3. Tabitha
CHAPTER 3
TABITHA
I wake up to something nudging my foot, but I’m too fuzzy-headed to be all that bothered by the sensation. With a groan, I roll to my side. The bed is unusually hard, but I’m more worried about the way my stomach flips over on itself when I move.
A deep “Hey,” filters from above as my consciousness finds some semblance of footing. Awareness seeps in slowly.
Boxing up my sister’s belongings.
Scotch.
Uncovering photos of us together as kids.
More scotch.
Finding her stash of recovery coins. Two years clean .
A lot more scotch.
Mathematically, my body must be at least ten percent scotch right now. The other ninety percent is self-loathing.
It only worsens when I brave opening my eyes and see the scruffy mountain man looking me over. The dark slashes of his brows only enhance the stony scowl on his face.
I peek to the side, and it turns out I’m not in a bed at all. I am flat on my back on the living room rug, surrounded by partially filled cardboard boxes. I’d held it together through the first day of packing. Day two fucked me, though.
I throw an arm over my face as if that will keep him from staring at me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Hard pass.” The smell of my breath bouncing off the crook of my arm makes me want to hurl all over the floor.
This is not my finest moment.
“You can leave now. Thanks. Bye,” I add, because Rhys hasn’t moved, and I think he might be too big and dumb to pick up on the dismissal.
“No.”
From over the ridge of my arm, I watch him take two long strides and plunk himself down on the couch like he owns the place.
Okay. He does own the place. But he’s… I don’t know. He just seems a little too comfortable here. Waltzing in. Lounging on my sister’s couch. Waking me up.
It makes me think he spent time here. With her. She spoke of him like she worshipped the ground he walked on, so it only makes sense. And it also makes the betrayal of him kicking her out that much worse.
Pain shoots through my head as I stand, but I ignore it. I refuse to appear weak in his presence. If I can hold my own in a kitchen full of chef-sized egos, I can keep it together around this asshole.
Breathing deep and even, I turn my back on him and walk toward the kitchen where the offending scotch bottle sits—mocking me. I pour myself a water, forcing my hands to be steady, because I can feel Rhys watching me. Analyzing me.
I can tell myself he’s big and dumb all I want, but it only takes a few beats of getting lost in his eyes to see the intelligence in their depths.
“Rough night?”
I snort as I stare down at the glass of water. I know I need it, but I also know there’s an excellent chance it will come straight back up.
“I’m packing up my dead sister’s belongings. Is it supposed to be fun and easy? If I wanted your opinion on how I should cope, I’d ask.”
The glass touches my lips, and I take a small sip before turning to face him. His heavy shoulders are pitched forward, elbows slung on his knees, white papers pinched between his massive fingers.
I pop a hip and glare back at him. “Was the part about leaving confusing for you?”
“It was crystal clear. I just don’t care.”
“Landlords need to give twenty-four hours’ notice before entering the property. I checked the rental board website.”
His jaw ticks. “You’re not my tenant.”
My teeth grind. “Oh, fuck off. I’m already down enough. I don’t need you here torturing me with your presence. In fact, you’ve got a lot of gall showing your face to me at all. I’ll be done today and out of here before dark. You’ll have your place back. Now go.”
“ I’m the one with gall? That’s rich coming from you. Haven’t visited in two years and now you’re concerned?”
I recoil the second his words land. He doesn’t need to add a single other word for me to read between the lines. Interpret his sentiment. Blame myself .
The thought that Erika might still be alive if I’d been a more present sister has tortured me for days. She always told me Rhys valued his privacy and asked me not to come here, and I’d respected that. I tried not to pry, and I wanted so badly for her to feel some modicum of control over her life.
But we still saw each other often. She came to Rose Hill to visit me even though our parents had cut her off. I looked after Milo frequently and worked my schedule at the bistro around being an extra set of hands for her, so she didn’t have to care for a toddler all alone. The five-hour drive didn’t stop us.
They say it takes a village, and Erika didn’t have one even though she needed it. So I became her village, taking on as much as I could. I grew to love that kid like he was my own.
My parents keep telling me I went above and beyond for her… but wondering if I could have done more will haunt me forever.
Those last few times she’d asked me to take Milo, I’d been more exasperated than usual. She’d also been asking for my help more and more frequently.
I was tired. Overworked, overwhelmed, and low on cash. I’d started to feel taken advantage of, and I began asking a lot of questions about why she needed me quite so often. I think I had an inkling something was off… but I hadn’t followed up very thoroughly.
My eyes burn, and I hate myself for it. “Get. Out.”
