Page 11 of Keeping Mr. Sweet

“And such a pain in the ass.” His scruffy jaw scratches at my scalp. “You and Summer together, following poor Sam around everywhere.”

Not that my best friend had wanted to spend that summer stalking her brother, no, that had been entirely up to my ability to be persuasive. “We didn’t. You were always hogging the pool.” “That’s true, but we were staying in the guest house. The deck opened onto the water.” He laughs and his chest shakes. “It’s good to see you again. I barely recognized you, although there was something familiar...”

“Ru, you need to get back on this order, now.” Sam growls, and there’s a warning in his voice where he’s only been jovial the entire time I’ve been watching them.

It sets me on alert, while Ru stiffens and jerkily lets me go.

“Right.” He can’t seem to look at me anymore, his gaze settles somewhere near my left ear while he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. We’ll catch up later, yeah?”

“Of course,” I say as the reason Sam growled clicks into place. Ru saw the video too. Sam knows it. Perhaps they…oh God…did they watch it together? Is this what it’s going to be like now? Everywhere I turn will be someone I know who’s seen the tape? Will strangers come up to me in the street because they think they know me now? Is how far I can spread my legs all anybody is going to be able to equate me with?

Backing out of the kitchen, I can’t take my gaze off Ru as he goes back to his station. My elbow hits plaster and jolts my focus as I stop against the wall. Sam’s watching me, his blue eyes soft and filled with concern like always. He must think I am the biggest fool.

Spinning away from his gaze, I sprint upstairs. There are piles of boxes stacked up neatly against the walls of the storage room that I have to walk through before I can hide away again. In Sam’s room. In his bed. Under the covers. Right now, I want to be six years old again, hiding with Summer under her blankets with a flashlight and a book of cupcake recipes. I would give anything to make this all go away. But what does one give to take back years?

I slip inside his room and shut the door, my pulse racing. What on earth am I going to do?

On the bedside table the little light that indicates a text flashes on my phone. It’s probably Summer, or…reporters who have gotten wind of a story? The airline? Some random guy who managed to get hold of my phone number and now wants me to move to Nigeria and be his sex slave princess? What if it’s my father?

It won’t be. In the twenty or so years that texting has been around he has never once texted me. Or called me. He barely answers my calls. But what if it is? What if he thinks I should come home and hide at Durum house until this all blows over? What if he just wants to make sure I’m okay?

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