I clutch my phone tightly with my fingers and I can feel the cold glass of the phone screen pressed against my face.
“None of that is true.”
“You think it matters to him? He’s a dirty liar and he’ll say anything as long as he can create a scandal. This could bring us down, Fletch. You need to come back to New York. We need you to face this with us.”
I take a deep breath. The bastard almost ruined me once, and I won’t let that happen again. My knuckles turn white as I tighten my fist. I can still recall the days after Rachel left with a twinge of shame. I lived like a pariah, always running and hiding. Constantly watching my back. Too afraid to face other people’s judgmental looks and sneers. I became a husk of a man. Anxious, fearful, and always suspicious of people. I don’t want to live that way ever again.
An angelic vision appears before me. Amelia, wearing nothing but one of my dress shirts, appears out of the bedroom. After noticing that I’m on the phone, she quietly clings to my arm and softly nuzzles my neck. Then she rubs her eyes and smiles sleepily at me before pacing toward the coffeemaker in the kitchen. Just the sight and smell of her make my heart leap. I still don’t know what this is, but I need to find out for myself. I can’t leave now.
Alfred Worth has nothing on me and my company. I shouldn’t let the actions of a crazy man run my life. I can’t let him push me around anymore. I have to dictate my own life.
I release a deep breath and tell Val, “I’ll decide when to come back.”
Chapter 9
Amelia
I am fully awake, but my eyes are still closed. I can feel Fletcher’s weight shift next to me in bed. Today is Saturday. My workweek with Fletcher has ended as of yesterday, but I’m still here. I’ve been spending the past few nights here with him, in the house that we’re cleaning so that he can sell it, except that we have stopped cleaning out the house. This is the master bedroom which I guess used to be his parents’ room. We have packed most of the things into storage boxes. But we have also stopped doing that. We’re like two kids who were playing house before real life called us away from our make-believe play. Now we live romantically like wayward squatters in this old, empty house.
We spend the days cooking, eating, reading, and making love. Gosh, that sounds even more stupid than when Meghan used it. I never like the term “hooking up,” but that is what we’re actually doing, isn’t it? We latch onto each other like lost passengers on a sea voyage, and eventually, we’ll have to let go and get rescued and go back to our separate lives. It pains me to think that far, even now. Especially when he is sleeping soundly next to me. That one day, soon, he’ll disappear from my life, never to be seen again. Another woman will enjoy the warmth of his body next to her in bed.
A tinge of jealousy tugs at my heart.
His weight shifts again, and I can sense him rolling over and hovering on top of me. His lips brush softly against my eyelids and cheeks. I wait for a little before I reciprocate his kisses and open my eyes.
“Good morning.” I try to sound as groggy as possible, as if his kisses have woken me.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” He flashes me a crooked grin. I love the vibration of his voice coming straight through his chest as I press myself close to him.
Our kiss deepens, and I can feel the telltale sign of his growing desire against my thigh. I brush my fingers along the hard muscles of his arms and he positions himself on top of me.
My stomach makes a loud, demanding growl. We both stop.
Our eyes meet and then we laugh.
“Come, let me feed my princess first.”
At first, I was impressed with Fletcher’s cooking skills. I thought he was quite the gourmet cook. Until I realized that he only knows how to make three things: omelets, crepes, and quesadillas.
“Have you noticed that everything you make is some kind of round, flat wrap?” I tease him as he hands me a plate of steaming omelet.
He purses his lips and frowns for a moment, then his brows loosen. “You’re right.” He takes a large forkful of eggs into his mouth. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”
That’s all he says. My humorous observation is all that it is, a humorous observation. He doesn’t try reading some passive-aggressive jab into it or take it as some kind of pointed commentary on his cooking skills. That’s what I love about him. He expects everyone else to be as direct and honest as he is. Oh gosh, I love that he does that. I don’t love him. Or, do I?
“So do you really want to be a nurse?” he asks, out of the blue. He tries to sound as nonchalant as possible but I can tell he has been thinking about it for a while.
I nod. “Yeah, it’s a good job and I think I’ll be good at it. I feel like I already know a lot from taking care of my mom all this time.”
“How is your mom?” Neither of us really talks about our friends and families. It is as if we’re content living in our squatter bubble and no one else really matters. To introduce an outsider would be to burst that bubble and having to finally face reality.
“She’s good. She’s in a wheelchair and her health isn’t too good. It’s nothing terrible, but she’s always down with something. It’s been this way for years.” And living for two decades with an abusive psychopath doesn’t really help either.
“I can make a call at the school. They have a pretty good
