Chapter 20
Maren
“This is your house?” Zara sounds just as awed as I expected as she stares out the windshield at Trevor’s home. “How many people live here?”
“Just me.” Trevor looks at his house, brows pinching together. “Kinda dumb, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Zara’s honest answer is unhesitating.
So is Trevor’s laugh. A smile splits his face and the deep, rich sound of his amusement fills the van. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
I’ve met a lot of men who don’t appreciate honest women. Guys who don’t like hearing the truth in any capacity. Maybe they find it intimidating. More likely, they don’t like hearing they aren’t the best fucking thing ever.
Not Trevor. For some reason, he seems to find it fantastic. Looking back, the meaner I was to him, the more often our paths crossed. And now I’m wondering if that was by design. The more shit I dished out, the more he showed up to take.
Which is real fucking confusing considering he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who takes shit from anyone.
I park in his driveway, leaving the engine running. I fully intend to stay out here waiting for him. Going inside his home feels like crossing a bridge I’ll never be able to get back over.
But instead of letting me stay in my tiny remaining bubble of emotional safety, the jerk reaches across the console and shuts off the engine himself before punching the button to open Zara’s door.
Obviously he was also paying attention while I buckled her in, because he goes straight to where she sits and begins unhooking her chair.
Now I either have to sit out here on my own, or follow my sister into the mansion staring back at me.
Fucking hell.
I snap my belt free a little more aggressively than necessary before sliding out, crossing both arms over my chest while he frees my sister and pushes her down the ramp. It takes me a second to figure out why he suddenly stops, staring at the face of his home.
“How in the hell are we going to get you inside?” Trevor tips his head so he can see Zara’s face. “You want a piggyback?”
My sister hates to be carried. Has from the minute she was big enough to scoot around on her own.
I know her determination to be independent is likely why she’s doing as well as she is and has come as far as she has, but sometimes it makes things more difficult.
To be honest, it would be so much easier to pick her up and carry her to bed instead of slowly following her down the hall.
And I am determined not to take that freedom away from her.
But letting Zara try to scale the set of stairs leading to Trevor’s front door is an entirely different story.
It just isn’t an option. Sure, they’re wide and sturdy, definitely well-built and solid.
But there’s no easily accessible handrail, and if she falls, the hard edges will do way more than cause bruising.
I hold my breath, hoping she rejects his plan. Then we can load right back up into the van and wait while he gets ready.
To my dismay, my sister seems thrilled over Trevor piggybacking her, and she laughs hysterically as he crouches in front of her, pretending she’s choking him as she wraps both arms around his neck.
His hold on her is careful but secure as he keeps her safely in place while I collapse her chair and trudge behind them. He turns to me as I reach the bottom of the steps, tipping his head at the wheelchair. “Leave that. I’ll come get it once we get her inside.”
I consider ignoring his command, but the chair is pretty fucking heavy and I don’t necessarily want to fall down the stairs either. So, I leave it behind, watching as he finishes scaling the steps and punches a code into the keypad on the door.
“I saw the numbers you pushed.” Zara grips a little tighter as he shifts his hold so he can push the door open. “It was four, two, one, seven.”
“Sounds like you’re planning to come over and steal all my stuff.” Trevor pauses in the foyer, looking from side to side. “You want to watch TV while I get ready?”
“Yeah.”
Zara giggles as he bounces her down the hall, leading me deeper into his home.
And what a home it is.
Trevor’s office gave me a clue of what his style might be like, but seeing it on this scale is almost imposing.
It’s a dramatic combination of sleek and elegant.
The furniture filling the space is an eclectic collection of modern and antique.
The colors range from bright and bold, to muted and soft, to dark and regal.
The variety is almost startling, but somehow it all works together.
There’s an office just inside the front door lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and art.
Leather furniture and glass tables accent the large desk dominating the space.
The travertine tile is softened with area rugs layered in a way that looks random but is probably well thought out, and crimson drapes scrape the floor and stretch to the ceiling.
Across the hall is a formal living room sporting velvet rolled-arm sofas in a deep emerald hue.
