Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Tazzy sat cross-legged on her tiny kitchen floor with Lord Nightwing, her bat stuffie.
She glared down at the pile of bills that had somehow doubled overnight.
Late notices, utility bills, and a past-due notice from the bank threatening to repossess her house.
Oh my God, these bills must be reproducing.
Her OPI Inky Onyx nails tapped against the paper.
Click, click, click, click, click.
The sharp clicks echoed her mood, which she rated as somewhere between irritated and feral. As the universe was trying to take everything from her, her feelings were completely justified. Finally, she decided she didn’t need anyone.
Click, click, click.
Worse yet, the bill from Winnie for the incredible job she did on her Mini Coop was overdue.
Only Winnie could have gotten rid of that ridiculous Minnie Mouse paint job.
Like anyone in the real world had a Disney princess life.
Fairytales were for girls who didn’t know better.
Tazzy had learned the hard way that happily-ever-after was as imaginary as Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.
She groaned, running her hand through her hair, and muttered to herself, “Yeah… I definitely need a roommate. One with a fatter checkbook than mine.”
Or a sugar daddy... or a miracle. Preferably not one who came with emotional baggage and a criminal record, who she already knew too well, and who would turn on her at the first sign of trouble.
Her apartment smelled faintly of brewed coffee and rain still lingering in the corners from yesterday’s downpour. She had half a mind to open the windows and doors and just let the mountain air blow her problems away.
But the bills, those stupid, unrelenting bills, kept her anchored in place.
She now understood how butterflies must feel when they were caught and pinned down.
Trapped, pinned down, unable to move or do anything about it.
Yeah, the same way she felt. Her cage was prettier, but that was the only difference.
She didn’t even notice the knock at the door at first. It was only when the door creaked open that she blinked.
“What the hell—?” she started, jumping up and bumping into one of her ladder-back kitchen chairs, knocking it over. Graceful as ever.
No way. She could be seeing who she thought she was seeing.
No way was Jaxon Ruick standing inside her doorway.
But he was.
Standing in her doorway, bold as brass, his tattooed forearms peeking out from the rolled-up sleeves of a well-worn button-down. His blue eyes, once soft and inviting, now carried a glint of steel. They gleamed sharp and piercing, with a darker edge that made her stomach flip.
Her heart thumped against her ribcage with a mix of panic and something else she would absolutely not think about. She had reconstructed herself brick by black-painted brick, and he did not get to just come back in and torch it.
“Who the heck do you think you are, to just open my door like that?” she asked, hands fisted at her hips.
“I’m your new roommate,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And there it was. That same unshakable confidence he’d always had, like the world and everyone else would just bow to his will instead of the other way around.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m your new roommate.” Without waiting for an invitation, he strode right past her and into the kitchen. Of course, he didn’t wait to be invited. Nope, he walked in like he owned the place. Like he owned her. Well, he was in for a revelation.
The only thing rising faster than her temper was her sense of humiliation.
She knew what he saw when he looked around the room.
Maybe her kitchen refrigerator made a strange grinding noise.
And two of her cabinet doors swung crooked and wouldn’t close.
And all the dishes weren’t washed yet. So what?
With a shrug, he grinned. “Well now, this looks like a win-win to me, Sprite. You clearly need a handyman, and, well… I need a place to stay.”
God, she hated that nickname. She had abandoned it when he had abandoned her.
Even more, she hated how the very sound of it coming from his lips tried to pull her back into someone softer.
Like some eager puppy who waited by the front door, hoping some asshole of a former Daddy would write to her. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
“In case you didn’t get the message at the coffee shop, you’re not welcome here.” The nerve of him.
He reached up and swung the broken door open with raised eyebrows. “I’ll take care of this tomorrow.”
“I can fix all those things myself,” she lied. She couldn’t, but she’d rather hold her house together with duct tape and baling wire than give him the satisfaction of helping her. Not that it mattered, because there was no way in hell he would be here tomorrow.
“Better watch out, babygirl. Telling lies can get you put over someone’s knee. Now, about your extra room…”
Her spine snapped rigid. The words were bad enough, but that tone. That edge of control he always used to make her melt and behave. No, not anymore.
