Live for Me (7 page)

Without warning, Devin touched my arm. I jumped and turned. He had crossed the kitchen silently and was right behind me. “What?” I asked, panicked. He was crowding my space and I backed my butt up until it hit the cabinet.

“Stop with the dishes. It’s annoying. Come sit down in the family room with me.”

It was annoying? Was he serious? “Are they supposed to wash themselves then?”

“Put them in the dishwasher,” he said shortly. He reached over and yanked it open. Hard.

I stared at him, equal parts unnerved and pissed off. Diva.

But I’d spent enough years in obedience to purse my lips and keep my thoughts to myself. Nothing positive came from arguing. So I just started piling pots and a spatula into the dishwasher.

“Tiffany is displeased with me,” he said, tossing his hair out of his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a dark green T-shirt, very casual.

It was some kind of game to him. Or maybe he was just mocking me. But either way, I despised being made uncomfortable. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t honest, and just because I was the hired help, and the poor girl to boot, didn’t mean I deserved to be treated that way.

“Tiffany doesn’t like being yelled at for no reason,” I told him, tossing his stupid use of third person back at him.

His eyebrows shot up. “You think that was yelling at you?”

I nodded, closing the door to the dishwasher and brushing my hair out of my eyes. Crossing my arms over my chest, I met his gaze, chin up, nostrils flaring. “No. But you said I’m annoying.”

“I did not.” He gestured to the sink. “All that banging around of pots, the water… it was distracting. You are not annoying. In fact, you are so not annoying that I want to talk to you, which is why the whole dishwashing thing was annoying. And you don’t strike me as the overly sensitive type.”

I didn’t think I was, but sometimes you can only be made so aware of your place before it makes you angry. “Everyone has feelings.”

“And I’m sorry if I offended yours,” he said quietly. “Leave the dishes. Come sit down with me. I demand your company.”

My eyebrows rose.

“I’m
requesting
your company,” he amended.

“Why?” I asked boldly.

“Because I want to hear what you have to say. I’m surrounded by vain and silly people all the time and I’d like to have a decent conversation with someone.”

“And you think I’m capable of that?” I wasn’t sure I was. It wasn’t like I had much experience talking to thirty-year-old men, but I did have an education and frequently made free with search engines. Part of me wanted to go a few rounds with him and see if I could hold my own. But mostly I was terrified I’d sound like an idiot.

“I think you’re capable of just about anything you set your mind to.” Devin shifted closer to me and for a second I could have sworn his eyes dropped to my mouth for a fleeting glance. I had to be imagining it.

But it wasn’t my imagination that he brushed his arm against mine when he reached around me for another cupcake. His eyes challenged mine as his tongue plunged into the frosting. “You survived growing up on that rock, didn’t you?”

Then he was gone, out of my personal space.

But the effect of it lingered in my body.

I had smelled him. Seen the stubble on his chin. Felt his hot breath. Watched his tongue dip suggestively into the creamy white frosting.

There was a burn starting deep inside me that he ignited, and I knew it was stupid, knew it was wrong.

So I met his gaze head on as he backed away, my voice steady. “Yes. I did survive. Sir.”

Something about the words drew him closer to me again. His head went slowly back and forth. “But at what cost? You’re not naturally a hard ass any more than I’m naturally an asshole. Yet look at us.”

He put the cupcake up to my mouth. “Bite?”

“No, thanks,” I whispered.

“Come on. Wine for me, milk for you. Is that what you’d like? Milk and cookies, little girl?”

If he wasn’t naturally an asshole, he was doing a damn good job of being one.

Moving past him I bumped my shoulder against his before stomping over to the island to grab my cell and go down the hall.

To my room. Alone.

Where I lay on my bed on top of the covers and clutched my pillow to my chest, wondering why Devin had come back to Richfield. Why he had dragged himself away from Brooke’s amazing abs to show up and ruin my contentment.

And to wonder if I would see Devin tomorrow and why my photo was being delivered via express mail to his isolated Maine compound.

The majority of my life I’d been wary, physically and emotionally protective of myself. The last month I’d had been able to relax my personal security system, had stopped doing figurative sweeps of the world around me with floodlights.