A gold and mahogany coffee table is positioned between them, with artfully arranged sculptures lined down the center.
The wood floor of the entryway carries into the room, and again, plush area rugs are purposefully scattered across the floor.
The room is stunning. Exactly the sort of space I would expect to see on the cover of a magazine.
Also, the last place I would feel comfortable plopping down to munch popcorn and watch TV.
I continue on, passing a stunning dining room that doesn’t look like anyone has ever eaten in it, a hallway leading to a half-bath, and a door that’s probably attached to the garage. Then I enter Trevor’s kitchen and my jaw drops.
The kitchen in my trailer is tiny. There’s barely enough counterspace to set a cutting board on, and no room for a microwave.
Trevor’s kitchen does not have that problem.
If anything, it suffers from an opposite issue.
I could lay at the center of the island, spread eagle, and not be able to touch a single edge.
He has enough room to display every small appliance in existence, but doesn’t appear to own a single one.
Like the formal living room, it’s a beautiful space.
One I wouldn’t ever want to cook in. It’s too pristine. Too perfect. A kitchen you look at but don’t use.
Just like the rest of the place.
I finally find Trevor and Zara in the backmost room.
Unsurprisingly, it’s yet another impeccably designed area.
Soaring ceilings are covered in planked wood.
Gigantic windows allow light to spill in.
A fireplace I could probably park my van inside dominates one wall, and there’s a fancy furniture store somewhere missing every item from its showroom floor.
But even with throw pillows and blankets scattered around the U-shaped sectional, I can’t imagine Trevor lounging in here.
And that sort of makes me sad. Who can’t be comfortable in their own home? The place you’re supposed to decompress and relax.
Maybe that’s why the man can turn coal to diamonds with his butthole.
Zara doesn’t seem to have the same struggles I do about this place, though. The second Trevor plunks her onto the cushions, she sprawls across the luxurious couch, shoes on the upholstery as she demands he turn on the movie theater-size television so she can watch cartoons.
Once ponies are prancing across the screen, Trevor turns to me. “Would you like a tour?”
Kind of… But not out of nosiness. Part of me is hoping I’m gonna find at least one room that looks lived in. “Sure.”
Trevor holds an arm out, motioning to the stairs. “After you.”
I slowly work my way up to the second floor, a weird sort of sadness collecting in my belly as we move from room to room.
Each one is fully furnished and expertly decorated.
There are bedrooms, a study, a laundry room that is probably as big as my entire home, and a gym, complete with mirrored walls and specialty rubber flooring.
And even though I am quite confident Trevor at least makes use of the gym, not a single space appears to be lived in.
Nothing is out of place. There’s no sign anyone actually inhabits this place.
By the time he shows me to a room at the end of the hall, I feel almost sick.
Sad for him in a way I don’t normally feel for other people.
My life was so hard growing up that it’s sort of killed my empathy for other people’s struggles. Their complaints always seem so shallow and minuscule in comparison to what I went through. And I don’t know how the hell it happened, but somehow I feel bad for Trevor.
Things haven’t been easy for me, but I have someone to love. I have someone who loves me back. My days are full of happiness and laughter and joy, courtesy of the little girl watching cartoons downstairs. My house is lived in and loved in and warm and messy and comfortable…
And the exact opposite of Trevor’s in every way that counts.
Maybe I’m starting to figure out one of the reasons he’d rather sleep on my couch than in his expensive bed. Because everything about this place feels hollow. Empty. In spite of how full it is.
I can’t imagine living an empty life that’s full of nothing.
Trevor leads me into the bedroom that has to be his, and I numbly take it in, my throat tight over what it must feel like to come home to this every night.
“Your house is beautiful.”
It’s the truth, but only part of it.
His house is also cold and unyielding. At one point, it would’ve made complete sense because that’s what I believed Trevor was.
Now…
I move toward his bed, trying to muster up some sort of anger or irritation to cut through the sympathy and sadness. Unfortunately, I can’t make it happen.
“But I can’t really imagine you living here.”
“That’s because I don’t.”
