Chapter 13
Soren
“Looking for something?” Maya grins, puffing out a breath and wiping her sweaty pink forehead. She looks like she just got back from a run.
“You didn’t shower.”
She glances at her red-streaked legs. “I look good in red.”
I eye her legs as well. “Your fourth best color.”
She quirks a brow. “Fourth?”
I hold up a hand, numbering them with my fingers. “Ivory, baby blue, black, then red.” I remember her outfits. I remember everything.
She narrows her eyes and stalks forward with a confidence that is not entirely unattractive. “You’re not going to charm me into giving you this painting.” She pokes me in the chest.
I snatch her finger, keeping it right above my heart. “I seem to remember you falling for it the first time.”
I immediately want to take the words back. It was never meant to trick her. I was gone for her long before she fell for me.
She yanks her hand out of mine. “You fooled me once. Not again.” She stomps past me, calling over her shoulder, “When I get out of the shower, you better be gone.”
“I’ll be right here.”
I’m in so much trouble—in more ways than one.
My heart is beating harder, trying to remember all the reasons I left the first time, trying to make them seem believable again.
I still have feelings for her, even after I did my best to expel them.
Eight years later, and it’s like the distance was never there.
I’m a teenage boy, annoying her just to get her attention.
I scrub a hand over my face, bringing myself to the current crisis. What matters now is the painting.
She outplayed me, which I respect on many levels. But I still have access to the security feeds. I pull it up, skipping back over the last ten minutes to see where she went… but it goes black. She turned it off. Sneaky little thing.
I might have to accept defeat and leave.
Liam will probably forgive me for not coming through this one time. But what about those girls, counting on this to keep them from a life in the gutters? They need the money. The Hartwells can buy it back after it’s been rightfully sold.
I can’t let Maya win this round, and some piece of me isn’t quite ready to leave her again.
Decision made, I begin my search the old-fashioned way.
I’ve always hated hide-and-seek. It’s a rude game meant to make the finder cry when they’ve wandered around the house for nearly an hour and still can’t find their only friend.
Yes, I may have been such a finder. Maya, on the other hand, has always enjoyed a hunt, which is how I know it’s going to be next to impossible to find the painting in this giant place.
I know the layout, but Maya knows the nooks and crannies and secret rooms. Those weren’t listed in the blueprints, only mentioned in an article in the Times.
Dennis Hartwell made his millions with one of the most intriguing video games.
It’s essentially a layered maze where the player has to make his or her way from the bottom floor to the top to save the world, all while fighting the zombies, of course.
There are new hidden passageways on each level that completely change the game layout when found.
It looked like utter chaos to me, but Rosie was obsessed with it in high school.
Dennis said he wanted to make his home the same, and apparently I should have spent more time watching Rosie play, because I haven’t found any secret rooms or passageways yet.
I start my search in the kitchen. Pantry, drawers, and cupboards. Then the living room. Then the sitting room and dining room. There’s nothing to be found, and each of these rooms is too simple. I’m not giving Maya enough credit.
I peek into the theater room but immediately veto searching it. Arabella is still asleep, the final credits of the movie rolling. I back out and head into the library. For a woman who loves old things and the stories behind them, I feel like I’m getting closer.
Bookshelves line the exterior walls, leaving space only for the floor-to-ceiling windows.
There’s a leather sofa and matching chair framing the cozy faux fireplace at the far end.
In the middle of the room is a large glass display case filled with ancient artifacts and other paintings and interesting items. A music box, a glass lamp, a watch… How many of those are stolen?
I step closer to the case, eyeing the security system. There are no visible motion detectors. Weird. The items aren't necessarily priceless but are valuable. All I'd have to do is pick the lock. It would be easy.
Not that I plan on stealing more than what I came for, but sometimes it’s fun to dream. If I were a real thief, I’d—
“Planning your next heist?”
I swivel, finding Maya in the doorway. My eyes drink her in, her fuzzy purple socks, gray sweats, and black T-shirt with a pile of dirt and the words my career is in ruins.
