7. I Know Those Bluebell Eyes #2
As scary as it sounds to be vulnerable in that way, it was also a bit intriguing.
If I were masked, I could be whoever I want.
I could be the opposite of who I am—a girl who has only had sex twice.
Once when I was eighteen. The guy reminded me of Bear.
Wesley. I was a little drunk and still punishing myself for helping the bastard.
I never went to parties and never drank, considering Mom and I were always living undercover so my dad couldn’t find us.
The attention from Caleb was nice, but the sex was so bad and fast, I wasn’t sure it counted.
The second guy was just as rank. Ben went limp shortly into it, said it happened because he was stoned, and we could try again when he was sober.
Then he passed out on top of me. It took me four tries to roll him off my body.
That was the last time I had sex. It was also the first and last time I went on a blind date. What happened later that night seeps into the corners of my mind like black clouds. My pulse turns frantic.
My phone vibrates again, jolting me from the dark memory.
Noah: Think about it.
I calm myself and finish dusting the shelves. Deep laughter sounds in the distance. I dash into the hallway and spot Mr. Ashford and two other equally tall men walking in this direction.
There is no place for me to hide, so I step into the nearby alcove to get out of the way and avert my gaze to the herringbone wood floors. The men pass by discussing business. The owner’s English accent stands out, and another from a man who sounds Scottish.
As soon as they are near the office, I lift my head, catching them as they file into the study.
All three men wear impeccably fitted suits.
Mr. Ashford enters first, followed by a man with similar hair, but the color is a bit lighter.
The last man to enter is taller than them both.
His shoulders are broad, and his waist is trim—a perfect V.
His hair is dark blonde, almost brown, thick, and parted to the side with long bangs that cover most of his face from this angle.
The back of his hair flares a little but doesn’t touch his collar and is trimmed around his ears.
Something about him is painfully familiar.
As if he senses me staring, he pauses at the door and turns his head to look at me.
With one hand, he tucks those long bangs behind his ear, giving me a clear view of his face and impassive eyes.
The world stops spinning. I know those eyes—know the bluebell color. The flower is toxic to humans. Had I learned this fact back when I met Wesley, I would have taken it as a warning.
I want to look away from the traitorous man, but my eyes feel glued to his.
Either that or fear has immobilized me. My heart thunders in my ears.
What is he doing here? In this house? At my place of work?
Where I can easily be fired, especially if he holds sway with Mr. Ashford, which I’m sure he does.
Haven said he’s a friend or associate. I can’t remember which. This is bad, so bad.
Panic scrambles up my spine like a spider on Adder-all.
What if he comes here often? What if he remembers me?
This man is the reason Mom’s life and mine went from great to shit. He’s the reason Dad was able to finish what he started when I was seventeen. As hard as Mom and I tried to stay hidden when we returned to New England, Dad found us, only I wasn’t there to save Mom this time.
I was on that stupid blind date that she set up for me, wanting me to have a life outside of our hiding and work.
I’ll never forgive myself for leaving her.
I wish I hadn’t gone. I wish I would have told her I didn’t need to date anyone.
She wasn’t. It could be just us. I wish I’d done so many things differently that night.
Like going home when my date passed out instead of staying out late at a diner so she would think I had a great time like she had hoped.
I wish I would have trusted my gut when an arctic chill passed through me around 1 A.M. that I couldn’t explain. Was it her soul?
The coroner said she died between 12:45 and 1:30 A.M. It could have been her letting me know she was gone. Instead of going home, I ordered another coffee and searched the internet for abandoned gardens and estates that I’d love to visit one day—should I get the chance.
I blamed Wesley for ruining our lives after his family forced us from England, but after that night, I declared war on him. If it weren’t for Wesley and his selfishness, my mom would be alive. I swore if I ever saw him again, I’d make him pay—somehow, I’d find a way.
Yet here he is, and instead of having the upper hand, I’m at his mercy, just like at his family’s manor.
My jaw tightens with a scowl I can’t hide, and my blood runs hot.
I hate him almost as much as I hate my murderous Dad.
He’s complicit in a way. If he hadn’t gotten Mom and me shipped back to the U.S.
, she’d still be alive. I wait for him to call me out and paint me as the villain like he did to his father.
What I don’t expect is for his eyes to spark with hurt as if I had betrayed him.
He’s different from the young man I remember.
Colder at the edges, but it’s more than his manicured scruff and defiant cheekbones.
Life has been harder on Wesley than it was back then, and I’d seen him after he was beaten to a pulp.
The light that once shone in his eyes is gone.
He’s like a huge block of polished granite with jagged edges.
Good. He deserves whatever happened to him.
I turn and force myself to walk calmly down the corridor, certain I won’t have a job tomorrow.