5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Maddie
The romaine lettuce is not going to put itself away.
I know this. My brain knows this. My brain has also, in the past three days, demonstrated a remarkable commitment to ignoring things it knows.
So I stand there and stare at the open refrigerator door, the cold air pouring out over my feet, while my arm hangs suspended with a head of romaine in its grip.
My brain is busy. My brain is doing other things.
Specifically, my brain is replaying a pair of dark brown eyes, wide shoulders and an impossibly muscular chest clad in a tailored suit. My brain is a stubborn asshole and it's deeply inconvenient, especially for my poor head of romaine lettuce, which is getting all crushed in my grip.
Three days and not a single hour passed without my head circling back to Demetrius Thornwood, which is an absolutely appalling return on the years I spent chasing him out of it.
That's the thing about fifteen years of work.
You feel like you've earned something. Closure, maybe.
Or at minimum, the decency of not losing your grip on a head of romaine every time you think about a man who broke your heart back when cell phones had antennas.
Apparently, I didn't earn or learn anything in all those years.
Why did he have to be so good looking? And why did he have to sound so damned cold.
Madison? Really? Since when does he call me Madison? I'm Maddie. I've always been Maddie.
Well, that was before. I guess I'm Madison to him now. Not that I'm complaining. I'm over it.
I'm over him.
And in all likelihood, I'll never have the displeasure of seeing him ever again. I close the refrigerator, then glance down at the head of lettuce, still glaring at me from my hand.
Ugh. I'm losing it alright.
I yank the door open and shove the annoying produce in, not caring that it lands right on top of the egg carton. At least, it's out of my hands now.
I chuckle at my own pun like a lunatic. My brain mustn't be in too bad a shape if I can make puns to myself while putting groceries away. Right? Right.
"Maddie?"
Mom's voice comes from behind me. I turn, ready to tell her that I did not, in fact, lose my mind and start laughing at the refrigerator.
"I'm fine." I lie through my teeth. "I was just thinking about a funny video Dad forwarded me last night."
"Oh, of course." She smiles and her tusks pull at her lips, reminding me how much weight she lost.
She goes back to wiping down the counter. She hums a little, the same way she always does, the sound as familiar as the kitchen itself, the scuffed tile and the yellow curtains and the faint smell of that lemon cleaner she loves. I go back to unloading the rest of the bags.
"Did the hospital call?" Mom asks as I put the milk gallon next to the egg-romaine lettuce combo.
"Yesterday." I pull out the Greek yogurt, the eggs, the block of cheddar and place them all neatly on their assigned shelves. "They made me a pretty good offer."
"I'm glad it's a good offer," she says flatly, without inflection, which in itself is never good news. "But it's pretty far."
I know where she's going with this. She's not wrong, but she's not right, either.
"The commute is fine. I'll just catch up on some audiobooks and I won't even see the time passing."
Now that's the most wishful thinking there ever was. It also doesn't convince my mother.
Grace makes a sound that's halfway between a chuckle and snort. A snorckle, if you will.
"That drive is two and a half hours, Maddie."
"Hence the audiobooks." I put the sausages in the refrigerator. Carefully. "I'll just have to load up on my naughty romance novels."
She's quiet for a moment. That quality of quiet that has, over the course of twenty-some years of being my mother, learned to say more than words.
"I'm not moving, Mom," I finally say, unable to stand the silence any longer.
"I didn't say anything about moving."
"You were thinking it loudly." I close the refrigerator and face her. "Listen, Mom, I'm not leaving Saltford Bay. This is where I want to be. With you and Dad."
She sets down her cloth and stares at me with the expression of a woman who has never once been successfully fooled by anything I said.
"We're not your responsibility. You need to go on and live your life."
"I know that."
"Your father will figure things out. He always does."
The words land, and we both hear what they carry. We both know what those ripples are. We both know what's in those envelopes in that desk drawer.
"Mom." I look at her. "I'm staying. I'm happy to stay. Can we drop it?"
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she picks up her cloth and goes back to the counter and says nothing more, which is either acceptance or tactical retreat. With Grace Berwick, honestly, it can be hard to tell.
