Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) (4 page)

I had an initial freak out when I first found out he was the new roommate. He obviously isn't what I'd bargained for, but after a good night's sleep and some careful consideration, I've decided that I can handle him. After all, he's a magazine I can read just by glancing at the cover. There's even a strange part of me anticipating the opportunity to put an asshole in his place. I intend to do just that, if it comes to it. Especially since the asshole I truly hate is too far for me to reach now.
 

The doors behind me open, and the aroma of grilled steak wafts from the kitchen as Lex Stone, the floor manager, comes out. I'm washing a few glasses in the sink, but from my peripheral vision, I notice Mr. Suit sit up when he gains sight of her.
 

Lex doesn't seem to notice him. Her stern gaze sweeps the immediate area and I stand a little straighter when it fixes on me. There's an incredibly imposing energy to her despite how quiet she is, but the tiredness behind her expression contradicts that.
 

She's just a little older than I am. A senior, I believe. When I first met her, I thought maybe we could be friends. She's unassuming but undeniably beautiful and oozes an easy confidence.
 

She gives me the small nod I've come to know as her greeting. "How's it going?"

"Good," I say, as I set the glasses down on the drying rack. "Still waiting for the crowd."

"You're off this weekend, right?"

"I am. It was my weekend to work but I switched with Derik because I'm moving into a new place."

"Cool…" She keeps eye contact as she says it, and the word hangs awkwardly between us, not exactly inviting further conversation even while her demeanor is attentive and expectant.

I dry my hands on a towel, not sure if she's lost in thought or wanting to carry on our discussion. She's hard to read.
 

"Oh," I say, in an afterthought, "that guy over there was asking for you."

She looks past me to Mr. Suit. He flashes her a charming, pearly smile that she doesn't return.

I laugh inwardly.

Men are pathetic. The way they see a beautiful face and completely miss the blatant disinterest written all over it. I'm almost sure she'll make a point to head off in the opposite direction. But, to my surprise, she heads over to talk to him. It appears the two have met before, which would explain why he asked for her. Yet, he didn't know her name.

Well, that's a first.

I've seen her get hit on more than once in the time I've worked here. But never have I seen her lean into it in any way. That's actually one of the things about her I admire—how she handles male attention. Me, it makes me defensive. But she doesn't let it go to her head or get under her skin. She's indifferent to it and that, I think, is the essence I want to embody.

I try to grab snippets of their conversation, like the shameless eavesdropper I am, but I can't manage to catch a coherent word due to the ambient noise and music playing through the overhead speakers. They talk for over ten minutes, while I tend to a few other customers.

When they finish, he leaves and when Lex passes me again, I hear myself ask, "Who is that guy?" and immediately regret it. My question is too interested and gossipy. She and I are not at that level, I remind myself. We aren't friends.

"Just a guy," she says, straight faced, then turns her attention to a cocktail sitting on the service bar. "No one's picked up this drink yet?"
 

Before I can respond to her question, she reads the order receipt and whisks the drink away to its table. And I know that later on tonight, one of the servers is going to get an icy scolding for their lapse.

The rest of my shift goes smoothly enough. There's just one obnoxiously drunk guy to deal with, whose drinks I take the liberty of watering down before finally cutting him off. Otherwise, it's a quiet Wednesday night, hours ticking past slower than usual as I look forward to peace and quiet.

Afterward I sit in my car, my face illuminated by my phone screen as I scroll past names on my contact list. I've caught myself doing this over the last few nights, just watching the names go by and feeling a slight pull behind my navel when I reach the names of my sisters.
 

The emails from friends have dwindled away over the past few months. I'm relieved because I don't need the constant reminder. Nor do I need the disingenuous concern from people who I rarely talked to until they heard what happened. It was as if people wanted me to entertain them, wanted details of my personal life to distract themselves from their own reality. I refused to be an act in someone's circus and that meant alienating myself.

It's funny, really. I used to complain of not having a moment to myself. Living with my two sisters and my very conservative parents felt suffocating. But now, sitting in my car after a long shift, the slow build of nostalgia grows in my chest. The desire to hear a familiar voice, a familiar laugh.
 

I guess I didn't realize how often I'd unwind by telling my sisters about my day. They're my closest friends and just one simple phone call away. If I just allowed my finger to tap on Cassandra's name, I'd hear my older sister's voice and her loud, infectious energy would fill my car. Calling Lola, on the other hand, would guarantee an update on her love life, which is always eventful.

But I haven't spoken to either of my sisters in a while. We haven't had an easy conversation since the day I was sure everyone was ganging up on me, when I felt my sisters were just mouthpieces for my parents, scolding me in indirect ways.
 

Looking back, I wonder if maybe I'd been overly defensive and too hurt to see their questions for what they were—concern. Time and distance have a way of putting things in perspective.
 

And though I'm not upset with them anymore, I still scroll past both of their names, my pride not quite allowing me to press call. Calling either of my sisters carries the load from the weeks of silence, like a physical barrier we would have to climb over in conversation. That climb feels too daunting for me to tackle tonight, so, once again, I make the choice to put my phone away, to avoid facing the music for a little longer.