But now I felt not in danger exactly, just at risk. Of… something.

Falling for Devin. Losing control of my life when I had finally just achieved some.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

Figuring it was Cat, I was about to turn it completely off when I realized it was Devin.

My bark is worse than my bite. Good night, Tiffany
.

All my anger disappeared. It wasn’t a direct apology, but it was contrition. For a guy who walked around having everyone kiss his ass, it was a big deal.

So I texted him back.

Good night. Devin.

Using his first name felt good. Intimate.

My Google Alert went off.

Apparently Amazing Abs Brooke had gotten into a confrontation at the Prada store with Gold Daddy’s ex-wife earlier that day. Entertainment news had the store video. You couldn’t hear what they were saying but it was clear that Kadence was the instigator and when she lunged at Brooke, Devin intervened, stopping her from hitting his girlfriend. He then appeared to be calmly and rationally talking to Kadence, even putting his arm around her when she started crying.

The video cut out, apparently the story over now that the women were no longer scraping, and I was sorry I couldn’t see the conclusion. Devin seemed compassionate, calm. Was that because he was still in love with his ex? Or was he a nicer guy than he liked to admit?

Or was I just trying to see what I wanted to see?

Either way, I was regretting my impulsive defection to my bedroom.

So I went back out into the kitchen, but it was quiet, dark. No sign of Devin or Amelia. I wondered if the Prada fight had been the catalyst for his early return to Richfield. The lights on the bottoms of the kitchen cabinets were on so the room was softly glowing. I saw the envelope sitting in the wastebasket and I fished it out, wanting to look at the pictures of Devin again. The beautiful women he spent time with. Remind myself that I was of no importance to him. He was being polite with me. He was bored. He was naturally curious. Nothing more.

But I flipped through the stack of photos twice before I realized one was missing. The picture of me.

He’d put one in his pocket. Had folded it up and slid it into his jeans pocket, right in front of me, and I had wondered at the time which one it was, and why. There were no other pictures missing but the one of me.

Devin had put me in his pocket.

I shivered, putting the envelope back in the trash and retreating to my room, shooting a glance towards the stairs, half expecting Devin to be standing there watching me.

He wasn’t. The house was still.

“Morning,” Devin said, without looking up from his laptop as I came into the kitchen.

He was still there. I was ridiculously pleased by that.

“Good morning.” I yawned and shuffled over to the coffeepot, happy to see he’d brewed a pot already and half was still available. Happy also that he hadn’t disappeared like last time. “Can I have some coffee?”

“No. You cannot have coffee.” He shook his head without looking at me. “Of course you can have coffee.”

Devin wasn’t wearing a shirt with his lounge pants, but that was the only indication it was before eight am. He didn’t look sleepy at all. He looked like he’d been tackling work for awhile, his eyes trained on the screen. “Don’t annoy me by asking my permission for everything while I’m here.”

Wow. He was starting the day off right where we’d left it. I got down a mug. “That’s easy for you to say. You may not want to be annoyed or bothered or interrupted but I’m the paid employee, remember? I can’t just walk around like this is my house.”

“Your subservience makes me uncomfortable.”

That pissed me off. “Then you shouldn’t pay people to do things for you. End of story.” I filled my mug and turned to him. “Because I can guarantee if I strolled around here back talking you and doing whatever the hell I pleased, you’d fire me. And since I need the money you pay, we’re stuck with me being polite.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Is that what you’re being?”

Maybe not exactly, but hell if I would admit it. “Yes,” I said flatly.

“Fair enough.” He pointed his finger to the laptop in front of him. “Did you write this yourself?”

The blood drained from my face. “Write what?” But I knew exactly what he was talking about. Shit, shit, and shit. I had been using the house laptop to write some fictional short stories because it was way easier than on my iPad but I hadn’t expected him to be home so soon. I had left it just sitting open in a tab on the computer when I’d stomped off to bed the night before.

“This story, ‘Head Games,’ about a girl who lives entirely in her own mind.” His amber eyes studied me carefully. “I can’t believe something so dark and intelligent and intriguing could come out of such a sweet-looking girl.”

