31. Mila
MILA
LA, November, 2 Years Ago
W here are we going?”
Christian looks across the car at me, a smirk lighting his handsome face.
“Wherever you want, but first, we have to make a pit stop.”
“For what?”
“You have to meet with your mother’s lawyer to get the paperwork narrowed out for your inheritance.”
I groan under my breath, leaning back in the seat.
“From Marcus? I don’t want it. It’s blood money.”
“This is from your father.”
“So dead parent money,” I shake my head. I didn’t know my father. At least, not that I can remember. He passed in an accident when I was young.
Christian pulls to a stop in front of the old brick building downtown, looking at me before he gets out of the car.
“Think of it as money you didn’t know you had. Parker was holding it in an offshore account. It’s not a lot, but five thousand dollars is still five thousand dollars.”
“Why would Marcus be hiding my father’s money? And why does he have it in the first place?”
Christian cocks a brow at me.
“Does Parker do anything legally?”
“Touché.”
He chuckles, climbing out of the car, and I begrudgingly follow him. He stops at the door, holding it open for me, but when we step inside, his hand goes to the small of my back.
I can’t lie and say it doesn’t shoot tingles up my spine. We haven’t touched each other since our kiss at the club two weeks ago, but I’ve thought about it every. Single. Moment since.
Cheeks flaming and my mind in a puddle, we step up to the front counter, where he drops his hand. I let out a deep breath, the spot on my back where he’d touched me burning like he’d held a match to my skin.
“We have a meeting with Pierce at three,” Christian tells the front desk worker as calm as ever, while I’m having an existential crisis because he touched me., who blushes and bats her pretty long lashes at him despite his hand still clasped around mine.
“Of course. Mr. Pierce will be right with you,” she purrs, batting her pretty long eyelashes at him like she might take flight and land right in his bed.
I hate her.
Before we even turn away from the counter, a door to our left opens and an older man steps out.
“Ah, Ms. Carpenter. I’m so glad you could make it in,” he says, though the look he gives me says the opposite. “Right this way.”
We follow him down a corridor to an office in the back. He shuts the door behind us and motions for us to sit, and I do, while Christian stands behind me, leaning against the wall.
Mr. Pierce looks uncomfortable, dotting his brow with handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit.
“Just a few last-minute cleaning things to take care of,” Mr. Pierce says, falling into the chair behind the desk. “Were you and your father close?”
I shrug. “He died when I was four, so about as close as a four-year-old can get with anyone, I guess.”
Mr. Pierce doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t.
“Just a few papers to sign. Nothing too crazy,” he says, even though the stack he drops in front of me may as well be a new iteration of the Bible.
“I have to sign all this?”
“Yes, well, your father had a lot of documentation we had to sort through before we could release the funds into your account.”
“For five thousand dollars?”
Mr. Pierce chuckles under his breath, wiping his brow.
He’s awfully sweaty.
I look back at Christian, who nods to me, and I let out a sigh.
“Let me help,” Mr. Pierce says, his gaze flicking back and forth between Christian and me. “Here.”
He takes the papers, folding them over one by one for me to sign. He glances at Christian a few times, and I realize he’s scared of him.
Or he really has to use the bathroom.
Either way, he’s nervous about something, though I can’t tell what.
“Is there a problem?”
“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “None at all. Lots to do today.”
I continue singing my name until I feel like my hand is going to fall off, and just when I’m about to tell him I don’t want to sign anymore, the stack ends, and he tugs it away from me like it’s on fire.
“All finished. I’ve got everything I need.”
“That was easy,” I murmur. “I guess.”
“You should be free to go.”
When we’re done, Christian leads me out to the Bentley, that damned hand coming resting on the small of my back, only this time, I feel his thumb slip along my spine and a shiver ghosts through me.
He’s doing that on purpose. No one’s that sexually attractive without trying to be.
“I can’t believe all the paperwork he made me fill out,” I complain when Christian falls into the driver’s seat beside me. “And then he rushed us out like the building was on fire. And why was he so sweaty?”
“Mila?”
“What?” I snap, turning my gaze on Christian.
Instead of a response, he just takes my face in his hands, kissing me so intensely, I feel like the world tilts on its axis.
