's Eve. They won't fix Brogan, and they won't bring her brother back from the dead.
Gwen told me to fix whatever's wrong between Arrow and me, and I slapped him.
Good going, Mia.
I pick up Gwen's lingerie, carefully fold it, and add it to the pile with shaking hands. My job with the Woodisons goes beyond watching the couple's infant daughter. That task isn't nearly enough to warrant my generous paycheck. I also do the laundry, cook the meals, and keep the house clean. For two months, it's been going just fine. I tend to Katie. I scrub the toilets. I cook dinner and make sure there are fresh flowers in the dining room.
I should have made the extent of my duties clear to Arrow, but for some reason I couldn't stomach him thinking of me as the maid. Uriah Woodison's last maid was my mother, and I don't want Arrow equating me with her. Not tonight, when his return still stings like a sticky bandage repeatedly ripped off a wound. Does he really think I'm fucking his father, or is he just trying to drive a bigger wedge between us?
I want to be angry with him. To hate him for the things he said tonight, and worse, what he didn't say, the comfort he didn't offer. No one but Arrow can understand how empty I've felt since the accident. No one but Arrow can understand the weight in my chest that is equal parts grief and anger.
But I can't blame him when I'm almost relieved to have animosity as a buffer between us. I've always had a soft spot for Arrow Woodison. Maybe that explains why I betrayed Brogan for one night in his arms.
"Quit acting like you were cheating when you were broken up." I can practically hear my best friend Bailey's voice in my head. It's a lecture she's recited enough times. I'm sure we both have it memorized. But it doesn't change how I feel about the things I did and the decisions I made.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and Bailey's name scrolls across the screen as if she knew I was thinking about her.
I snatch it up. "Hey, you."
"How's it going, lovely?" Bailey asks. "I hear the prodigal son returned home today."
"Yeah." I risk a glance toward the door, but I'm still alone. I walk over and close it quietly.
"So?" she asks. "Did you get the scoop? What is up with him? The only one of us who had a sure ticket out of this fucking town, and he screwed it up. I just don't understand."
"I don't know," I murmur. But it's a lie. I understand why Arrow spun out of control like he did. He wasn't the type to drink to excess and never touched drugs. Then on New Year's Eve, our worlds went to shit, and he lashed out.
"I envy you," Bailey says. "I wish I got to spend my summer watching Arrow shirtless at the pool."
Bailey is convinced that working for the Woodisons means a life of leisure, as if they hired me just so I could sit at their pool drinking mai tais all day. So far from the truth, but I'd be lying if I acted as if it were a rough gig. The hardest day at the Woodisons' is easier than the best at home. Of course, if my dad knew I was working here, he'd lose his shit, but I've made sure he won't find out.
"I thought you were working tonight," I say, changing the subject.
"I'm on a break. You're coming to my party tomorrow, aren't you?" she asks. "You never come out anymore. I want to get drunk with my girl."
"I'll think about it." Another lie. I haven't been to a party since New Year's Eve. Just the scent of alcohol makes my stomach churn. The last thing I need is to be surrounded by a bunch of drunk people.
"Oh, crap. Mia, wait a sec, okay?" I hear the muffled sound of her talking to someone with her hand over the receiver, then, "Your dad's here."
I wince. Bailey works at a strip club, and Dad thinks strip clubs are an abomination. He's been known to drunkenly stumble the quarter-mile between the trailer park and the Pretty Kitty to tell the dancers they're "tempting good men." I'm sure his eyes never stray to the girls on the stage. Yeah, right. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
I pull on a bra under my tee and trade my sleep shorts for a pair of cutoffs before heading downstairs to find Gwen. She's stretched out on a chaise by the pool, sipping a glass of wine and staring into the distance.
"Gwen?"
She startles at the sound of my voice, then surreptitiously wipes at her cheeks. "Mia, what can I do for you?"
My heart aches a little for her. It's not like we talk-we don't have that kind of relationship-but I know she's been unhappy since Katie was born. She spends so much energy trying not to show it, so I pretend not to notice. I've considered speaking up a few times, worried she's suffering from postpartum depression, but in the end I keep my mouth shut. Gwen's not the type to appreciate life advice from anyone she deems "the help."
"Is it okay if I leave for a couple of hours? My dad . . ." I don't want to finish, even if she deserves an explanation.
"Sure. No problem. Katie's sleeping?"
I nod. "She just finished a bottle and drifted right off. She should be set for a few hours, but I'll be back as quickly as I can."
She waves a hand. "Take your time. Despite what my husband may have led you to believe, I'm perfectly capable of getting out of bed to tend to my daughter."