Not ever again.
Tazzy blinked at him, feeling the room tilt. She’d been preparing for the person her roommate had sublet her room to, one of her many pen pals. And yes, she’d known the person had just been released from prison.
But she’d thought it would be some harmless accountant who’d been guilty of tax fraud or something. Probably boring, definitely safer than this. Honestly, she’d thought it’d be another woman. Not in a million years had she expected Jaxon Ruick.
Not the one man who had dumped her. Who didn’t write. Who had ignored every request for her to visit him at the prison. And unfortunately, who could still unravel her with a look.
Still, no problem. She’d already planned to reject anyone who showed up. She wasn’t going to let a complete stranger, who was a former criminal, live with her. But that was months ago. When nobody ever showed up, she assumed they’d found another place.
She’d moved forward with her life, thinking she’d gotten lucky. Knowing eventually, she’d find the right person to share the expenses if needed. Clearly, the universe was correcting that mistake.
She had never imagined this. This was like some cruel April Fools’ Day prank. It was still April 1, right? And this had to be the worst prank of all time.
“There’s been some mistake here, Y-you’ve got the wrong—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Jaxon held up a stack of letters.
They were well-worn and creased, clearly ones he kept during his time in prison.
“Nope. These are the letters your roommate sent me. Hold on.” He rifled through them and pulled one out.
One with different handwriting. Jaxon’s handwriting.
“Here it is. She sent me a copy of the contract I signed when I accepted her offer to rent her room while she was gone and…”
She froze. Staring at the dozens and dozens of letters in his hand, she tried to breathe, to hold in the pain and hurt.
Every letter she’d ever sent him had been unanswered, but he’d accepted letters from her roommate? Her heart, soul, and tears had been poured into every word she had written, only to be ignored.
Like her love and pain were worthless. The woman he’d whispered to about marriage… her letters were not good enough.
But he’d accepted her roommate’s letters. And answered them. Answered. Them. Evidently, he treasured them so much that he kept them.
Now he stood there, smiling. Didn’t he even notice the deathblow he’d dealt her? No, he’d just kept talking as if it were nothing at all. Like she was nothing at all.
“… so when I realized who his pen pal was, I swapped with him.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Wait. You… swapped pen pals to get Elodie’s letters?” Apparently, she needed to have a little talk with her former roommate.
He nodded. “Yep.” He said the word with pride, as if he’d accomplished something brilliant.
“You complete and total ass!” Anger surged through her fast and hot and sharp, cutting through the pain like a hot knife through butter.
The scowl that Jaxon gave her was familiar and made her traitorous girlie bits tingle. “Language, little girl.”
There it was again. The pull of his command. And damn it, some stubborn part of her still wanted to listen.
“You can’t correct anything about my language, Jaxon. Not anymore. How can you stand there like that? I wrote you every week for years, and you didn’t open a single letter. And yet you not only opened hers, but you also wrote back?”
She glanced around the kitchen, searching for something to throw at him. How could he be so cruel? And why, for God’s sake, did it still matter so much to her?
Because you never stopped caring, idiot.
Right.
She needed to get herself under control and get him out of her house. Afterwards, she and her stuffie Lord Nightwing could share a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream and have a good cry.
Tomorrow, she’d be as good as new. She would put on the blackest, sexiest outfit she owned.
Dark, sleek, and unapologetically the new her.
No one would see the cracks in her heart.
She realized she wasn’t breathing when her chest began to burn.
When she tried to breathe, it was as if a vise wrapped around her throat.
Jaxon watched her, concern in his face. When she still didn’t inhale, he grabbed her arms, shaking her gently.
“Breathe, Sprite. Fuck! Baby, the only reason I wrote to her was that I found out she knew you. I… when she told me she was moving to Iceland and offered to let me take her room… I agreed. Babygirl, those letters… her letters… they were how I kept track of you. She let me know how you were doing. If you were safe. The only reason I took her letters was to find out about you.”
He pierced her with his eyes and spoke in slow, deliberate words.