CHAPTER FOUR

Julia

I'
M
BATHED
IN
THE
blinding light pouring from overhead, my surroundings reduced to spots of colors from my distorted vision. Blue, tan, black, and gray halos of color.
 

There's an echo of a tuning microphone still trembling in my eardrum, drowning out what seems to be silence beyond. And as I try to bring something into sharp focus, the sounds of the microphone die out and I realize there are other noises, too. Movements, soft murmurs. The halos of blue and tan sharpen into auditorium seats, the other colors becoming the clothing of the people sitting in them.
 

I'm standing on a stage and the surrounding air grows a few degrees colder. I'm aware of my arms resting loosely at my sides. At the air pressing against every inch of my skin. Because I'm naked. I'm naked and I can't move.
 

I'm naked and every eye in the room is looking at me. No, not just looking at me. They're pointing, critiquing, discussing what they see amongst themselves. Anger fills me, because I didn't agree to this, I didn't tell them they could look. But their faces are relaxed and unapologetic as their curious eyes roam freely, never quite locking with my own. It's as if I'm trapped in a painting, reduced to something inanimate, with no right to be upset.
 

A wave of nausea washes over me, bringing up thick embarrassment at the fact that I'm still standing here, allowing it to happen. Because I'm frozen, trapped in my own skin.
 

I wake up with a sharp gasp, heart pounding, and eyes shut tight in the relief of knowing I'm awake. With my eyes closed, all I know is that I'm lying face down on soft cotton sheets. As I stir, my fingertips spreading across the linens, a new scent reaches me. A light, citrus smell, not the usual lavender of my aunt's detergent.
 

I open my eyes, blinking a few times at the light streaming in through the open blinds. This room is unfamiliar and for one wild second, I'm plunged into a panic of not knowing where I am. But just as quickly as it came, the grip over my stomach relaxes when I remember I've just spent my first night in my new room.

I sit up and take in my surroundings as I push the bed covers aside. The small room seems more spacious than it should. Not just because of its light, airy color of pale tan, but because there's practically nothing in it. My full-sized bed, courtesy of my uncle, is pushed into the corner of the room, with a single nightstand to its side. The plain, wooden bed frame is the only decorative element in the room.
 

Making this room feel like home is going to take time. And money. Money I shouldn't spend on frivolous things when I need to continue to save for my living expenses that will come fall quarter.
 

I sit on my bed for a few minutes, listening for sounds beyond my door. I only saw Ava for a few minutes yesterday as I was bringing my stuff in with my uncle. She was headed out to work. I didn't ask about Giles, but I didn't see him at all. By seven o'clock, I was completely moved in but my roommates were nowhere to be seen. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but living with two other people and not seeing either one of them for the entire night certainly wasn't it.
 

I wonder if Giles is home. And if he's in bed, I wonder if he's alone. In my mind's eye, I picture the hall outside of my room and, on the other end, the door to his room. Nerves flutter at the base of my stomach.
 

It's an easy assumption that the guy gets around. I might have guessed it even if Ava hadn't insinuated as much with her small comments about him whoring it up after his breakup. The guy's got the type of looks that lend to not having issues picking up a companion for the night. Living on a college campus, I'm sure the options are plentiful.
 

It doesn't sound like anyone's out in the living room or kitchen, so it's probably safe for me to go out and grab breakfast. Yet, even that doesn't give me the urge to go into the hall right now. Last night, feeling restless from being in an empty house, I drove to Target and wandered around the aisles for hours, mentally making a long list of the decor I'll buy when I can justify the expense. I did pick up a pair of white curtains that were on sale, along with a cheap curtain rod.

And now, as I spy the tool bag my uncle accidentally left behind, I decide I want to put up the curtains. Kind of a strange thing to want to do first thing in the morning, but somehow I'm convinced a simple pair of curtains will wrap me in a setting of familiarity and comfort.
 

Ten minutes later, I'm ready to admit that maybe this wasn't a good idea. The tallest thing in my room is my bed so I have to extend my arms over my head, trying to secure the hooks of the curtain rod to the wall. Wouldn't be a problem if this electric screwdriver didn't weigh an extra pound every second. A stray strand of hair loosens and falls across my face, forcing me to blow out a huff of air to get it out of my eyes.

"Damn it," I hiss, arm muscles burning as I try to move the holes of the hook back into the right position. The angle I'm holding the piece of metal is awkward enough and it doesn't help I can barely see what I'm doing.

"That looks like a fun time."

The unexpected sarcastic voice jars me to the point that the hook fumbles from my fingers and falls to the bed, bouncing onto the floor. I turn, slightly frazzled by the interruption, to see Giles standing inside my room.
 

Inside my room. Not at the doorway, not hesitating with his hands still gripping the door, but a good five steps inside, with the door ajar behind him.

"What are you doing in here?"
 

"I should ask you. You look like you're struggling."

A sliver of embarrassment runs through me. Putting up a curtain rod isn't freaking rocket science. But I had to go and make it difficult by thinking I could stand on my tiptoes without even being able to see what I'm doing properly.