Chapter 5
Juliette
“You must have been so scared,” Tasmin said, one hand up against her mouth. “You poor thing. Are you okay?”
“I’m… I’m still really shaken up over the whole thing,” I said.
My neighbor—if you could call her that with how much space there was between our homes—was looking at me with big brown eyes as she sat at the island in the kitchen.
Just like the rest of the house, the kitchen was obnoxiously white and clinical.
We had a white island with white chairs, white cabinets, a white marble floor, a white integrated fridge, a white toaster and kettle and coffee maker and microwave and juicer and God, why did everything have to be so sterile?
Blonde hair in perfect curls, Tasmin kept shaking her head. “I’ve heard so many stories about home invasions lately. It’s just awful. Can you believe it? What kind of scumbag breaks into a home?”
The scumbag I used to be in love with. “It’s…” I let out. “It’s pretty crazy.”
“What did they take? Anything that’s irreplaceable? Jewelry?”
“Uh, no. Nothing like that.”
“I wonder if it’s the same group I keep seeing on the news. I heard they stole all kinds of stuff when they were at the last houses. Handbags, coats, shoes. They resell that stuff, you know?”
“Yeah, it’s awful…” I said.
They had hit the jackpot with my things.
My Dior dresses, my Burberry coats, my Prada bags and wallets.
All the garbage Gordon bought because I had to fit the role of the perfect, put together trophy wife; because there was no way Mrs. Cavendish could look less than stellar when Mr. Cavendish let her leave the house on those rare occasions.
Anything other than flawless wasn’t allowed.
But it was that Chanel bag that I missed the most. My most precious piece, my chance at freedom. Of course it was Bridger of all people who took that from me.
“Wait, they stole your ring?” Tasmin grabbed my left hand, her thumb brushing along my finger. “You said they didn’t take your jewelry.”
“Oh.” I sat up straight, clearing my throat. I had forgotten all about that. It felt good to no longer have that weight on me. “Right. Yeah, they took it.”
“Your ring.” Tasmin held a hand to her chest. “How much was that thing worth?”
My brows lifted. The figure wouldn’t have had anyone in Montclair turning heads.
A too expensive, vastly overpriced ring was a common occurrence in our exclusive community.
The price tag was something Gordon liked to remind me of on a consistent basis—a good two million, and God was it a waste of money.
He had given me a white diamond ring, twenty carats, and he’d never let me forget it.
It was an absolute monstrosity that honestly weighed down my hand most of the time.
“I don’t really remember…” I finally said.
“Some pawn shop is probably selling it as we speak. Maybe the cops will keep a look out for it. You should have it back soon!” Tasmin smiled. “Don’t worry.”
Bridger wasn’t stupid enough to sell something to someone who didn’t know what they were doing. Streets smarts were his thing. The ins and outs of thieving and profiting off of said thieving was ingrained in his brain, and once upon a time, I used to love that about him.
He was bad. Dangerous. A criminal down to the bone, but underneath all of that had been a dangerously charming boy with a crooked smile and a filthy mouth that made me blush and laugh and fall in love with him all at once.
“Right,” I said softly. “Thanks.”
“You better get a new alarm system or something. Or a guard dog. Or both.”
“I might look into a Pitbull.”
“That’d do the trick. Listen,” she said, clasping her hands together, “I’m gonna head off to Pilates now before I miss my class, but let me know if you and Gordon need anything. Is he at work?”
“Yeah, you know him. Always at the office.”
She frowned. “He’s not worried about leaving you here by yourself?”
“I’m fine. It’s okay. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Do you want me to stay? I don’t mind canceling my class. You must be feeling so on edge.”
Head shaking, I offered her a small smile. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be okay. You go enjoy your class. I don’t want you to miss out because of me.”
“I wish you’d come with me to a class or two,” she said, hopping off the stool. “Or join me on my spa days. You know I go every Wednesday. We could go together!”
That sounded fun. Like a nice little day out away from Gordon and his rules and his constant need to berate me, but I just gave her a friendly shrug. “You know I’m not into that sort of stuff.”
“Hm. If you insist.” She leaned forward, her glossy lips pressing to my cheek. “I’ll see you later then.”
