Chapter Seven
Sierra
M y alarm went off, and I wanted to cry as I burrowed myself deeper under my duvet. Toffee’s purr vibrated against my thigh as he kneaded a cushion with single-minded determination. Connor’s final text from last night glowed on my locked screen.
Now eat and sleep, my sweet girl.
I traced the words with my fingertip until the screen went dark like the lovesick girl I was.
Work loomed like a death sentence. I shuffled to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror’s judgment. My reflection these days looked like a romance novel reject, frizzy curls, bitten lips, and dark circles.
I tugged on my clothes, deciding to wear something not well worn in case I saw Connor again.
Which I desperately wanted to. I ended up in high-waisted jeans, a lace-trimmed tank top, and the same pale yellow bee cardigan Connor had breathed against when he pinned me to the wall.
I had to wear it since it smelled like him.
The library’s automatic doors hissed open with their usual drama.
Mr. Jones appeared instantly, his face looking perpetually stressed.
He blocked the staff doorway with his clipboard, his smile too wide as he asked about the donor event.
My pulse quickened as the space between us shrank, too small and close, and I had to force myself not to bolt.
He was all smiles. “Sierra! The donors will arrive soon. Have you practiced your speech?”
My stomach dropped to the floor.
The speech.
The word made my world collapse. I’d rather French kiss a running chainsaw than stand in front of two hundred people.
“I, uh—working on it!” I ducked behind my desk, knocking over a cup of pens in my hurry. They scattered across the carpet like fallen soldiers, making my day that much better.
My phone buzzed in my cardigan’s pocket:
Connor
Eat lunch.
I blinked at the screen. It was 9:07 AM.
Sierra
It’s breakfast time?
Connor
Then eat breakfast.
Marissa materialized at my desk with a big fancy box, crumbs dusting her lips. “Someone sponsored some fancy bakery doughnuts for the library, hallelujah!” She cheered, setting the box down next to me.
I looked down at my phone suspiciously. Something told me this donation wasn’t very ‘anonymous.’
“You look like you’re going to vomit your intestines.” She shoved a powdered doughnut into my hand. “Spill.”
I sighed, begrudgingly taking a bite of the insanely delicious pastry. “The speech. I can’t do it. I’ll faint. Or vomit. Or faint while vomiting.”
Marissa shook her head, patting me on the back. “Just don’t vomit on the doughnuts, alright? I heard these are fifteen bucks a piece.”
I stared at the box of 48 on my desk in horror.
She picked up a mug from the back and slipped into the break room, leaving me with half my rent in the form of doughnuts.
The chipped mug reminded me of the time when Jerry slammed one against the wall during breakfast. The shards had scattered across the floor like tiny daggers, and I’d spent hours picking them up while he shouted about how ungrateful I was.
My phone buzzed again, pulling me out of my nightmare:
Connor
Breathe.
I nearly dropped the doughnut. How did he?—?
Mr. Jones’ clipboard appeared in the doorway again, and I immediately shoved my phone away when he sent me off to complete some tasks.
By noon, my phone was full of messages. Connor’s texts continued:
Drink water.
Sit down.
Breathe.
Each one was a lifeline and a leash I wanted to wear simultaneously.
Connor
Lunch.
Sierra
I’m busy…
Connor
Lunch, now.
I frowned at the phone, about to shove it back in my pocket and just keep working. I hadn’t brought lunch today.
Connor
Fruit bowl. Break room fridge.
I stared at the screen in disbelief. Behind Mr. Jones’ kale smoothie sat a big plastic container of star-sliced fruit, the juiciest strawberries, granola, and coconut shavings. It looked suspiciously familiar… Like I’d saved it on Pinterest… Did he have this delivered with the doughnuts?
Sierra
You are a STALKER!
Connor
Be a good girl and eat.
He didn’t deny it; each bite tasted like delicious paranoia and perfection.
The afternoon blurred into reshelving disasters. My hands were steadier than usual as I crouched in the horror section, glaring down the shelf like an omen. It wobbled, and I just wanted to go home and sleep. Or, sleep with Connor. That one sounded nice.
“Sierra?”
A deep, smooth voice startled me badly, and I whirled around instinctively, smacking my head on a bookshelf. The world tilted as the pain hit me.
“Whoa there,” Strong hands gripped my shoulders, keeping me balanced.
I looked up at the stranger, and my eyes widened. He was another huge, built man like Connor and his friend, who I figured out was WBC fighter, Adrian. But this guy was a bit leaner and… fancy-looking. St yled blond, wearing a white gym tank, showing off his serpentine tattoos and tanned muscles.
“Jax,” He smirked, standing there with his hands behind his neck.
That’s when it finally clicked. He was the WBC’s social media model and an Easton.
I felt dizzy. The Eastons were a highly influential, old-money family around here. They could be considered a duchy of the modern world, and had more wealth than imaginable.
I also recognized him as Connor’s shirtless-gym-selfie friend. His biceps and neck displayed intricate snake tattoos coiling under the lights. I was beginning to feel sweaty. “
“Your head okay?”
“Yeah…” I rubbed the spot I bumped nervously, kind of just staring up at the third boxing god I’d met in one week. Of course, he had nothing on my boxing god.
“Can I… help you?” I felt my nerves tingling, and I tapped my wrist in beat to my breathing exercise.
He chuckled low. “Connor’s at boxing practice. Sent me to check on you.” The room spun. Check on me… like I was a pet left home alone.
“He’s… intense,” Jax said, bright blue eyes eyeing the security cameras on the ceiling smugly, like he was searching for something. “You know that, right?”
“You don’t say,” I mumbled, staring at the ground. I had no idea what to say, and I wasn’t used to talking to people, much less men like this, much less an Easton.
“Good.” He smirked. “Intense keeps you alive. You could use it, bee.”
My eyes shot up at the name.
“Bee…?” I questioned, the cocky smirk on his face only widening. My phone buzzed, and I glanced down at it:
Connor
Don’t talk to him .
I looked back up, totally confused. He patted my head, ruffling my hair like a child.
“Guess that’s my cue to go. Don’t tell Connor about our special nickname.”
He winked and then strode out with the most arrogant walk I’d ever seen in my life.
When I got in my car after work, I checked my phone again:
Connor
He’s fucking dead.
My eyes widened.
Sierra
Isn’t he your friend? The Easton? He said you sent him?
Connor
He’s my fucking dead friend.
Go home, sweet girl.
How does he always know what I’m up to? I guess it is closing time for the library…
At home, I collapsed onto the couch, and Toffee curled up on my lap like usual. My notebook glared from the other side of the couch, filled with desperate scribbles I’d never admit to.
Connor
Think of me, Sierra.
[Photo]
My eyebrows shot to my hairline, and my breathing just stopped .
The photo was of Connor, shirtless and glistening with sweat in a fancy gym, his gaze locked on the camera like he could see through the phone, and I could feel myself salivating.
The fact that he’s a heavyweight champion was very obvious now. His huge pecs and abs were rippling through the screen, with thick, dark, thorny vine tattoos wrapped around his wrists and traveling up his biceps.
His black sweatpants hung low on his hips, and I was cursing that his V-line disappeared beneath his pants. I could see just the slightest bit of dark hair being teased beneath the hem of his pants, and I was a goner.
Sierra
That’s cheating.