Chapter 7
Maya
Soren.
He’s here, his rugged, shadowed face only inches above mine.
It’s eleven o’clock at night. The only light comes from the radio on the dash of his truck. It’s warm, but the air feels hot with tension.
Finally.
He’s going to kiss me.
My lips hum with anticipation.
“You’re not as bad as you try to be,” I whisper, anything to get him to close the gap between us—the gap that has separated us for far too long. He thinks he’s not good enough for me, but all I want is him. This.
His eyebrows furrow, and then he pulls away.
No. This is my dream. He’s supposed to stay this time.
“Hi!” Arabella’s head pops into my vision, and I scream, realizing much too late two very important things.
One, this is not a dream; Soren is really here.
Two, which relates to the first, he’s trying to steal from me. Or the Hartwells. Same thing.
“Arabella!” I grab her arm and pull her protectively to my side. “Stay away from that man.”
“Oh, do you have a crush on him?” she whispers, but because she’s a child and fond of attention, her voice carries like a yell.
“No!” Why does this child hate me?
“That’s what Jenny said about Dean, but then she didn’t like it when I held his hand during recess.” Bella lifts a shoulder. “Snooze, you lose.”
Poor Jenny.
Soren watches with amusement from the foot of the couch.
My brain is still trying to process everything, which feels especially hard, but I don’t have time to discuss the etiquette of elementary school crushes.
“You need to leave.” I attempt to sit up, but my vision swims, and then Soren is above me, pushing my shoulders toward the couch with a confusing gentleness.
“You have a concussion. You need to lie down for a while.”
And let him walk off with a painting he needs to “save the orphans”? Not happening, even if I was tempted to believe his sob story for a moment.
“I don’t have a concussion.” Once again trying, but to no avail, to sit up straight. Why does the room insist on spinning?
He delicately adjusts my head on the pillow with a tenderness that makes me ache.
“The chair fell; your head hit the floor.” Is he telling me what happened or trying to convince me of it?
I wasn’t sitting on a chair. Why is he acting so nice, and what is he talking abo… Wait. “You tied me up!”
He left that part out.
He has the decency to appear chagrined. He casts a glance at Arabella and backs away from me, finding a seat across the room. “It was a game.”
“It’s okay, Penny. I won’t tell Mom you invite friends over to play at night.
” Arabella giggles, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
To be fair, it’s always there. Everything this child does is mischievous.
There’s always another motive, which is how I know I’m going to pay dearly for this.
Seems to be the story of my life, paying the price for other’s crimes. First my roommate, now Soren.
I might as well start looking for new jobs now.
“He’s not my friend, and we weren’t playing anything,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well, now he’s not going to want to play with you anymore,” Arabella says with an air of condescension that makes her sound just like her mother. “I’ll keep him then,” she whispers. “He’s really cute.”
“No, he’s not.” A bald-faced lie. I’ve been refusing to admit to myself just how “cute” the thief lounging in the corner of the room is.
He’s not a boy anymore, though he never really was.
He was always larger than life—the literal definition of “too cool for school.” But now, each of those features I used to love are more pronounced.
The stubble on his chin is a full, well-groomed beard that does wonders to highlight the rigid line of his jaw.
His eyes are as dark as always, but his hair falls a little messier, a little fuller.
Don’t get me started on his muscles. He’s always had a lean build, but there’s definition visible through his pitch-black ensemble.
“Geez, you’re grumpy tonight,” Arabella grumbles. “I know! We need hot chocolate!”
“No—” I try to stop her before she can make a mess of the pristine kitchen. The girl is a walking tornado. But she doesn’t listen, and I’m out of energy to fight the spinning room.
“You need to get out of here,” I hiss at Soren the second Arabella is out of earshot.
He crosses one leg, resting it on his opposite knee. “Believe me, I would love nothing more. But you need to be under observation for the next while, and I’m not leaving until you agree to let me take the painting.”
“Then I guess we are stuck together forever.” The words echo through the room, living on longer than I intended.
Forever.
Something once promised but long forgotten.
Soren’s only reaction is an uncomfortable shift in his seat.
“A few hours should suffice,” he says in a clipped tone.