I didn’t say anything, just hid my mouth behind the coffee mug. I had never intended for anyone to read the short story. Certainly not him, of all people. It was like splitting open my skull and allowing him to see my deepest, most inner thoughts. The ones that were murky and unpleasant and disobedient. The ones that ached and craved and yearned.

“Or did someone else write it?” he asked.

“No,” I immediately protested. “I wrote it.” While I didn’t want him to read my secret work, my pride wouldn’t allow me to let someone else take the credit for it. “I just like to make up random stories, that’s all. When my grandmother was sleeping I couldn’t leave the house, but it got boring. So I started writing. It’s not a big deal.”

Except it was. To me. But he could see right through my protests anyway.

“It’s very well written. It’s a complex story, unique.”

His compliment made me feel warm, but at the same time, I felt like I couldn’t accept it. “It’s just okay. It wasn’t what I wanted originally. It’s… flat.” Like my chest. Just no thrust to it.

“It’s not flat. It’s damn good, Tiff.”

Normally I hated being called Tiff. It sounded childish. Like a temper tantrum. But from Devin it felt like affection. “Thanks.” I was wearing skinny jeans, thick socks, and a sweatshirt. When I turned, embarrassed, intending to set my coffee down and get a bagel out of the pantry, I slipped on the hardwood floors.

My arms flailed for a second but Devin’s hand shot out and gripped me hard, steadying me. He was just trying to be helpful, but the hot contact of his skin on mine sent a jolt through me and I yanked myself away, wincing.

It was instinctive, for multiple reasons. It was because I had been dragged, yanked, pulled, more times in childhood than I could count. A hard grip had always promised pain would follow and I had learned to flee, to hide. To anticipate and brace myself against anger.

It was also because his hand was big and firm and I was undeniably attracted to him. I didn’t know how to deal with my feelings.

But the response was awkward, over the top, and he noticed.

And called me out on it.

“What was that?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I hedged.

“No. Don’t do that.” He slowly shook his head. “You said you’d be honest, remember? So tell me why you just jerked away from me when I was trying to keep you from falling on your ass.”

“It was Pavlovian,” I said, voice low, hoarse. I met his eye, defiant. I wasn’t going to be ashamed of what other people had done to me. They were in the wrong, plain and simple. I hadn’t deserved to be treated the way I had been and I wasn’t going to be embarrassed.

“Why?” he demanded. “Because you were anticipating being hit?”

I nodded. “I had people get… rough with me as a kid. I was instinctively bracing myself when you grabbed me.” Hearing the words out loud was enough to have me raising my chin even further in stubborn pride. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I warned.

“Well, that’s not very fair,” he complained. “You demand I don’t feel sorry for you, but if I callously disregard the fact that you jump like a kicked puppy, then what kind of heartless prick does that make me?” He crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Not great options you’ve left me, Tiff, so I think that I will have to defy you and tell you I feel empathy for what you’ve been through. I don’t pity you, but I have compassion.”

He was right. But I couldn’t help it. Being looked at with pity was almost as bad as disgust, another response I’d gotten frequently as a kid.
What is she?
One foster mother had asked with blatant disdain.
Is she black? Mexican?
I had been thirteen and I had been overcome with hatred for her, for everyone who looked down on me, for stupid racism that had no basis in anything but ignorance. Hatred that I was made to feel inferior, less of a human being, because I was one of a handful of biracial people in the area.

I’d already had so many reasons to be isolated, separate from everyone. That she would throw the fact that I was biracial in my face like it was some kind of defect pissed me off.

So I had leaned in and whispered to her, “I’m your worst nightmare.”

It was the smartest thing I’d ever done, because she freaked, and I had immediately been reassigned to Cat’s family, one of the few places I had felt safe.

I felt safe here too at Richfield. Even with Devin there. Maybe more so with Devin there, whether or not that was logical. “Okay,” I said simply.

“Can I touch your arm?” he asked, his voice low, compelling. “While you watch me do it. I’d just like to see that I don’t scare you. I really don’t like the idea that you could be afraid of me.”