Rhys has the good sense to drop his gaze, but I follow his line of vision and watch the tendons in his hands flex as he toys with the sheets of paper that hang from his fingers. “I can’t. I have to give you these. And I need to know where Milo is.”
I bristle, knowing I’ll protect Milo at all costs. Always have. Always will. “You don’t need to know shit?—”
“This is a copy of Erika’s will.”
My eyes roll now. I love my sister, but the idea of her having a will is truly absurd. Every time I brought it up to her, she’d tell me she didn’t plan on dying. She was a lot of things, but a planner was not one of them. “Bullshit.”
What a weird fucking flex. I take another sip of water and shake my head as I set the glass back onto the counter.
The seconds stretch in an awkward silence, and Rhys says nothing.
The less he says, the more anxious I become.
Nausea hits me, but I get the sense that it’s not because of the water. It’s from whatever is about to come out of his mouth.
“I’m Milo’s legal guardian. It’s all here in writing. Signed.”
He holds the papers out as though they’re proof. As though he has some claim over my nephew. The one I’ve helped raise for three years.
It’s a cruel joke. It has to be. This guy is toying with me. He’s got to be.
A rude scoff tumbles from my lips. “Get fucked.”
Rhys’s face remains impassive. He just stares at me, and his cool, unaffected demeanor does nothing but fire me up. I storm across the room in my rumpled T-shirt and second-day leggings to go toe-to-toe with him.
In a furious and immature moment, I kick my socked foot against his bare one like he did to wake me up.
But harder.
He doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head back and meets my eyes with his dark ones. They’re full of challenge. Hard like stone.
“Listen up, asshole. This is one sick fucking joke. You think this is funny? I’m devastated. I just lost my big sister, and you waltz in here to play inheritance games with me?” I rip the papers from his hand. The sound of the sheets crumpling is the only noise in the room besides my heavy breaths.
“Are you devastated, though? Seems quite the one-eighty.”
A pained moan lurches from my throat. The sound is like what you’d make after falling from a tree as a child. All the air knocked from your lungs when your bones thud against the hard ground.
The way his words land feels much the same.
“You don’t even know her.”
“Actually, I do.” His gaze bounces between my eyes, searching for a reaction. Like he’s hoping to hurt me.
Understanding dawns on me. “Were you… were you together? She never told me.” Then fury hits, knowing that he tossed her out. “You fucked her and then fucked her over?”
His brows furrow, and he appears offended. “We weren’t?—”
“You don’t know me.” I cut him off, too furious to listen to another word out of his shapely mouth. The thought that I once found him appealing only adds to my nausea. “You don’t know me at all. You clearly have no idea how close Erika and I were. Or the things I’ve done to keep my sister safe. The relationships I’ve tarnished to take her side. The debt I’ve put myself in to get her treatment. The sleep I’ve lost taking care of that little boy so that she could have some reprieve.”
I’m shaking from head to toe when I take the sheets of paper and toss them across the room. They float and scatter, but Rhys and I stay locked in on each other. “I love my sister, and having to stand here and endure you implying otherwise is, quite frankly, almost worse than the pain of her death. Especially when it’s your fault. She wouldn’t have been out on the street getting back into that shit if you hadn’t evicted her.”
“I did?—”
“No. Shut up. That little boy? He’s mine . He’s all I have left of her. So you can take your bullshit contract and fuck all the way off. Now get out. I never want to see you again.”
The tendon in Rhys’s jaw flexes, like I’ve pissed him off by relaying the truth. And when he stands, I don’t back down, even though the power dynamic has dramatically shifted. It’s hard to look imposing when you barely come up to a man’s sternum.
Especially one who exudes the type of raw power this one does.
But I don’t care. I stand my ground—arms crossed, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.
He steps around me, but he’s too broad to avoid contact altogether. His upper arm brushes against my shoulder, and a shiver races down my spine. I tell myself the reaction is utter revulsion. Because being attracted to him would be the ultimate betrayal.
He pads away with stiff movements, head held high, and my eyes wander over his body. His muscular frame shows not a single sign of guilt as he slides his feet into a pair of plain black Vans.
“You still need to read the papers, Tabitha,” is what he tosses over his shoulder before leaving.
The minute the door clicks shut, I rush to the pieces of paper and sink to the floor with them. I gather them up, and my eyes race over the lines. Blue ink in the exact shape of my sister’s signature flows across a simple, but final, black stripe. I run the pads of my fingers over the indent there, reveling in the connection. Knowing she touched where I’m touching now.
But then the reality of this contract sinks in.
It has me running to the bathroom and throwing myself down in front of the toilet as my stomach turns over.
And it’s not because of the scotch.
It’s because the will looks awfully authentic.