A few hours? With him? He’s insane if he thinks I’m going to allow him to stay here, looking at me like that. Like he cares what happens to me. I’ve barely survived twenty minutes in his presence; any longer might kill me. “I’m fine. Please just leave.”
“You lost consciousness,” he says. “I’ve committed a few crimes, but killing someone crosses a line even for me.” He rests his arms on the armrests like he intends to get comfortable, but he’s still wearing his backpack, and he picked the wrong chair for comfort.
“Oh, you do this kind of thing often, do you? Where’s my phone? I need to keep a list of your atrocities.”
“You don’t have one already?” His lips twitch. “I’m disappointed.”
“It got too long. I’ll have to start a new one.”
“Sorry, no screens for the next twenty-four to… ninety-six hours. Possibly never again.” There’s that smirk on his lips, and for a split moment it takes me back to physics class senior year.
The way he teased me every time I set out my three different colored pens to take notes.
He’d make a habit of stealing one during class, and I made a habit of trying to catch him.
I fell behind in that class, yet somehow, he always knew what was going on.
I wouldn’t have passed without him. And then I started to fall for that bad boy with the sad eyes and—
There’s a loud pop in the kitchen, like a gun, and I scream.
Soren bolts from his chair and races to the kitchen. There’s a second bang, and Arabella screams. Soren curses, and then, what sounds like a million noodles fall to the floor.
I pinch my eyes closed, wondering what hot chocolate recipe requires noodles.
She’s a miniature mad scientist, and it frightens me.
My first day on the job, I found one of her “experiments” when I opened the dryer.
She had rigged a soda bomb to explode on me.
Every day it’s something new. Dead bugs in my water bottle.
A bucket of water on my head. She’s seen Home Alone far too many times and has access to anything her scary little mind can dream up.
Her antics are terrifying, yet I can’t help but be impressed.
I think she’s purposely pushing me away to see if I’ll stay since her parents rarely, if ever, give her any kind of attention.
So, whether or not Arabella appreciates it, I’m going to stick around as long as I can to show her she’s loved.
If she doesn’t kill me first.
Soren marches back into the room, hauling—not forcefully—a little girl covered in flour behind him. He has flour on 60 percent of his body and his expression is icy.
“Well, if it isn’t Jack Frost.” I grin, only too grateful he found the trap that was no doubt laid out for me.
“She made an explosive. With flour and macaroni. In a balloon over my head that she shot with a dart.”
“Oh yeah, the house is rigged with them.”
Arabella covers her mouth with her blonde pigtails to hide her laugh.
“And you let her get away with this?” Soren asks in utter disbelief.
I shrug in a “what can you do” way. The Hartwells were adamant I not punish her for her behavior, so I’ve had to teach lessons in other ways; i.e. pretending they don’t bother me.
He marches her to a chair and puts her there. “Stay.”
She crosses her arms, narrowing her malicious little eyes at him. “Or what?”
“I’ll tie you up.”
She gapes. “That’s child abuse.”
“You’re not my child.”
She looks at me, a spark of fear in her eyes I’ve never seen before. “Are you going to let him do this?”
“Why does everyone keep assuming I have any control over anyone in this house?”
“You’re on time-out until I say otherwise.” Soren addresses Bella as he pats his clothes.
She glares at him but, surprisingly, stays. Huh. Maybe I’ll have to try that, assuming I’m not fired after this holiday standoff with my old flame.
Soren returns to his chair and sits, crossing his arms and taking turns watching both of us like he’s the babysitter, or the warden. But there's still a spot of flour on his beard, and I can't take him seriously.
The unofficial quiet game lasts exactly thirty seconds before Arabella can’t handle it.
“So…” Bella says. “What did you plan for me for Christmas Eve? I assume that’s why you’re here,” she says, looking at Soren.
He remains stoic and uncomfortable in the far chair. He’s mistaken if he thinks he can stay here, watching us in dreaded silence. I’ll just have to make him leave. And I know just the person for the job.
“He came just for you, Bella,” I offer so helpfully.
Soren looks like he wants to hit something.
What a coincidence. I want to hit him, too.