I spin to face him, confused. “Then what—”
“I live at the office, Maren. It’s my whole life. Always has been. There’s no room for anything else.” Trevor’s eyes drag around the place he’s supposed to feel most relaxed. “Even here.”
I swallow hard. My job is important to me, but only because it’s a means to an end. It’s how I take care of myself. How I take care of my sister. How I ensure we both get everything we need to be healthy and happy. It’s not my whole life. Not even close.
But Trevor has more than McKinley Security Systems. I know that for a fact. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. “What about your brothers? Your family?”
“They are why my job is my whole life. My brothers depend on me being my best. If I drop a ball, everyone suffers.” He takes a step toward me. “But not only do they need me to stay focused, you need me to be my best. Your life and your security are in my hands.”
Holy shit.
I was starting to get the idea Trevor might have some obsessive tendencies. Might have even liked it a little when I was the focus. But this is starting to sound unhealthy. No one should carry the weight of an entire company on their shoulders. It’s impossible.
Even shoulders as broad and strong as Trevor Bradshaw’s.
“I get what you’re saying.” I try to keep my tone from sounding snarky, and do a surprisingly good job.
“But the rise and possible fall of McKinley Security Systems isn’t dependent on your willingness to work yourself to death.
” I step closer, noticing the shadows under his eyes for the first time.
“You are important, but you aren’t important enough to be the entire key to the success of your company. ”
That might have sounded mean, but honestly, it’s the truth. Trevor is great. He’s awesome at what he does. He clearly cares deeply for everyone who works at McKinley, and has decided the burden of their lives is his to bear.
Which is kind of dumb.
I probably won’t tell him that. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, though. Because I think he might need to hear it.
“But everyone there relies on me.” He rakes a hand through his hair, looking a little distraught. “Security needed my help last night, and I wasn’t there.”
“So?” I shrug, confused about what that has to do with anything. “Were you the only person who could help them?”
Trevor stares at me for a second before scoffing, the hand dropping from his hair to his side. “No, but they had to bother Titus about it.”
“Again, so?” I’m still not seeing the issue here. “Sometimes they bother Titus. Sometimes they bother you. Sometimes they probably bother Toby, and other times they bother Tucker. I bet they even annoy Walker from time to time. As long as it gets handled, why does it matter who does it?”
“Because it’s my responsibility.” Trevor sounds a little desperate. Like he’s trying to make me understand.
I don’t see that happening, because what he’s saying doesn’t make any sense. Not to me.
It clearly does to him, though, and I don’t think that’s something we’re going to figure out today.
“Not everything is your responsibility, Trevor.”
“It is. I’m the one who wanted to expand the business. I convinced everyone else it was possible. I’m the reason things are the way they are.” He’s almost pleading with me now, and it makes me sad all over again.
I can’t believe this jerk has made me feel so freaking bad for him. That somehow he’s making me think I might almost respect him.
Maybe even like him. A little.
And that little bit of like is probably responsible for the way I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his body against mine in a hug.
I don’t normally like to hug people. It makes me uncomfortable. They usually squeeze too tight or hang on too long, and after a few seconds I’m stuck trying to figure out how in the hell to get out of it.
But hugging Trevor isn’t uncomfortable. He’s warm and firm, and even though I know he hasn’t showered since yesterday, he smells really good. Good enough, I accidentally close my eyes and press my face into the crook of his neck, breathing deep against his skin.
And somehow, magically find a way to relax in his very un-relaxing house.
“I just don’t want to let you down, Maren.” He holds me tighter. “If you and Zara ever ended up in a bad position because of a decision I made, I don’t think I would be able to get over it.”
This fucking man.
How can someone be so annoyingly and infuriatingly sweet? I want to yell at him and cuddle him at the same time.
But maybe I could settle for something that might make us both feel a little better.
Shoving away from him, I point the way we came in. “Close the door.”
Trevor looks in the direction I indicated. “Why?”
I grab the hem of my sweatshirt, yanking it over my head and letting it drop to the floor. “Because we’re about to fuck.”