Chapter Nine
Annalise
The day went sideways after the flower delivery. The sight of those flowers, my mother's flowers, used by this asshole to hurt me—it poked at a place inside of me I thought had healed over. Something raw and open, a part of me that was still a child. Still hoped my parents would one day come home.
After I wept all over Riley, I pretended to pull myself together, but my heart throbbed in my chest like a rotten tooth.
I’d forgotten it was Mother's Day until I saw those lilies. I wanted my mother. I wanted to go to her grave or walk through the woods to the house where we’d lived, but both were off-limits for the time being.
Riley canceled our outing to the Botanical Gardens, saying he wanted me to stick close until the Sinclairs had a chance to take a look at the flowers.
The kid who dropped them off hadn't known anything, and though the flowers in the arrangement had been unusual—at least the Myrtle and Tansy—so far they hadn't figured out where they'd come from.
There hadn’t been a note with the arrangement this time.
Riley and the Sinclairs didn't know what to make of that, but I had a sinking feeling there was no note because my stalker had been too angry to write one.
The few times I'd had a boyfriend, he hadn't responded well. A fiancé was guaranteed to enrage him.
I reminded myself that enraging the stalker, throwing him off balance, was the whole point of this charade with Riley. That didn't mean I liked it. I hated pretending Riley and I were engaged at least as much as I hated painting a target on his back.
It didn't matter that this was Riley's job. I didn't care that he could defend himself, that he’d done things like this before. I'd left him once to keep him safe, shattering my own heart in the process, and now I’d thrown him right in the line of fire.
For what?
To save myself? What kind of selfish bitch was I?
Every time Riley faked being my fiancé, every time he took my hand or kissed my cheek, little pieces of my heart were torn away. Once, I’d wanted this more than anything. Pretending it was real was torture.
So was sleeping beside him in my big, brass bed. There was plenty of room. The bed had belonged to my parents, a gift from my father to my mother, who’d loved the look of antique brass beds, and often lamented that they didn't come in a modern king-size.
Aunt Olivia and Uncle Hugh had moved the bed to my room in Winters House after they died, hoping it would bring me comfort. It had, and all the years I'd been away, I'd missed it.
Sharing it with Riley felt disturbingly normal. When he'd climbed in bed with me, that second night in Winters House, I thought it would be impossible to sleep with him only a foot away. I'd been right and wrong. I was aware of him beside me, more aware than I wanted to be.
For the first time in years, I felt safe. Whole. Like I could relax because everything was finally going to be okay.
It was stupid. My lizard brain responded to Riley's presence like he was the answer to all my problems, but the rational part of my mind knew that was the furthest thing from the truth.
I had enough to worry about with this plan to draw out and catch my stalker.
I didn't need to get any ridiculous ideas about Riley.
He'd made it clear that the past was the past and after this job, there was no future. Not for us.
He kept us cooped up in Winters House for two days.
The day the flowers were delivered, even the day after, I could understand.
The delivery was on a Sunday, and no one was working.
Not in the lab or in research. And I could see not getting all the information they needed in one business day, but by Tuesday I'd expected Riley to relax. He hadn't.
I was getting tired of staying in the house. The whole point of Riley as my fiancé was to provoke my stalker, not hide from him. I hated hiding. I hated waiting. Hated being passive.
All those years ago I’d known I had two choices - let Aiden lock me behind the walls of Winters House or run. Neither was much of a life, but I’d chosen to run. At least I was in control. Now I was little more than a child, sitting around waiting to be told when I could leave the house.
I resisted the urge to throw a tantrum when Aunt Amelia and Sophie went out to Annabelle's coffee shop to try her new sugar-free hot cocoa. Their promise to bring some back didn’t make me feel better.
I ground my teeth and paced down the hall to my rooms where Riley was working at the sitting room desk.
Planting my hands on my hips, I felt like a shrew when I demanded, "This is the last day we’re stuck in the house. I don't care what kind of evidence they’re waiting for. This is driving me nuts."
Riley leveled a calm look at me and said, "Agreed. So far, they're not finding anything new. This guy never leaves any trace, and he covers his tracks. Always." He ran his fingers through his short hair, ruffling it, and said, "Most criminals are stupid. The smart ones are a total pain in the ass."