Every thought I’d had flies right out the window, along with any dignity I had left. His lips linger against mine, and when he pulls away, his stare is so dark, it sucks the air right out of the Bentley.
This man is dangerous with a kiss like that.
“Just shut the hell up.”
When Christian said his family owned a lodge, I didn’t know it would be the size of Manhattan. The main lodge itself sits atop a cliff, overlooking the forest-covered valley below like a silent stone protector.
The Oak Ridge Lodge is a fortress nestled amongst the tall Washington Pines of the Mount Baker National Forest. With three hundred and something rooms—I zoned out when Collin was telling me exactly how many— and multiple buildings, it’s easy to understand that I got lost on my first day, post-Christian’s departure.
—And my second.
—And maybe my third.
Fortunately, Paulina found me, gently escorting me towards the kitchen in the “family lodge” where we’re staying, though it would be better described as a mini-palace, complete with its own hot tub and chef named Javier who makes the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever tasted.
“You’re going to make me gain weight,” I grumble to Paulina when she sets a mounded plate of bacon and eggs in front of me on the first day.
“Men like a little meat on the bones,” she explains with a coy wink. “Makes things softer.”
I close my eyes, willing that mental picture away because, honestly, I’m not sure I’m mentally strong enough to handle it right now.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
On the second day, Paulina put me to work, sorting through an obscene amount of new clothes that Christian had apparently had delivered for me.
Asshole. As if I could be bought.
Still, I didn’t mind because it gave me something to do besides stare into the abyss and wonder if I was a widow or just the reluctant wife who’d been pushed aside.
“Why do I need all these clothes?”
Paulina smirks while I reach for my fourth bag. Peaking inside, I quickly shut it again when I spot the lace and silk from some designer store I’ve never shopped at.
“You can’t live in Mr. Cross’s shirt for the rest of your life.”
I look down at the worn, baggy T-shirt I’ve taken to sleeping in since he left.
It’s not because it smells like him and his scent brings me comfort. It’s just comfortable, and he’s clearly not using it. Why let it go to waste?
“Watch me,” I grumble shoving the lingerie, bag and all, in the top of the dresser drawer.
He’s insane if he thinks I’m ever putting it on for him after what he did.
When I’m not being coerced into eating my weight in whatever delectable dishes Javier cooks up, I find myself either wandering the grounds with Phantom or sitting by the bay window in Christian’s room that overlooks the forest beyond.
The property is sprawling at over a hundred acres and filled with wealthy tourists from around the world who came out for some fresh mountain air.
It feels like stepping right back into LA, and I can see now why Christian didn’t bring me here after he found me. I do my best to avoid them. In fact, I avoid everyone. Especially Bella, who seems to have taken the same approach.
I can’t say I blame her. How would you feel if your brother showed up after months and dropped off some random woman while you were trying to run a huge business?\
I’d probably be a little pissed off, too.
Paulina does her best to involve me, but I can see it’s hard for her, not knowing when Christian will be back. Not knowing what to do with me.
As if I’m a problem that needs to be solved.
After spending so much time on the island, it’s hard to believe I would miss it at all.
. . . but I do.
It’s breathtaking and serene, watching fall roll in with a change in the leaves.
Still, I miss the island and the freedom it holds. I know Phantom does, too.
I guess, in some twisted way that makes absolutely no sense, I miss Christian too, though I’m trying to decide if it’s the man I miss or just the idea of who I thought he was.
I can’t fight the sinking feeling in my stomach. Like, what if this really is the end, and I never see him again? Or what if he does come back and decides he’s tired of all the baggage that seems to follow me like a dark cloud?
My thoughts race through my mind day in and day out, and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.
I’m trying to be positive. I really am. Every day, I wake up with the best of intentions, but by nightfall, when no word comes on if he’s okay, I find myself alone in his bed, holding that damned ring and staring at a wedding band I’m not even sure he ever put on.
I shouldn’t care. He tricked me into marrying him. I mean, who does that? He stole my choice in the matter, even if it was with the best intentions.
I still do, though, and it freaking sucks.
I still can’t believe everything that was going on behind my back. If I think about it too much, I get sick. I shouldn’t be surprised. My stepfather was literally arrested for selling other humans. He sold my sister’s body against her will. Why should I expect to be any different?
