STEPHANIE
SEVEN
Every story begins with a knock at the door. The tragedy is never knowing whether it’s the hero or the villain standing on the other side.
The birds chirp their morning song, and the sun makes its way into the sky, chasing the shadows but not the demons that haunt me.
I haven’t slept, not one wink, since I got home last night.
I sat in my two-bedroom pool house listening for Honor and Fox arriving home, hoping that with the lethal-trained bodyguard patrolling the grounds, I could relax.
If anything, it made me more anxious because whoever risked placing the flowers in front of my door most likely knew who lived here and wasn’t deterred.
That either makes them stupid or skilled. Either way, they’re dangerous.
No matter how hard I stare, the flowers I abandoned on the coffee table, still wrapped in tissue paper, aren’t going to disappear.
The lack of a card makes them extra creepy, and I keep circling back to the fact that someone gained access to the property.
The alarms weren’t triggered, there was nothing out of place, and no sign of anyone from my past hunting me here.
And yet, the irrefutable evidence is wilting before me.
Could it be a coincidence? I think back to whom I’ve told my calla lily story to.
The answer is few. Definitely no one since I walked out of the institute.
If I tell anyone I’m freaking out over some pretty blooms, I fear they’ll ship me straight back to Green Hay Hospital with a giant tag that reads: She tried, but don’t let her loose again.
Duke rumbles his displeasure at the fact that we’ve been on the sofa and not the bed for the entire night. Daft dog could snore his way through a hurricane.
“Don’t judge me,” I mutter. He huffs, rolls onto his back, and falls off the sofa in a move only a gigantic dog could make look natural. The corner of my mouth lifts. “Should we get some breakfast, big guy?”
He scrambles to his feet at the mention of food and checking in on his parents, who insist I take the brute with me whenever I can on account of him ruining their love life. I can only imagine Duke’s response to their enthusiastic noises. The poor guy is lovable but clueless.
I rise to my feet, and my phone blasts out “The Imperial March” theme tune that Eleanor attached to my brother’s name, and somehow she’s locked it down so I can’t change it.
I shake my head and decide to ignore my overbearing sibling.
My mind is full enough without Hunter cutting straight through everything I’m not saying to figure that something’s wrong.
I’m not a child anymore. Some things I need to handle myself, or how can I ever hope to make my way in the world? I want to leave my mark, to do some good, make some change, no matter how small.
I make my way into the kitchen and prepare Duke’s breakfast first. He butts against my hip in anticipation, almost taking me off my feet.
I laugh as I place his bowl down before opening the refrigerator and scanning the contents.
I’ve been trying to mix up my own culinary offerings.
The institute’s food was fabulous, but after years, it became predictable.
Snatching the eggs, cheese, and a pepper, I set about making an omelette.
I prepare my favorite herbal tea and settle on the stool at the breakfast bar with my plate and phone.
My fingers tap through my choices of Wuthering Heights or a recent spicy romcom.
I opt for the latter, needing to get lost in the ease of the world the author has built.
The classics are great, but I could recite them by heart at this point.
They offer comfort, but not a distraction.
My phone beeps with a notification, most likely from Hunter. He can wait.
Duke’s head appears on my lap. He finished his breakfast before I had three bites of mine, and now he’s going to drool on my lap until he gets a treat. It’s not lost on me that I’ve started to forgo the onions I love so he can have some of my meal.
I give him a scratch behind his ears, and an entire chapter goes by before I realize I’m almost done. I wink at Duke and let him have my plate on the floor, which he cleans like his sole purpose in life is to make china sparkle.
I grin as I load the dishwasher. “Quick shower, buddy, then we can go pester your parents.”
He drops onto the sofa with a long-suffering sigh.
I eyeball the lilies once more. Still there. A reminder of my past staring me in the face.
And the prize for the queen of wishful thinking goes to... Stephanie King.
Honor has the attention of many people on the sidewalk as she explains the latest happenings with the foundation.
It’s not so much what it does—that alone is the most important part, and she wouldn’t have it any other way—but the way she holds her own and speaks so passionately about her vision and how the legal system is fucked.
Although she puts it much more eloquently for the pearl clutches among her impromptu audience.
We’re here for a very important donor meeting. She told me earlier, “That man has cash to burn, and I’m more than happy to use it to set fire to the shitty assholes who raise their hands and abuse their partners.”
I decide to go into the cafe ahead of her. The divine scent of ground coffee and warm, fresh out of the oven pastries swirls around me as I join the long line, finding myself caught in that weird part where I’m literally propping the door open with one foot in and my other out of the premises.
My phone rings in my purse again.
“For fuck’s sake, brother,” I grumble, flicking the damn thing on silent. Whatever it is can wait until I’ve had my carb fix.
“Overbearing, is he?” a familiar male voice asks from behind me.
I spin and come face to face with the man from the balcony. The one with steely, unnerving eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt. I don’t care that I’m being rude. He’s disconcerting, bordering on creepy.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“This is my town.”
He cocks his head. “And yet here we both are.”
“It’s a small town for a chance meeting.”
He holds a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Stephanie.”
Did I tell him my name?
“I’m confused.” And unnerved.
“Like ninety percent of other Americans at this time of day, I’m grabbing a coffee, and if I’m not mistaken, I can smell apple pie.”
Someone decides it’s a great time to leave the cafe, meaning I have to squash to the side to let them out. Christopher’s gaze skims over me, and I don’t enjoy his attention one bit. It makes every hair on arms stand on end.
My eyes narrow. I have to stop behaving like a fawn around men like this. I fold my arms. “No, not in a cafe, in this cafe.”
“Is it a private, invitation-only sort of place?” He looks around for the nonexistent sign.
“Don’t be ridiculous. But you can’t expect me to believe you happened to be in this small town grabbing a coffee at the same time as myself.”
“I have a meeting with your boss.”
“You’re the donor?”
“Potential.”
Shit. I’ve insulted someone who could bankroll an expansion of Honor’s vision to save countless more lives.
I tuck a curl behind my ear. “Sorry, weird night. I’m a little jumpy. Let me grab your coffee order and pie. How do you take it?”
“Strong and black.”
He doesn’t thank me as his big body brushes against mine while he moves inside.
Did his fingers skim my hip? It’s hard to tell what’s intentional or not in this cramped space.
Except I glance up and find the line has moved forward so much that he should have waved for me to go inside and keep an appropriate amount of space between us.
I clench my jaw and step up to Rosemary, the owner, to place our order.
“Oh, are you getting pie?” Honor whispers over my shoulder.
“No, it’s for your donor.”
She scans the room and waves at Christopher, who is seated so he can stare straight at us. No, at me. Stop making everything about yourself. I won’t be that girl.
She brushes her arm against mine and leans in.
“I know you met him at the ball, and he’s a little intense.
Normally I wouldn’t do these meetings in person as I prefer to keep them remote, but he was passing through and insisted he needed to get a deeper understanding of the foundation before he cuts me a check for five hundred big ones. ”
“Five hundred thousand?” I whisper.
Honor chuckles. “No, million.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yep. So despite the creepy vibes, he intends to give up that money. If you aren’t comfortable, I can call Fox.”
She’s already dragging her phone from her purse. I put my hand over hers. “No, it’s fine. It’s good to face a little fear. It’ll help reinforce in my brain that nothing bad happened because we sat near a guy.”
“You’re doing so much better than you realize,” she says as our tray slides toward us. “Give yourself some grace.”
I square my shoulders at her words, grasp the tray, and turn to face Christopher with a smile, which he returns.
See, evil men don’t smile like that.
Wrong. I’m so wrong. And I know better, because even the devil seduces with a smile.