16. Cassidy
A loud rap on my door jerks me out of a muddled dream. I blink furiously as I try to orient myself in the strange room I went to sleep in last night.
Oh. Right. Ethan Remington’s guest room. How could I forget?
The door opens, and I rush to sit up. But a dull ache over my ass makes me cringe onto my side.
Oh. Right. Remington’s fucking belt.
I lathered nearly half the tube of ointment onto my skin when I got back to my room last night. It definitely helped. I can’t imagine how sore I would have been right now if I hadn’t used it.
Ethan fills the doorway, a dark, menacing light in his gray eyes.
I swear he smiles when my face contorts in pain, but he turns and sets a cup of coffee on the dresser near the door and his face is carved from stone when he turns to face me again.
“Good morning, Cassidy.”
I duck my head a little. “Morning.”
I don’t sound nearly as cheery as him—and he sounds like death warmed up.
“Since Myles deprived me of the cleaner I’d actually hired, and I sincerely doubt I’ll find someone to replace her in time for the open house, you’ll have to do. You will finish the first floor today, and as much of the second as possible.”
He stands there like he’s waiting for an answer, but I’m still processing the fact that I woke up in Ethan’s mansion instead of my own shitty apartment. I had every intention of leaving last night, but what happened after I snuck into his room is like something out of a movie.
Soft porn, to be exact.
He’s dressed in the clothes I laundered for him. A pale blue crew-neck sweater, and dark wash denims. With his slightly disheveled hair and the shadow of a beard on his hard jaw, he looks like a completely different man from the bare-chested hulk who assaulted me with his belt last night.
“Do we understand each other?”
I let out a meek little, “Yes, Sir.”
He turns and leaves, shaking his head like I’ve somehow pissed him off even more.
I hastily put on Olivia’s uniform and shrug into my coat. No way I’m walking around this house half-dressed anymore. I take a sip of coffee and step into the hallway.
Ethan’s door is closed, of course.
I scowl at the door and turn on my heel, heading for the kitchen.
I’m starving.
The last thing I ate was last night’s apple pie, and I’m sure I burned a ton of calories in Ethan’s bedroom. And then there’s what came after.
Me. I did.
In the privacy of his guest room, of course, but it happened. While I fantasized about him belting me, then fucking me. My hand trembles so hard, I spill my coffee. I stare at the brown splat on the tiles in front of me and almost start crying.
This man’s broken me.
I stare at a canary yellow post-note stuck to the mirror-finish microwave in Remington’s kitchen as I sip on my coffee. Graphology fascinates me. I’m intrigued by the idea that a person’s handwriting can reveal aspects of their personality to the trained observer.
breakfast inside
groceries coming later
What would an expert say about the hasty scrawl crammed onto the note?
Would the slant of the I reveal how much of a control freak Ethan is? What about the fact that he writes in uppercase? That’s got to be a sure sign of narcissism.
The note goes in the trash, and is almost followed by the breakfast I find in the microwave. But when the smell of French toast hits my nose, my survival instinct forces me to stop.
I hate the fact that I eat the breakfast Ethan made for me.
But what I hate even more is that it’s so damn tasty.
I take out my frustration on the breakfast dishes before doing another load of laundry. Then I grab the bucket of cleaning supplies and head up to the first floor like a woman possessed.
Before night falls, I will know what happened to my mother.
I won’t leave without answers, and I refuse to stay in this house another day.