Page 22 of The Good Girl

Tabitha and Attie curl up on Hunter’s sofa, putting a chick-flick on Netflix, while Atlas and Hunter begin racking up balls for the pool table. I’m surprised that Noah and Clay have hung around, since they don’t usually like to stay after dinner, but as they fire up the air hockey table it almost feels like when we were younger and the weight of our lives hadn’t begun crushing us. It dawns on me that Tristan is nowhere in sight, and that makes me nervous. Maybe he’d escaped already, even though we were expected to stay until the meeting was finished.

“Come cuddle, El,” Tabitha calls out, I can hear the sleepiness in her voice after the meal and the urge to join them is strong. But I have a debate tomorrow and I could really do with going over the notes I’d made on my phone. I couldn’t say that to her though, or I’d definitely end up in a Tabitha and Attie sandwich, forced to watch lovey-dovey films. I didn’t need romance, I needed a plan to break off my ridiculous engagement.

“I’m still stuffed from dinner so I’m just going to stretch my legs.” Straightening my spine, I make a show of extending my arms above my head, before moving back towards the door we’d just come in. She smirks at Attie as they share a look, and I raise a brow. “What?”

“Nothing…” She asks with a teasing voice, “Where’s Tristan?”

“I’m not his keeper, how should I know?” I shrug as she calls after me, “You will be his keeper soon!” And I can hear Atlas wolf whistling as I head back down the stairs, the others chuckling softly.

She was wrong. I wouldn’t be his keeper, he would be mine. My life was at his mercy. Everything I worked for, everything I was burning out to achieve was to be laid at his feet like some sacrificial offering while he gave nothing. He could carry on like normal, bumming around and doing whatever he pleased, with whoever he pleased. Blip, or any other woman. Weed and skating and motorbikes. There were no expectations on him. He wasn’t being squashed under those burdens and I hated him for it.

Making my way through the quiet house towards the library, just off from the main entryway, I turn on a small lamp, since the fire had been lit earlier in the evening, giving off a delicious glow. I’d always felt safe here, it was my favorite room in this giant house that Hunter’s mother, Georgia, was always renovating. This was the one room that never changed with its dark polished wood shelves and plush carpets. The leather wingback chairs on either side of the ornate marble fireplace usually called to me, but tonight I decided to sit on the window seat, nestled amongst the cushions.

Kicking off my shoes, I curl up, bringing my knees up and crossing my arms over them before resting my head on them for a moment. My stomach growls and I’m reminded of the dinner I barely got to eat again. I hated my father’s campaigns. I sigh, aware that I still needed to shift some weight if I was going to fit into the dress he’d chosen for me because heaven forbid I should pick my own and risk a clash with his outfit for the evening.

I relax, lost in the sound of the logs on the fire crackling for a moment. I hear soft footsteps moving around the house, but I ignore them. Samson was probably wandering around somewhere with the servers and no doubt more Society members would be in and out of the house soon too.

A deep voice breaks the lull I’d begin drifting to. “God, you’re almost angelic like that.”

“Fuck you, Douchebag,” I growl, not even glancing up. Of course it was Tristan. The thorn in my side, the bane of my life, the shackle around my ankle.

I can hear him chuckle as he moves closer quietly. “You can if you want, anytime, I already told you that, Princess.”

I make a noise of disgust, still not opening my eyes. I refuse to be in a position where I need to look up at him, as if he was above me. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“Here, this is for you.”

Reluctantly lifting my head, I stare at the plate of black forest gateau he’s practically shoved in my face as he sits opposite me on the cushions. He grabs my wrist and forces me to take the plate with a grin before producing a fork from his back pocket.

I make a show of wiping the fork on my dress as if he’s contagious, which he might be. I don’t know who he sleeps with other than Blythe, but I’m not naive enough to believe he’s fussy about where he sticks his dick.

Sliding the fork into the moist cake slowly, I break off the smallest piece. “Do you have a thing about feeding me? Is it a fetish?”

Appearing relaxed, he laughs and leans back against the wood. “It would seem so.”

Lifting the fork to my mouth, I groan the second the gateau touches my tongue with a burst of cherries and chocolate. It’s so good it should be illegal. But then again, Hunter’s chefs always made the best dessert, but that was fine, because Attie and Atlas’ chef made the best beef wellington, while Tristan’s father stocked the nicest wine. Clayton’s housekeeper always had beautiful table decorations and the Grimaldi’s had the best atmosphere. Lord knows what my father brought to the table, because it wasn’t excellent food, not that I’d be allowed to enjoy it anyway.

I go back for a second forkful, even though it’s not actually a forkful, and the snort Tristan makes confirms that he thinks I’m being stupid. Crossing his arms, he looks out the window as we watch a Bentley pull up the driveway. “Although, I wouldn’t have to do this if you just ate like a normal fucking person.”

Dropping the fork, I wipe at the corner of my mouth self-consciously. “I do eat like a normal person.”

His eyebrow arches, and I resist the urge to follow the shape with my finger. “You are an athlete, with a busy schedule. I’m willing to bet my bike that you don’t consume enough calories.”

“No one wants that rust bucket anyway.” I pick back up the fork and make a show of breaking off a large chunk of cake, shoveling it into my mouth without caring about the way the cream splurged out the corners of my lips.

Chapter Twenty

Tristan

Moving without thinking, I wipe away the cream gathered on her lips with my thumb at the same time her tongue flits out. She wrenches back, as if burned the second she realizes she’s just licked me. God, what I wouldn’t give to have captured that moment. I may have to paint it, the soft pink of her tongue, the gentle slope of her lip, the spattering of cream and a faint smear of chocolate.

Swallowing, she awkwardly shrugs. “Besides, I’m on a strict regime monitored closely by my parents.”

“Hmmm. A starvation diet, more like.” I glance over to the fireplace, not wanting to see her roll my eyes but unable to keep the acid out of my voice. “And no, I suppose you’ve got a point. Randolph isn’t going to hurt his campaign darling.”

That man irritated the hell out of me, and the way he seemed to tighten his grip on her the older she got just infuriated me. What was the point in keeping the pretty little bird in a gold cage, if it died from suffocation anyway? That’s what Lena was, a stuffed, dead, imitation nightingale who’d been denied the chance to fly free. When she was my wife, I was going to steal Hunter’s chef and have him fill an entire bathtub of that fucking red wine au jus if that’s what Lena wanted. She could bathe in it. She could just dip her toes. I don’t care what she did with it, but I wouldn’t deny her one drop.

Her shoulders stiffen. “Change the subject, Radcliffe.”

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