Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
JULIET
Iwake up bright and early, with the first hints of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains, turning the room into a hazy glow of pinks and golds.
It's been only one day here, but it feels like a week, every minute stretched taut with pretense and that unwelcome heat whenever I think of Blake. I'm exhausted already, bones-deep tired from the lies, and the longing, but moving might clear my head.
I stretch and feel the pull in my muscles. God, I really need to burn off this restless energy before it consumes me. I know there is an in-house gym in the basement that is supposed to be a state-of-the-art setup, equipped with a Peloton bike and everything one could possibly want.
I decide to head down to the gym. It will be best if I don’t stray too far from Carolyn’s routine from now on. Or I’ll end up making everybody suspicious.
Slipping into a pair of shorts from the closet and a Lycra cropped top in matching black that leaves my midriff bare, I leave my bedroom.
It'll just be a quick workout to start with.
I need to burn off that bacon sandwich from yesterday, a guilty indulgence after months of salads.
Three months is a long time to pretend, and I can't afford to let the weight creep back.
I jog down the service stairs, the cool wood giving way to the carpeted basement hall, and the air down here is crisp from the AC.
Carolyn wasn’t exaggerating. The gym is unreal, floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting the morning light.
There are all kinds of machines, a whole bunch of weights stacked neatly on racks that gleam under the recessed LEDs.
I start with the stair master, climbing slowly at first, the machine's whir a steady rhythm under my feet, my breath coming deeper as I build speed.
Sweat starts beading on my skin and trickling down my spine in lazy rivulets.
The burn in my thighs actually feels good, a distraction from the ache that's lingered since that crazy dream.
I hate to admit it, but my body is still humming with repressed need.
I keep going until I’m breathless. I’ve done well this morning and I think I’ll call it a day.
But just then, Blake comes in from a side door—maybe it’s an attached sauna or shower room.
I'm in disbelief, freezing mid-step, the machine jolting me forward as I stare.
His hair is tousled, and he's in shorts—gray ones that barely hide his powerful thighs, the kind athletes wear for training—and a fitted tank that clings to his torso and outlines every ridge of muscle.
It is damp already from whatever he's been doing.
He heads towards the free weights, lifts a barbell loaded with plates, and starts curling it with effortless grace, biceps flexing, cord-like veins standing out on his forearms. Sweat glistens on his honeyed skin, and there is a focused intensity in his eyes as he grunts softly with each rep.
And oh God, he's gorgeous. Just so, so, so gorgeous.
My mouth goes dry, heat flooding me anew, and I continue my climb on the stair master.
I pretend to focus on the digital display ticking up calories burned, but my gaze keeps drifting back to him in the mirrors.
We're both practically naked in here—me in my Lycra, the fabric thin and sweat-soaked now, nipples pebbling against the material from the cool air and something hotter, him stripped down to essentials.
The whole gym feels intimate, charged, as if we've stumbled into each other's secrets.
Soon, though, the sight of him—grunting, muscles rippling, that sheer physicality—is too much, and I feel myself getting wet.
Really wet. My arousal starts leaking down my inner thighs, and my clit is throbbing with every step.
Definitely time to end my session. I hit the stop button with a trembling finger, and the machine whines down.
Blake turns then to look at me, and I mutter something about needing water and flee like the devil himself is on my tail.
My feet pound on the stairs as I take it two at a time, my heart pounding, cheeks burning.
I reach my bedroom, shut the door and lean against it to catch my breath, the wood cool on my back.
Then I begin to pace the floor. This just won’t do.
I can’t be doing this for three freaking months.
I’ll go mad. I have to find a way to deal with this…
this unfortunate sexual attraction. I can’t be on the verge of an orgasm or in heat whenever I see him.
This constant simmer is turning me inside out, making every glance feel like foreplay.
To say nothing of the fact that it's dangerous.
Really dangerous. One slip, and the whole charade crumbles.
I peel off my sweaty clothes and stand under the rain head in the marble bathroom.
Water cascades hot and wonderful, steam fogs the glass doors as I lather up with the La Mer body wash from the shelf, creamy and scented with sea minerals.
I rub slow circles over my breasts, down my belly, trying to wash away the want, but my fingers linger between my legs, teasing the ache.
I can still feel his dream mouth on my dream sex.
I bite my lip and stop before I give in to the need. Giving in would be pouring petrol on a fire that is already raging. I’m too wired. I need to relax. I need a bath.
I fill the deep clawfoot tub positioned by the window overlooking the gardens with bubbles from a lime basil and mandarin bath oil.
The scent is citrusy and sharp as I sink in, water lapping at my skin.
It is hot enough to turn me pink. I settle in, close my eyes and take deep, calming breaths.
Slowly, as I soak, the tension melts, and thoughts drift in on how to survive this pull. It is as clear as day.
Stay as far away from him as possible and never ever be alone with him.
Shouldn’t be too difficult. He is, after all, a workaholic.
I will use the gym during work hours. Also, I should find a purpose that will keep me busy.
Maybe I should read books from the extensive library.
Something I didn’t have enough time for in my real life.
Only two months and twenty-nine days to go…
then I will claim my prize money and follow my dreams.
Feeling much more positive about my future, I get out of the bath and choose another sundress from the closet—butter-yellow, light chiffon Zimmermann with delicate floral prints.
It floats over my body, thin straps crossing at the back.
This time, though, I throw on a jean jacket over it and roll the sleeves up to my elbows.
I dry my hair, then carefully insert my contact lenses, and I’m ready to face the world.
But leaving my room feels intimidating and dangerous.
