Page 74 of Hide and Keep

“Hmm. That makes two of us.” I smooth out my tan-and-black plaid bodycon skirt. “I don’t know if I’m drunk still or justreally hungover.” It’s not that bad. I didn’t feel like running this morning, but I could’ve if I made myself.

Crue’s temples pulsing is the only reaction he gives.

I consider telling him about the guy I let feast on my neck like a newly turned vampire.

He’ll see the evidence for himself soon enough…now that he sleeps right. Next. Door.

Father’s already seated at the breakfast table in the kitchen, a pile of documents in front of him, his steaming breakfast next to those.

“Father,” I chirp as I take the seat on his right.

“Never.” He doesn’t look up from his reports.

Crue sits to my father’s left, directly across from me, but doesn’t let his gaze wander past the table runner between us.

Opposite Father is a wall of glass with an unobstructed view of the sea. Dinner’s always in the formal dining room, the walls the only thing to look at, but breakfast is served in here where we can focus on something other than each other. I lock my eyes on the thick fog clinging to the water. I’ve always liked the fog. Some people find it eerie, but to me, it’s comforting.

Instantly, Chef Ryan appears tableside to serve both of us. His foot bumps mine under the table and I have to stop myself from standing up and slapping him across the face. The only reason I don’t is because then my skin would be touching his.

After getting his coveted first reactions to his creations, Chef Ryan excuses himself.

My father doesn’t ask Crue about his first night in the manor because that’d require him to act like he cares, which he truly does not, so the three of us eat breakfast in complete silence, my small plate of diced cantaloupe and strawberries the first to disappear while Father and Crue take a bit longer to eat their eggs Benedict, home fries, and whatever else Chef Ryan madefor them. I stopped listening once I heard the chef’s voice. His over-the-top descriptions always sound so self-congratulatory.

I wait until Crue has just enough left that he can’t finish it in one bite to get up and announce, “Off to school.” I’m not sure how much sleep he got last night, if any, but he doesn’t deserve a full breakfast either. He would get both sleep and full meals if he’d stayed in the guesthouse.

Without complaint, my bodyguard stands from the table, leading the way out to his Bronco. While he does still open the passenger door for me, he does it pretending I don’t exist.

The ride to school is void of sound but full of tension so thick I’m practically choking on it when we pull into Lit U.

This time Crue literally escorts me to each of my classrooms, waiting at every threshold until I’m seated inside before turning to go…somewhere. Wherever he goes, it’s close by because his face is the first thing I see whenever the door’s opened at the end of class.

At the end of the day, he meets me at the door holding two drinks, one green, one tan.

The gesture makes me smile.

Until he holds the green one out to me, and after taking a small sip, my joy wanes significantly at the familiar flavor.

“What’d you get?” I ask him, hoping he’ll answer but not expecting him to.

He takes a long swallow. Just when I think he’s not going to respond, he says, “Iced chai latte with almond milk and three pumps of pumpkin brown sugar.”

His first words of the day to me and they’re to gloat about enjoying the exact drink I would love to have but can never actually order for myself.

Staring him down, I walk over to the nearest garbage can and toss the matcha lemonade in. Without taking his eyes off mine,Crue comes right up to me and throws his out, too. He didn’t even want it?

He ordered it just to spite me.

I seethe all the way back to the parking lot, my heart thundering so loud I almost miss him catching up to me in time to get the door.

Inside the Bronco, I practically rip my shoes off my feet and blindly toss them into the backseat. Crue cranes his neck to glare at them, then does the same thing to me, the muscle in his jaw twitching the whole time, but again, he doesn’t say anything. Not one fucking word. Not during the drive, or at the manor when we pull up. So, before he’s even stopped, I reach back and grab my shoes, making sure to swing them wide when I bring them up front and whack Crue in the face.

And when he looks at me, clearly wanting some sort of apology, I give him the same treatment by keeping my lips zipped shut. I’m not sorry anyway. Not for any of it. Not for the bats. Not for sneaking out. Not for the thin line of blood blooming from the new slice across his cheek.

My heels did that? I wasn’t trying to—

I mean, good. Serves him right.

He can impose on every part of my life, even my sleep, but he can’t talk to me?

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