I finish putting away the groceries in comfortable quiet and for a few minutes my brain is entirely, mercifully mine.
Then someone knocks on the front door.
"Oh, for the love of orcs everywhere," Mom mutters, already moving for the hall. "If that's one of those door-to-door salesmen again, I'm going to give them a piece of my mind."
I start folding the empty grocery bags as she opens the door to answer whoever disturbed our peace. I hear her voice go from pointed to warm in the time it takes to snap the air out of our reusable bags.
Oh. Maybe it's the new neighbor down the street, paying her a visit.
As I'm about to place the reusable bags where they belong, I glance out the window above the kitchen sink.
I freeze at the car parked in our driveway. I blink a few times before deciding this is not a hallucination.
There is a Rolls-Royce parked in my parents' driveway next to my Toyota Corolla. I'm not a car person, but I know enough to understand that what I'm looking at is not a regular Rolls-Royce. Not that there's such a thing as a regular Rolls-Royce, anyway.
But this one? It's been modified within an inch of its life. It is matte black, wide as a tank, and it sits in the driveway like it descended from a different atmosphere entirely.
It takes me exactly one second to figure out who this obscene car belongs to. I know only one person who is rich enough to own a car like that.
And I also know exactly one person who is arrogant enough to park it in a quiet residential suburb like it's no big deal.
From the front hall, I hear a low, deep voice say something, and then Mom laughs, and my stomach does a stupid, involuntary thing that I am categorically refusing to acknowledge.
I walk to the door.
Mom is beaming up at Demetrius Thornwood like he's a Christmas present. He's in another tailored suit, charcoal this time. When he lifts his gaze to me his mouth twitches with the remnants of the smile he gave to Grace, which should be off-putting and very much is not.
My stomach does that stupid little flutter again and I hate everything about it.
"Maddie," Mom says, turning to me with the brightest smile I've seen on her for a long, long time. "Your old friend is here to see you."
The word friend lands with the delicacy of a sledgehammer. Demetrius Thornwood and me, we're a lot of things, but friends is not one of them. We're not even frenemies.
Demetrius looks at me and I look at him. As I stand there, the kitchen, the hallway, heck, my entire childhood home shrinks to the size of a dollhouse. That's how small everything feels compared to him.
"What a wonderful surprise," I say, with a warmth in my voice that I estimate is about ninety percent fake.
Something in his eyes catches it. The corner of his mouth ticks and his eyes tighten for just a second before his expression smooths over. Of course he wouldn't let such a small thing as one of my little sarcasms get to him.
"Well, I'll leave you two to catch up," Mom says, turning to Demetrius. "It was so nice to see you again, dear. Don't be a stranger now, you hear? Come visit whenever you're in town."
Mom puts her hand on my arm as she slips past me back toward the kitchen.
"Be nice," she murmurs in my ear in the loudest of all stage whispers.
I watch her go before I turn back to Demetrius.
"Outside," I tell him as I push right past him, forcing him to take a back step.
I close the door behind me and face him, crossing my arms over my chest.
The morning is cool, the kind of bright May cool that makes Saltford Bay look like a postcard.
Demetrius Thornwood stands there like he walked out of an advertisement for something aspirational, some cologne or private jet membership or other product I will never in my life have the option to buy.
The Rolls gleams in the driveway beside my car, which, now that I'm looking at them side by side, appears to be visibly embarrassed.
"Nice car," I say. "Is it new or is the Batmobile in the garage?"
"Good to see some things don't change." He holds my gaze, but his eyes narrow down to slits. "I see you're still a smart-ass with a big mouth."
"Takes one to know one." I fold my arms. "What do you want, Demetrius?"
Something shifts in his expression. Not annoyance, exactly. More like the recalibration of someone who came prepared for a conversation and is now doing math in his head to approach it just the right way. And I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
"I'm here to offer you a job," he says the same way I imagine rich people like him probably say most things. The way of someone who is used to getting their way. "To care for Agatha during her recovery."
I blink at him. He can't be serious.
