Page 6 of The Bunny Blues

“We need to go. I have two more people I need to speak with before they leave.” Brett took my arm and tilted his head in Kacy’s direction. “Excuse us.”

I let him lead me away without complaint. Part of me was even relieved at the interruption. I knew my best friend, and as soon as she caught her breath, she was going to ask about my fluffle… and I didn’t have a clue how to answer.

If we’d been alone, I might’ve poured out the whole bitter story, but I couldn’t risk breaking down in public. Besides, this was the happiest time of my bestie’s life—essentially her honeymoon—and I didn’t want to burden her with my problems.

With no small effort, I kept my smile in place for the next hour and only let it slip when the car door closed behind me.

Unstrapping my heels, I sighed with relief and sagged back against the leather seat. We rode home in blessed silence, and my eyes drifted closed.

“We’re home.”

I jerked, startled awake by his voice.

“O… Okay,” I mumbled and climbed from the car.

“You did good this evening.” A warm glow lit my chest with the praise, but it was quickly doused when Brett motioned toward the car. “Don’t forget your shoes. I don’t like other people’s crap in my car.”

Without waiting, Brett turned and strode toward the house, leaving me standing in the driveway.

I was a strong, capable woman, and I could carry my own dang shoes…

But I couldn’t help but imagine how differently Kacy’s fluffle would’ve treated her in this same situation. They wouldn’t have allowed her to carry a thing, and I would bet money they would have carried her into the house as well.

My jaw tightened in frustration. I loved taking care of my mates, but I wanted to be taken care of too.

Stop whining, Ellora. This is your life now, and you will get used to it.

My inner pep talk did nothing to make me feel better. At some point, my disappointment would have to ease, and I’d become numb to the hurt. It was strange how much I looked forward to that day.

Grabbing my shoes, I closed the car door and trudged up the dark sidewalk toward the mansion.

Ishivered as I entered the house. It was cold and empty, nothing like the warm home I’d dreamed of owning as a little girl.

Brett had already disappeared into his office, and the rest of the fluffle was nowhere to be seen. Deciding I was too tired to carry on a conversation, I went straight to my room.

Tossing my heels to the floor, I collapsed onto the bed without bothering to remove my makeup or dress. The moment my head hit the pillow, the blessed nothingness of sleep claimed me.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept before the sound of feminine laughter drifted through my dreams. It was followed by the rumble of a man’s voice. My eyes fluttered open. Was it a dream?

Lifting my head from the bed, I listened. The only sound I heard was the loud, echoing tick of the ornate grandfather clock that stood at the end of the hallway outside my room.

After tossing and turning for an hour, I fell into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by my alarm far too soon. The men would leave for work in two hours. I needed to make myself presentable and start making breakfast.

Stumbling to the bathroom, I cleaned the smeared mascara from my face and ran a brush through my hair in a futile attempt to tame it. While I brushed my teeth, I studied my reflection and debated applying makeup in an effort to make myself more attractive to my mates.

Then I remembered their lack of interest the night before.

I wasn’t conceited, but I’d looked my best last night, and all it had earned me was a backhanded compliment. If my most glamorous self hadn’t attracted my mates, I doubted a dab of concealer and swipe of mascara was going to make a difference.

Deciding I deserved a morning of relaxed comfort, I pulled my hair into a bun and slipped on a pair of comfy sweatpants and an oversized tee shirt.

I paused in front of the mirror to study my reflection one last time. Meeting my dark blue eyes, I hated the sadness I could see swirling in their depths.

“You’ve got this, Ellora. One day at a time,” I whispered before flicking off the bathroom light and heading downstairs to make breakfast.

Less than an hour and a half later, I was pulling a tray of made-from-scratch biscuits from the oven. A strand of hair fell loose from my bun, and I blew it out of my face so I could admire the fluffy, golden yumminess in front of me.

I often wondered where I’d gotten my love for baking and cooking from. My mother never stepped foot in the kitchen unless it was to open a bottle of wine. We’d had a chef who made all our meals and maids who kept our sprawling house spotless.

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