Chapter 12
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I suffer.
Mirabelle
Mirabelle.
The hairs on my arms rise, and a distressed noise pushes its way from my chest to my throat.
Hand on my cheek, I dust. And dust. And dust.
As though I am not incredibly haunted at the moment.
Mirabelle.
Mr. Anders’s voice steadily saying my name kept me up all night.
Worse, I feel his hands all over me—on my cheek, my shoulder, my…
Another distressed sound leaves me while I feel the way my apron cinched around my waist yesterday after I’d worried the bow undone and he’d fixed it.
I understand nothing right now. Nothing at all.
This must be a billionaire fad, a new form of psychological torture, a way for rich people to pass the time.
I don’t know.
“Mirabelle?”
Tensing, I squeak, because that wasn’t an echo in my head. I whip around in the hall, clutch my duster, and stare.
Big.
So big.
Mr. Anders climbs the stairs, growing bigger with every step.
Unbidden, my body heats and shivers all at the same time.
“Mr. Anders,” I say, “is there…something you need?”
He shakes his head. “Can I help you with anything right now?”
Right. Of course. I forgot. He does this.
Because he’s bored, and lonely, and fond of me or something.
Does he not have any friends? I mean, I know he just moved here this year, but can’t he private jet his friends from wherever he was before over for a weekend? Maybe he needs local friends?
I gasp.
He tilts his head.
“Jeffry.”
His jaw locks, and his eyes blacken. “What about Jeffry?”
I clap my free hand to my mouth.
He advances, slow and lethal. “What about Jeffry, Mirabelle?”
His hand lands flat against the wall behind me, and he hunches, caging me in as he lifts my chin on the crook of his knuckle.
Holy…mashed avocados…
My skin buzzes as my functioning shuts down.
“Tell me.”
I would. Really. I would love to say that I was thinking about setting you up on a play date with some local friends, and Jeffry is the first guy who came to mind, but, see, my mind…isn’t working anymore.
What in the world is wrong with me?
Am I terrified?
I must be terrified, right?
Except I’m not cold, or clammy, or anxious. And that’s really, really weird, because I am always anxious. Except, maybe, when I’m with Fawn and she can distract me from all the perpetual nerves. Otherwise? Anxiety and I are in a symbiotic relationship.
It’s rather intimate, too.
All things considered, I’m pretty sure Anxiety keeps me up all night. Including, most recently, last night.
When I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I swallow, and Mr. Anders’s knuckle follows the action down my throat, toward my clavicle.
Logically, my knees buckle.
He swears, and then his arm is around my waist, holding me up. “Mirabelle—” Panic crosses his features as I turn to putty and slide right out of his grasp. He’s the only reason I don’t hit the floor harder, because he follows me all the way down to it, bracing my dead weight the best he can.
I am so terribly glad there isn’t a single chance a camera can catch sight of us right now. I don’t even want to think of the lies they’d come up with.
Mouth dry, I whisper, “Must you call me by my name?”
His lips part, and he glances down slow, then back up, so quick. “I think…I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
“Oh.”
“Does it bother you?”
Deeply and in ways I don’t even know how to explain. But I think I’ve spent far too much time over the the last day telling him about how little I like him, so I keep my mouth shut.
This, for reasons unknown, results in him combing his fingers through my long hair, skating a light touch across the lace of my hair scarf when he passes it on his way to torment the brown strands. Lower, he repeats, “Does it bother you, Peters?”
In this precise moment, I don’t know what bothers me. I need to say something. Like. Get off me. Or maybe. This isn’t business professional, sir. Or possibly…
Or possibly I’ll just stay quiet, and stare at him, and continue to lose my mind.
One way or another in the silence he seems to regain an understanding of decorum, stops touching me, and rests back on his heels in a crouch. Arms folded atop his knees, he murmurs, “What about Jeffry?”
“What’s it matter?”
“You’re supposed to be speaking your mind around me.”
“I…am?”
His head tilts, and the severity in his eyes bores through me. “That’s what we decided last night, wasn’t it?”
I wasn’t aware we’d made any decisions last night. Last night, I left to apologize. He had a breakdown and told me that he can’t help being a terrible person because it’s how he’s learned to survive. I said, Understandable, have a good night. And then I failed to sleep for the next eight hours.
At my silence, he sighs and rises, giant before me. Offering his hand, he casts an indecipherable look down at me.
I look at his face, then at his hand, then back to his face.
He lifts a brow.
I dare to open my mouth. “I don’t want to take that.”
“What?”
“Your hand. I don’t want to.” I wet my lips.
I might be trembling. “But I don’t want to not take it, because that’ll look rude.
But I’m not trying to be rude. I just…” I cannot feel my face, shoulder, or…
I whimper. Chin, waist, hips… I can’t feel many parts of me without the addition of him.
Worse, he’s gone and left a lot more casual touches this morning, all before breakfast.
I cannot keep thinking of myself as a patchwork of this man’s handprints.
I will need to sleep eventually.
His fingers close. “I’m sorry.”
“No. No, it’s my fault. I’m…not feeling well today.”
“If you’re sick, you can take the day off.”
Ha. If I took a day off every time I felt mentally unstable, I would be homeless. “I’m well. I just…don’t feel well, you know?”
His expression does not say, Ah, yes, I perfectly understand, you relatable queen. Which is, of course, why I tend to think very carefully before I speak and opt to remain quiet most of the time.
He crouches, again, and my breath catches in response to the regained nearness.
He peers at me for many long moments, then he reaches for me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and breath leaves me when his hand meets my cheek—the other one, neither cheek is sacred now. Heat boils and rises and overflows.
“Interesting,” he murmurs.
“What is?” I whisper.
He removes his hand, so I peek at him, find him rising and…
He’s smiling.
Smiling.
Down at me.
Softly.
So, so, so softly.
It is the warmest expression I have ever—in my life—seen on anyone’s face.
“Don’t worry about it.” Then he offers me his hand again. Gently commanding, he says, “Take it.”
Dazed, I obey, and he draws me up closer to his smile. My hand tingles in his. I can’t breathe.
“Now…” His thumb runs over my knuckles. “About Jeffry?”
“Who?” I ask.
His smile stretches. “Never mind. It’s almost time for breakfast, Mirabelle. I’ll help.”
That snaps me out of the haze. It’s almost breakfast time? Pulling my hand free of his, I check my phone and gasp. He’s right. Any longer, and I’d be late.
Moving past him for the stairs, I push back my hair, let my cold fingers graze my warm neck, and find something like stability before I dare to look back at Mr. Anders. “You can pick the fruit you’d like this morning and wash it.”
Tucking his fingers in his pockets, he returns his face to normal. “’Kay.”
’Kay…
Breakfast.
That’s all I need to worry about right now.