I pace the rug barefoot, the fibers soft under my toes, and think about what to do next.
I should visit the girl. Freya, that sweet face from yesterday.
Her hurt still nags at me like a loose thread.
Maybe mending that bridge will give me purpose, distract me from the doomed fire Blake has ignited.
Because that fire is surely doomed. One way or another I must find a way to douse it completely.
I find myself standing outside her door, reading and re-reading the hand-painted “Freya’s Room” sign as if it reads “Keep out”.
The hallway is quiet except for the distant hum of the ocean.
My pulse flutters in my throat. Carolyn didn’t ask me to build any bridges.
In fact, her advice was clear. Stay well away from the child.
One wrong word and I could undo whatever fragile thread is left between “Carolyn” and this little girl.
I knock, three light taps, barely louder than my heartbeat.
“Freya? Can I come in?”
A long pause. I’m already bracing to be ignored when a small voice answers, “Okay.”
I push it open slowly. The space inside is a child's haven, walls painted a soft lavender with murals of fairy-tale forests, the air sweet with the faint strawberry scent of baby shampoo and crayons.
A canopy draped in gauzy white hangs over a small bed like a cloud.
Toys scatter the rug—plush bears in bow ties.
Morning sun pours through a large window, turning everything bright and golden.
Freya is curled on the window seat, hugging her knees to her chest. The Velveteen Rabbit is open beside her. Her curls are a wild halo, catching the light, and her eyes big and guarded, flick up to me and then away.
I hover in the doorway, feeling wrong-footed and clumsy. “Mind if I…?” I gesture toward the window seat.
She shrugs, tiny shoulders barely moving. “You can if you must.” Then she ignores me and goes back to reading her book.
I lower myself onto the cushion beside her, leaving a careful gap. The seat is warm from the sun. Our knees are almost touching. For a minute, the only sound is the page turning.
She’s still mad at me. I can feel it radiating off her in waves, arms wrapped tight around the book, mouth pressed into a stubborn line.
“I’m really very sorry about the vase, Freya,” I say quietly, meaning every syllable. “I never should have told Daddy, but it kind of slipped out accidentally. I know that was very careless of me, I should have been more careful, and I hate that I’ve hurt you.”
Her fingers tighten on the book. She doesn’t look at me, but her bottom lip wobbles.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I add softly. “Whatever you want. Anything. Just ask, okay?”
Silence stretches. Then, so quietly I almost miss it. “Okay.”
I start to stand, slowly, like any sudden move might spook her, when her small voice stops me.
“You can have tea with me if you want.”
I turn, and she’s already sliding off the seat, book abandoned, padding over to the corner where her miniature kitchen lives.
A pink plastic stove, tiny cups, and a battered stuffed rabbit wearing a crooked bow tie on one of the three stools in it.
She glances back, eyes hopeful but braced for the usual no, the one Carolyn, it would seem always gave.
My heart cracks right down the middle. Freya is not a hateful child. She is an adorable ray of sunshine.
“I would love to have some tea with you and Mr. Rabbit,” I say, and I mean it so fiercely my voice almost shakes.
Her whole face lights up, like someone flipped a switch. We settle on the little stools, knees touching.
“Earl Grey or English breakfast?” she asks.
“Earl Grey, please.”
She pours imaginary tea from a plastic teapot, and she passes me a plate of plastic chocolate chip cookies. We clink cups.
“Sugar?” she asks politely.
“One cube, please,” I say with equal politeness.
Graciously, she drops one cube into my cup. The rabbit gets two sugars.
While we “sip”, I reach out and gently touch one of her curls. “Do you ever wear your hair in a French braid? I think it will make you look like a Princess.”
She nods shyly. “I like it. But nobody here knows how to do it.”
“I do,” I say quickly. “Do you want me to braid your hair for you?”
Her eyes go huge. “Really? How come you never told me before?”
I shrug. “I never thought about it. So… do you want me to?”
Two minutes later, she’s perched between my knees while I brush and part her baby-fine hair, weaving two neat little braids, tying them off with the pink ribbons she dug out of a drawer.
She smells like strawberry shampoo and warm sun, and when I finish, she grins happily at the mirror.
Then she twists around and throws her arms around my neck without warning, nearly knocking me over.
“I love them. I look so pretty.”
“Yes, I agree. You look very pretty.” I nod and feel a genuine affection for her. How Carolyn can think this little angel is hateful I will never know.
We go back to sipping our tea. I ask what else she loves, genuinely curious, and her answers tumble out.
She likes watching the flowers grow in the garden, but hates the “creepy” back corner where some scary shadows live.
She loves painting, but she can’t paint well.
She likes making chocolate cupcakes with pink icing, but nobody will allow her in the kitchen.
“I love baking too,” I confess, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’ll teach you. Proper lessons. In the kitchen when no one is around. We’ll wake up in the middle of the night and have a secret baking session together We’ll make a mess and everything.”
Her eyes go wide as saucers and her mouth forms a perfect O. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
We’re negotiating days. Tomorrow? No, Saturday?
When there is a firm knock, and the door opens before either of us can answer.
Blake steps in, filling the frame, sunlight behind him turning the edges of his hair gold.
His gaze sweeps the room, the tea party for three, and something unreadable flickers across his face.
Surprise? Maybe something else. I cannot tell. It is gone too quickly.
Freya scrambles up, braids bouncing, and launches herself at his legs. He catches her automatically, one arm curling around her waist and hoisting her up into his arms, but his eyes stay on me, steady, intense, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle for which there is no sensible answer.