"So tomorrow we can go out?" I pressed. I already knew my stalker was smart. If he hadn't been, we would've caught him years ago.
"Tomorrow. For now, I'm about done with this," he said, gesturing to his laptop. "How about we hit the pool table or watch a movie?"
I nodded and said, "I'll meet you down there."
I didn't really want to play pool or watch a movie, not after we’d done the same the day before, but it was better than nothing.
I had the balls racked by the time Riley made it to the lower level.
We played pool until he got bored, then settled into the plush, reclining, theater seats and put on a movie.
Sitting in the dark beside Riley was harder than sleeping next to him. He was awake, for one thing. So was I. Very awake. And very aware of his arm resting only inches away from mine.
The temptation to slide my hand just a few inches to the left, to reach out my pinky and touch his, was almost too much. Eventually, I reclined my chair all the way and rolled on my side, turning my back to Riley and propping a throw pillow under my head. A few minutes later, I was asleep.
Riley didn't wake me until dinner time, and I sat up in the oversize chair slowly, struggling to lower the footrest. Napping during the day always leaves me feeling off, as if I can't quite get my brain back in gear.
Dinner passed in a dream. I ate mechanically, only half following the conversation and not protesting when Riley refilled my wine glass.
After dessert, everyone piled into the couches in the family room to watch a Braves game.
I snagged my tablet from my room, using my late arrival as an excuse to choose a seat away from Riley.
We ended up sitting in armchairs, side-by-side, anyway.
Closer than I would've liked, but at least we weren't scrunched on the love seat.
I'd had too much wine at dinner, and combined with my afternoon nap and the mocha Sophie brought me from Annabelle's, I was wired and nowhere near sleep by the time the game was over.
Riley was in bed when I came out of the closet in my pajamas. My cotton tank top and matching pajama bottoms were not sexy in the slightest, but the thin fabric was too flimsy against my skin. I needed more of a barrier against Riley.
A robe or a sweatshirt. A suit of armor would've been good. Riley wore a T-shirt and loose pajama bottoms. Looking at him, my mouth went dry.
It wasn't just the way the T-shirt stretched across his muscled chest, or the sight of his bare toes against my pink and white comforter, so familiar and yet completely out of place.
No, the thing that got me was the glasses. My Riley, college Riley, did not wear glasses. But this Riley, eleven years older, was mildly farsighted and needed glasses to read.
Not just glasses.
Sexy glasses.
Dark brown horn rims that perfectly complemented his light hazel eyes and dark hair.
Glasses that made him look like a naughty professor and—No. No thinking about naughty professors and bad girl students. This was Riley, and he was off-limits.
But those glasses were killing me.
I'd always loved his eyes—the light hazel flecked with gold and green surrounded by thick, dark lashes—they were enough to make any woman melt. When you added in the dark brown horn rims…
I sighed.
Riley’s eyes met mine as he said, “You okay?"
How to answer that question?
Not with the truth.
I imagined myself saying, I'm fine, you just look unbelievably fucking hot in those glasses, and I'm thinking about stripping off my pajamas and jumping you.
Not going to happen.
If I said it he'd either reject me—which might kill me with humiliation—or he'd take me up on it, and we'd be in even more of a mess than we already were.
"I'm fine," I said. "Just restless. That nap, and too much coffee."
I wandered into the sitting room and came back with my camera.
Perching on the end of the bed, catty-corner from Riley, I took off the lens and focused on my comforter, drawing the light pink blossoms into high detail and snapping a picture.
I wouldn't do anything with it, but I missed the feel of the camera in my hands, the sound of the shutter clicking, the way everything looked right with my eye to the viewfinder.
I hadn't thought much about Sloane’s offer for getting my work into her gallery. I’d deal with that later. But photography had never been a career thing for me. It was my heart. My release. My freedom.
Rising and crossing the room, I lifted the camera and aimed it through the window, into the courtyard where the fountain still ran, lit by spotlights hidden underwater.
I lost myself in adjusting the focus, the light meter, getting exactly the look I wanted in the contrast between the glowing water and the shadows around the fountain.