This is why you’re single.
My phone buzzes.
Big Guy: I deeply regret not texting you yesterday. Clearly, you’re the cure for changing a normal day into a good day.
How many times can a person swoon in one text conversation?
Me: If you message me again tomorrow, I’ll do my best to make your normal day good.
Send.
Wow, that sounded stupid.
I set the phone down and sit on my hands.
He knows what I mean. I don’t need to clarify.
Big Guy: I’m going to hold you to that. Until tomorrow, Angel.
I pick my phone back up and stare at the screen, wondering if it would be strange to kiss it.
Yes, it would.
Me: Bye, Dom.
Send.
24 hours later
Big Guy: Evening, Angel. Did you use your backpack today?
Me: I did not. But it’s sitting in the middle of my living room, so I saw it.
Big Guy: Close enough. I have to jump on a call but wanted some Valentine goodness first.
Me: Goodnight, Mr. Workaholic. I’m already in my pajamas.
Big Guy: Goodnight, sleepy girl.
My half brother’s chef clears away the dinner plates, and no matter how many times I eat here, it’s still a little strange to be waited on like we’re in a restaurant.
Brother. I’m trying to remember to just call King and Aspen my brother and sister and drop the half, even if I’m only saying it in my head. I don’t want to have that divide between us forever.
King’s housekeeper steps into the room, helping the chef with the dishes, and I’m reminded that nothing is ever normal around here—in this giant mansion with guard dogs, a manned gate, and round-the-clock armed security. But since King is some sort of mafia person, I suppose normal is relative.
Is The Alliance mafia?
I honestly don’t know the difference between the mafia and regular organized crime. If there even is a difference. And it’s not like I can just google it. Well, I could. But I know enough about the whole Alliance thing to know that King has some major computer skills. And I don’t really want to be detained by his men for googling “what is the mafia.”
It doesn’t really matter anyway. Except for the driver that King makes me use, for my own safety, I’m not involved. I doubt the Vass siblings would have told me about it if they could have gotten away with it. And I don’t really know what, if anything, Aspen does for The Alliance, but I know she knows more than me.
Either way, giving me a bodyguard is probably a sign that they actually like me and it hasn’t just been some act. If they didn’t care about me, they wouldn’t mind if I got abducted by some enemy.
My mouth pulls into a frown as I remember the man who tried to kill Savannah not that long ago. In this very house.
“You okay?” Savannah asks me from her spot across the table.
I realize something must have shown on my face, so I quickly smile. “Yeah, good! Sorry, just zoned out there.”
“Probably working too much. Seems to run in the family.” She snorts.
King shakes his head as he stands from his seat next to her. “Quit spreading lies, Honey. You work more than I do.”
Savannah just grins as she pushes her chair back.
Aspen got up to take a call a few minutes ago.
News recently broke that her husband, Leland, passed away while on a work trip overseas. Their sources are saying it was a previously unknown heart condition, one that runs in his family. But being a stubborn man, Leland never went to the doctor to get checked for it. Even though his wife constantly begged him to.
When the story first came across my newsfeed online, I nearly spit out my coffee.
I knew the family would have to pronounce Leland dead eventually, and I’m positive the whole string of information was carefully crafted by Aspen before it was released. Still, the whole concerned wife angle was too much for me not to react to. Since, in reality, Leland had been cheating on Aspen, and Aspen was the one who asked King to kill him.
But sure, heart attack it is.
God, I wish I had someone I could talk to about this!
And it’s not because I’m scared of Aspen or King; I’m not. As far as I’m concerned, fuck Leland—he earned what he got. But it’s just such good gossip. And I want to get drunk with someone and laugh about it.
But there’s no one for me to do that with.
I take my phone out of my pocket, and my chest heats when I see a text notification.
Big Guy: Hope you’re having a good dinner. My family is over, and I’m about to kick a nine-year-old’s ass in Mario Kart.
I grin.
It’s been almost two weeks since our flight together, and other than the day right after, we’ve texted every day since.