I can’t escape the thoughts of what my life would have been like had Christian not done what he did. In a way, I’m grateful. In others . . . I wish I’d never met Christian Cross.
It just goes to show how twisted the world really is. How no matter what you think you know about your life, there’s so much more happening behind the scenes that we’re blind to.
Like . . . Sebastian. When I close my eyes, I can feel his hands on me. His knife in my skin. His breath harsh against the confines of that deranged mask that haunts my nightmares.
I never saw the attack coming, and I know it’s my fault for being blind to the world around me. While I was nursing a broken heart, someone else was watching from the shadows, planning to shatter it completely.
Maybe if I’d been paying attention, I would have stayed home that night.
—I actually scoff out loud.
Who am I kidding? The moment I thought Christian was in trouble, nothing would have stopped me.
There are so many things I wish I could ask him. Like why he left? Why he couldn’t just tell me the truth about my stepfather? Why he’s never shared these little pieces of his life before?
I know I won’t get answers, though.
I don’t even know if he’s alive.
—And cue another tidal wave of grief.
The sound of footsteps causes me to jump in my place at the kitchen table where I had been stewing over a barely touched grapefruit.
I hate grapefruit, but Paulina insists it’s good for the heart.
The housekeeper steps into the room, a basket of towels under her arm. She’s singing along to the earbuds in her ears and doesn’t notice me until the last second.
The moment she sees me, she lets out a squeak, and the towels hit the ground at her feet.
God, do I look that bad?
“I apologize, Mrs. Cross,” she winces, ducking her head. “I’ll take these back and wash them again.”
“Nonsense.” I slide from my grapefruit prison stool and stoop to help her pick up the towels. Grabbing an armful, I drop the still-warm linens on the table.
She freezes like I’m going to bite her or something.
I’m not that feral, though, I guess I probably look it in Christian’s baggy T-shirt.
The housekeeper is beautiful. Pretty light brown hair. Striking green eyes that appear almost catlike. What she’s doing working here and not for some high fashion modeling agency, I have no idea.
She stares at me.
I stare back.
I’m stellar at making friends.
“Well, aren’t we going to fold them?”
“That’s my job.”
“Would . . . you like me to not fold them?” I ask, dropping the towel in my hand back to the table.
“Sorry,” she winces. “Sometimes, I don’t think before I speak.”
I can’t help but chuckle. That makes two of us.
“I’m the last person in this ginormous house you need to worry about.”
“No, Mr. Cross was very specific—”
“I don’t see Mr. Cross here, do you?”
She blushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and glancing around nervously.
God, what did he tell her? That my fingers aren’t allowed to touch anything but expensive Egyptian cotton sheets?
“My name’s Mila, by the way. You don’t need to call me Mrs. Cross.”
“Ava,” she says, shaking my hand when I offer it to her. “How long have you and Mr. Cross been married.”
I grit my teeth, aggressively folding a washcloth.
“Two years, I think. Maybe less. Who knows?” I grumble. “Not me.”
She stares at me, confused.
Whoops .
“Sorry. It’s complicated.”
That’s the polite way to put it.
“Isn’t it always?” she chuckles, resuming her folding.
“How long have you worked here?”
“No long,” she shrugs. “About six months.”
“Do you like it?”
“I can’t complain. It beats . . . other things I could be doing.”
“What made you want to work for Mr. Cross .” The bitter mockery in my tone helps me feel better when I say his name.
Ava chuckles. “Money, actually. I’m just working to save, and the Cross’s pay well. My grandmother’s sick, so this helps.”
A pang of grief hits me in the chest.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugs, expertly folding the towels in front of her while mine look like a toddler snuck in and helped.
“My grandma raised me. It only seems right, I take care of her now.”
With the towels finished, she loads them back into the basket. “Thank you for helping me. You really didn’t need to.”
I shrug.
“Got me out of eating that awful grapefruit,” I say, and she laughs. “We should do this again. It was nice to speak to someone who either isn’t appalled by my presence or dancing on eggshells.”
She smiles. “I’d like that. Same time tomorrow?”
“It’s a date.”