Chapter 23 (1/2)

IT WAS RIGHT AFTER MY MUM LEFT to go back to London after Christmas, and Tessa had looked up at me with worried eyes. “Hardin?”

“Yeah?” I had asked, speaking through the pen between my teeth.

“Will you help me take this tree down when you’re finished working?”

I wasn’t actually working; I was writing, but she didn’t know that. We had had a long and interesting day. I had caught her coming back from lunch with fucking Trevor, and then I’d bent her over her desk and fucked her senseless.

“Yes, just give me a minute.” I tucked the pages away, afraid that she would see them while cleaning up, and stood to help her take down the tiny tree she’d decorated with my mum.

“What are you working on anyway? Is it anything good?” She reached for the tattered binder she constantly complained about my leaving around the house. The coffee-cup rings and pen marks covering the weathered leather drove her insane.

“Nothing.” I jerked it from her hands before she could open it.

She pulled back, obviously surprised and a little hurt by my actions. “Sorry,” she said quietly. A deep frown set across her beautiful face, and I tossed the binder on the couch and reached for her hands. “I was just asking. I didn’t mean to pry or upset you.”

Fuck, I was such a prick.

I still am.

“It’s fine, just don’t mess with my work shit. I don’t . . .” I couldn’t come up with an excuse as to why, because I hadn’t stopped her in the past. Whenever I came across a draft that I knew she would like, I would share it with her. She loved when I did that, and there I was scolding her for doing it now.

“Okay.” She turned away from me and started to pull the ornaments off the hideous tree.

I stared at her back for a few minutes, wondering why I was so angry. If she read what I was writing, how would she feel? Would she like it? Or would she be appalled and throw a fit? I didn’t know, and I still don’t, which is why she still has no clue about it to this day.

“Okay? That’s all you have to say?” I picked at her, wanting a fight. Fighting was better than ignoring; shouts were better than silence.

“I won’t mess with your things anymore,” she said without turning to look at me. “I didn’t know you would be so upset.”