"I can't," I answer flatly, because it's the truth. "I received an offer from Elven Mercy."
This time, it's him who crosses his arms over his expansive chest. I have a fleeting thought about his dry cleaning bill, then decide he probably doesn't even know how much it costs.
"When are you moving?"
God, he's fast. The question lands like a sprung trap. I could lie, but he'd see it, and something about being caught in a lie by Demetrius Thornwood doesn't sit well with me.
"I'm not," I say. "I'll just commute."
He gives me a look.
"That's a ridiculous plan, even for you."
"Is it as ridiculous as parking that car in someone's driveway without warning?" I ask, cocking my head to the side and giving him my biggest, fakest impression of a smile.
"You'll break down. Sooner or later, probably sooner," he says without cruelty, but also without sugarcoating it. "I'm offering you a better option. Full-time, residential care at Stronghold. You'd be on-site for the duration of her recovery."
"I told you. I already have a job."
"You have a commute that's going to grind you down inside of six weeks." He pauses, uncrosses his arms and then runs his hand through his thick black mane. I watch him do it and my stomach plays its dumb trick on me again.
Why does he have to be so freaking handsome? Why do I care again? Right, I don't.
"Thing is, Maddie, Agatha says she'll only accept you. She doesn't want a stranger living in her house. If you turn this down, I'm out of options and I'll have to force her into a recovery center. You know her, she won't do well there."
I do know Agatha. I spent years in and out of Stronghold when I was a teenager, and not once in that time did I see Agatha Thornwood concede a single thing to anyone. Sending her to a recovery center to live under someone else's schedule, someone else's rules, surrounded by strangers?
I try to imagine it. I try to imagine Agatha's face when she realizes she has to eat, sleep and bathe on the facility's schedule.
Yeah. That's a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.
"Don't do it for me," Demetrius adds, his voice low and deep, running all the way to that stupid, weak place between my ribs. "Do it for her."
I let out a slow breath and look out at the street, the morning light on the Saltford Bay oaks.
The neighbor's cat sits on the fence post and watches us with the expression of someone who has seen it all.
Then my eyes land on my beat-up Toyota Corolla and I'm reminded of that pile of unpaid bills waiting in my dad's drawer.
Shit. I'm really a weak, stupid woman. But I'm also a weak, stupid woman with a unique chance at helping my parents pay the insurmountable amount of debts they have.
"Fine." I turn back to him. "I'll do it."
His brows lift, just a fraction. He opens his mouth to speak, but I lift my hand up, stopping him before he can say a word.
"Fifty-three thousand," I say. "That's the number. Take it or leave it."
He looks at me for a moment, blinking slowly. Something in his expression moves, and I can't read it, which is more unsettling than I'd like.
"Done," he says.
He extends his hand to me.
I look at it. His hand is large, which is an objective fact, minotaur build being what it is, but it still manages to churn my guts into knots.
I take it.
The contact hits me somewhere behind my sternum, warm and solid and deeply, mortifyingly electric. My whole arm tingles from palm to shoulder. Something happens to my pulse that I am going to need several uninterrupted hours to not think about.
I shake his hand and let go in approximately the right amount of time, which is the most I can say for myself.
"I'll be there in an hour," I tell him.
"I'll see you then."
I blink and cock my head like a freaking golden retriever puppy.
"What? Why?"
"I'm staying at Stronghold through the recovery," he says with a flat tone. "Until she's back on her feet."
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
I'm going to be stuck living under the same roof as him for six to eight weeks?
"Great," I say, in a voice that implies it is the opposite of great. "See you there."
Then I do the only thing I can think to do that is not screaming mindlessly into the void. I go back inside and close the door on him as he's still looking at me. A few moments later, his heavy steps travel down the stairs as he leaves. I stand in the hallway and wait until I hear the car start.
Then I go to the kitchen window and watch that obscene machine back out of the driveway and roll down the street and disappear around the corner like it was never here at all.
I must be out of my mind. That's the only explanation.
If someone had told me I'd agree to live under the same roof as Demetrius Thornwood, I would have asked them what they were on and if they had enough to share.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.