“Okay.”
Jonas hesitates, and it looks like he wants to say more, but his gaze drifts to the alarm clock on the end table, and he exhales. “Okay. Now, I’d better get a move on before Mileena wakes and tries to rope me into another round of confession.”
“Are you really just going to avoid her?”
“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Chewing his bottom lip, he reaches out, swiping his thumb over one of my nipples. “I’d much rather spend my time devouring you. Already, she’s proving to be a bloody nuisance.”
“Some nuisances go away if you ask them nicely.”
He smirks. “You didn’t.”
“Yeah, well.” I flop back on the bed, yanking the covers back to my chin. “You kept accosting me. What was I supposed to do?”
His deep, rich chuckle is the last thing I hear before I drift back to sleep. My body isn’t used to the amount of physical exertion it’s been undergoing lately, so I spend another few hours in bed before pulling on a pair of black jeans and one of Jonas’s T-shirts, tying it at the side to make it fit properly.
When I get downstairs, Jonas’s mom—Mileena?—sits at the kitchen island, gnawing on the corner of a granola bar as she reads the newspaper. She perks up when she hears footsteps, her face brightening as she turns.
I’m struck by how little she looks like her son. Her hair is black and her eyes are a deep brown, while her skin is deeply tanned and unmarred by age. In fact, she hardly looks old enough to have a thirty-three-year-old child.
Coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, I cross my arms and glare. Her features slacken when she sees me, disappointment evident in her frown lines.
“Jonas has never had an overnight guest before,” she comments, going back to her paper.
Walking over to the counter, I glance at the bowl of snack food I keep there, tempted to alleviate the nerves fluttering around in my stomach. Instead, I turn to the fridge and grab a bottled water, taking a long sip, keeping my eyes on her.
“Sounds like he’s never really had a mom before either, and yet here we are.” She snickers to herself, and the sound irritates me. “Don’t make me regret not stabbing you last night.”
“Honestly? Kind of wish you had.” She leans her elbows on the counter with a sigh. “Clearly, my son is perfectly fine without me. He’s got every right to be upset, too. I was a terrible mother and leaving only solidified that fact.”
The water bottle crackles as I squeeze it in my palm. “I don’t know if I’d say he’s fine.”
“Apparently, he goes around telling people I’m dead. I think it’s safe to say he’s not terribly torn up about it.”
I study her as she stares at her fingers, twisting a gold ring on her right hand. It’s not possible to remain impartial after hearing the thick emotion in Jonas’s voice last night, and seeing how her arrival fucked with him, but I try to anyway.
“How did you get in yesterday?”
Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, she shrugs. “I have a key.”
“But the alarm didn’t even go off. We never got a notification that anyone had opened the door.”
“You have an alarm system?” Glancing around, she frowns, her brows knitting together. “Here?”
“Yes. There’s a fingerprint scanner at the front door and everything.”
Her eyes shift to the foyer, as if she expects to see cameras, then she looks over her shoulder at the bars on the windows. “Well, that sort of explains the bars. Though I don’t understand why they’re inside.”
“To keep me from escaping.” Mileena’s brown eyes widen, and I force a laugh, realizing too late what I’ve said. “Ah, no, sorry. That was a joke.”
Silence ebbs between us, heavy and pointed as several seconds tick by. I try to place her somewhere—not because she looks familiar, but because the shadowy figure that I know has been lurking around the house could have been her size and shape.
Could also have been someone different, but I never got a good enough look at them. Still, what are the odds we’d have two trespassers?
If it were paparazzi, they’d have made themselves known.
Anyone else wouldn’t want to.
Rubbing her chin, Mileena tilts her head, watching me with a curious look in her eye.
“How well do you know my son?”
“Well enough.” Then, deciding to just double down on the lie entirely, I add, “Since he’s my fiancé and all.”
Hand freezing on her jaw, she goes very still. “Fiancée? My… Jonas is engaged?”
Emotion saturates her words, dripping like hot wax and burning my skin. Maybe I should feel bad for telling her that, but my parents think we’re engaged, so why not add Jonas’s to the mix?
Besides, it sounds like she deserves to know how badly she fucked up. I’m not sure how Jonas would feel about me taking her punishment upon myself, but considering he got aroused by the idea of me killing her, something tells me he probably wouldn’t mind.
I am sure that he wouldn’t appreciate me leaving her there on her own, but I have a lunch date with Elena and, frankly, I don’t want to stay with this stranger.
Swiping my keys from the fireplace, I note that she cleaned up the mess from last night and appears to have slept on the sofa, if the folded blanket and throw pillow are any indication.
Pausing at the door, I turn and give her a last lingering look. “How long have you been back?”
Mileena sighs, placing her granola bar on the counter. “I just got in last night. Usually, I stop in once a month to… check on things,” she says, her voice growing soft at the word things. “But work’s kept me tied up for a while.”
“What do you do for work?”
“What do you do for work? Mooch off my son?”
I snort. “Primroses don’t mooch.”
They lie, cheat, and steal. But mooching is beneath us.
With that, I spin on my heel and leave her there with her jaw hanging open. I’m not sure if the entire Wolfe family has beef with mine, but her immediate shock is enough of a reason to believe the rivalry runs deep.
Much deeper than any of the rest of us knows.
A little while later, I’m eating shrimp scampi portside at an experimental yacht restaurant, waiting for Cash to get off the phone with one of his firm partners. Elena sips a martini, eyeing me from across the table as I scarf down my plate.
I’m past the point of being comfortably full when I push back from the table, and I wipe my face with my napkin. “What?”
Elena shrugs, wrapping a strand of dark hair around her pinkie. “Nothing. You just seem hungrier than usual.”
Since we met up that day in Boston a few weeks ago, we’ve had a dozen lunch dates; despite my initial apprehension regarding making friends, as that skill wasn’t one I grew up utilizing much, Elena and I sort of hit it off immediately.
She’s warm and inviting, but there’s also this alluring darkness to her. An edge I’ve not seen in many people, especially any my age, that I find somehow comforting. Like I can embrace the broken, ugly parts of me in her presence, and all she’ll do is show me hers in return.