I fight a smile but can't stop my lips from twitching.
“It was a gift from my brother when I graduated,” she says, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. “It’s come true in more ways than one.”
Her face is makeup-free, but it was when I got here. She never wore more than mascara. Her eyes hypnotized every man who dared stare into them. No one more than me.
Her hair is down and slightly damp. It’s so long and dark. When did she let it grow? Was it when her life fell apart?
My fingers itch to take out my phone and Google her, but only some people’s misfortune can be found online, thank goodness.
“You could still go back,” I say, certain she couldn’t have ruined things too badly.
She purses her lips. “Not in this town.”
“So leave.”
Her eyes narrow. “That sure solved your problem, didn’t it?”
Oof. Right to the heart.
She was never the problem. She was the hope and dream I couldn’t have. Everything I wanted but never deserved.
“You weren’t…” But I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud. If I do, I might start believing them.
“I intend to fix my problems,” she says, ice in her words. She walks over to the sofa and drops into the corner. There’s a book on the armrest, and she picks it up, opening to her place. She must spend a lot of time here.
I casually cross the room. A metal figurine on the shelf nearest me catches my eye.
It’s an eagle, tipped at an angle but still standing.
Could that access a secret room? I can’t try it with Maya here.
I continue on and sit in the chair directly opposite her, reading the title of the book in her hands.
The Odyssey. “Some light Christmas Eve reading, I see.”
Her face is nearly hidden by the book, but I catch a twitch of her cheek. “It’s a collector’s edition. I couldn’t let it sit untouched. That’s a crime against the past.”
“And how many other precious works are in need of saving?”
“Twelve hundred forty-two.”
That was a very precise and insurmountable number.
“What are they like?”
“The mythical gods?” She looks up from her book. “Heartless.”
“The Hartwells.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and her earrings sparkle in the firelight. “Their name is deceiving. They might be as heartless as the Greek gods. Just as beautiful, too.”
“Why didn’t they come back for her?” My tone has dropped, and I realize I care. As shocking as Arabella may be, she doesn’t deserve to be alone for Christmas. No one does.
Maya sighs, closing the book and putting it on the sofa beside her.
“I’ve asked myself that a dozen times. Her parents didn’t even know she was here tonight.
I called them. They told me they’d pay me overtime to stay but didn’t seem upset.
There are family photos around the house, so I know they used to be around more.
” She scrunches her nose. “I don’t think they are bad people; they are just lost in the success of their careers. ”
Mrs. Hartwell had come from money, funding her husband’s ventures in the gaming world.
But three years ago, her event-planning company took off, making her one of the most sought after planners for the rich and famous.
Being wealthy isn’t the problem. Being vacant is.
All a kid really wants is someone to show up for them.
“They will probably both be working on vacation anyway,” Maya says. “So I guess it’s good we’re here.”
We? I raise a brow. “Me too? The competition must be truly pitiful.”
Maya chuckles, rubbing the side of her head, and I can’t help the worry that rises. Is her headache gone? Does she need more medicine? I should stay longer, to keep an eye on her.
“Maybe they will each have a terrible Christmas and come back more dedicated to their kid,” she says.
One can only hope. “How long have you been her nanny?” I like sitting here, talking to her, like we used to. Easy conversation, her not trying to kill me… The good old days.
“About nine long months.”
“It can’t be all bad. I mean, you’re still standing.”
She bites back a smile. “It’s not. We have fun sometimes. But every time I get too close, she does something like this.” She points to the edges of her forehead where the color is still visible.
“She’s afraid you’re going to forget her,” I say, knowing exactly what that little girl feels. “Someday you’ll have to move on; she’s smart enough to know that. She’s trying to guarantee it doesn’t hurt when you do.”
I feel like my therapist.
Boy, will I have some things to work out with her come the new year.
Maya nods thoughtfully but still looks dejected.
This is a terrible idea. Quite possibly the worst I’ve ever had.
“Let’s give her a Christmas to remember.”