I walked her to the door, giving her a wave as she walked over to her Bentley. Then she called out a, “Ciao, hun!” before hopping into her car and taking off. I sighed as I watched her drive away. At least she got some freedom.
I used to be invited to those Pilates classes, but Tasmin had since given up asking me after my repeated excuses.
It wasn’t her. I had wanted to join, had wanted to blend in with the other women of Montclair so I could at least find a little bit of friendship, but Gordon didn’t like the idea of me going out.
Or working.
Or having my own money.
My interests had to be forgotten, and I found my fingers curling right then and there, imagining a paintbrush in my grasp. I wasn’t allowed to paint anymore. Gordon put an end to that the second I was forced to take his last name.
Tasmin was a burst of sunshine and warmth in my neighborhood of cold, boring people whose sole purpose was wealth, wealth and more wealth.
Her husband, Josh, was like that. He had been in the finance industry for decades and it was almost impossible to have a conversation with him without him talking about his latest big investment or his newest vacation home.
I wasn’t quite sure how Tasmin put up with him.
Every now and then Tasmin would pop over to my place and we’d drink coffee and talk about our days. Hers always seemed fairly action packed. Yacht parties, weekends away to New York City, a quick trip to Barbados. Tasmin was sweet and deserved all those fun things.
While she talked about all her adventures, I’d talk about whatever dumb fun thing I had seen on TV since there wasn’t much else for me to do, and Tasmin was always great at faking interest. Honestly, the break in was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to me since moving to Montclair.
Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I realized that my day had almost already come to an end.
I had cleaned already. Had planned dinner for me and Gordon—separate meals, of course.
I had to stick to my getting pregnant regimen.
I had done the little bit of washing that needed to be completed, and it wasn’t even midday yet.
I sighed, making my way up the stairs. Maybe I could have a quick nap before I got started on dinner.
I pressed my hands to the door of the bedroom, giving it a firm push, ready to kick my heels off and enjoy the few hours without Gordon’s presence.
“Your house is a little too easy to get into,” a deep voice said.
Letting out a loud gasp, I pressed a hand to my chest.
Bridger was there.
On my bed.
Leaning up against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other like he was right at home.
I couldn’t move an inch as I stayed still there in the doorway. I wasn’t sure if it was from the pure shock of seeing him again or because I had been so damn startled by the gravelly sound of his voice.
“You need to get out,” I said, forcing a false bravado I was certain he could see right through.
I hadn’t got to look at him the other night.
All he had given me was his masked face, most of him hidden and locked away, and for a while it was almost like it wasn’t even real.
Like it was someone else under that balaclava.
It was him, though. It was Bridger Underwood in the flesh, and he wouldn’t take his eyes off me.
Those ocean blue eyes. They lingered on my body.
On my hips, as he tilted his head, not trying to shy away from the fact that he was staring at every inch of me.
He was giving me no choice but to stare right back.
His hair looked just as thick as it used to, the strands all dark and long, falling across his forehead that same way he always wore it.
He was all messy, tussled waves. I could practically feel the strands between my fingers.
He looked taller too. Broader. Stronger.
Even his hands looked bigger as he raised a cigarette to his pink lips.
He looked as casual as ever. Black T-shirt, blue jeans, all uncaring and cool as he lay there on my five thousand-dollar quilt with his scuffed up shoes.
“Or what?” Bridger asked, one dark eyebrow raised.
I blew out a quick breath. “I’ll call the cops.”
“Do it, princess.”
There it was. That stupid nickname he used to always call me. It had been a shock to the system to hear it the night he broke in, and it wasn’t any different now.
I didn’t move towards the phone like he suggested, like I should have, and that was because there was something pulling me into the bedroom.
Honest to God, it felt like an invisible hand on my back, pushing me in, forcing me closer and closer to the boy I used to love.
Only he wasn’t a boy anymore. Bridger Underwood had well and truly turned into a man.
The closer I got to him, the more I could feel his scent taking over. Deep and masculine and woodsy, with just a hint of cigarette smoke—just enough to remind me that he was everything I was supposed to not want.
He had been that way when I met him. The long-haired delinquent who smoked and stole and got into fight after fight and ignored every rule that came his way and snuck into my bedroom late at night to pound me into the mattress while my parents slept four doors down.