Page 10 of The Masks We Break

Remy turns, and as if her body knows just where I am, her gaze finds me. My cock twitches when her hazel eyes narrow and her small chest puffs up. It’s as though she’s made some type of a decision, and sure enough, she marches across the few yards of grass separating our front doors and stops at the edge of the walkway leading to my apartment.

While I turn my body to face her fully, she adjusts and holds on to her bag with one hand and places the other on her hip. Like something so small and adorable could resemble anything with authority.

Oh, to show you what real authority looks like, puppet.

I crack my neck in a failed attempt to draw my attention away from my hardening length and stare down my nose at a fidgeting Remy.

“What are you doing here?” It’s meant to be a command more than a question, but the high octave of her voice betrays her.

My head jerks to the side, motioning behind me. “I live here.”

Her eyes widen, and I have to stifle another grin. I’m just as surprised as she is, and whether I want to admit it or not, knowing she lives in the Square definitely would have influenced my move here. But whether that influence would have had me wanting to move somewhere else entirely or come here quicker is something I won’t let myself think about.

“Since when?”

“Only a few days.”

“What type of game are you playing? First the gala, then lit class, now you live across the flipping sidewalk? I mean com—”

“Rather self-obsessive to think I plan my life around you. Of course, I would be at myfather’sgala. Believe me, I don’t want to be anywhere near a literature course more than you want me to. And I’m on the football team, living much too far away. It makes sense that I may eventually live here.” My blinks are slow, becoming lazy and bored, masking the actual irritation I feel. Partially because I’m not used to being addressed this way but also because I’m slightly turned on at her sass.

Control.

Her mouth opens and closes twice before she finally clamps it shut. A light pink dusts her cheeks, and she’s practically bouncing on her toes, seemingly stuck between embarrassment and wanting to ask more. But Remy knows better than most to be cautious with what she asks because I never lie.

Ever.

She swallows thickly, her gaze trained on the ground, and the sight causes an itch to tingle my palm. I can’t stop my thoughts from imagining correcting her newfound smart mouth and turning that porcelain ass of hers a pretty pink.

What. The.Fuck.

I clear my throat, adjusting my watch. “Are there any more accusations you’d like to make, or am I free to go?”

Asking the mousey little woman for her permission is by far the most entertaining thing I’ve ever said aloud, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

Remy finally glances up, pushing her thin hexagon frames up her nose before shaking her head.

I nod, turning back to my door, unlocking it but not turning the handle. No, instead, my feet stay planted on my textured mat as I listen for Remy’s retreating steps. It isn’t until I hear her door open, close, and the faint sound of a dead bolt clinking that I finally walk inside.

Adjusting my watch, I check the time and recall that it’s only been three days, twenty-two hours, and twelve minutes since the gala, and there hasn’t been one conscious second she hasn’t been on my mind.

This is going to be a problem, puppet.

SIX

This is not a romance novel. This isn’t the story of a tortured boy and a quiet girl who is somehow different from the rest. Or the tale of how that girl can break through his shell. This isn’t going to end with Blaze standing outside of my window in the rain, with a boombox over his shoulder, confessing his love, bellowing to the world how he can’t live another day without me.

Nope.

This is real life. It’smylife. And if I don’t give up on this weird obsession with whatever this is I’m trying to prove with him, I’m going to drive myself crazy. I’m a smart girl—a hopeless romantic maybe, but still full of common sense. So I should know better. Blaze is no good for me. I mean, yeah, he’s a driven, intelligent, handsome guy who will likely be a successful CEO one day. But he’s also cold, distant, and incapable of giving me the one thing I so desperately need.

“What’s wrong,con gái? Does it not taste good?” My father’s soft voice floats down the long dining table, his term of endearment pulling me from my thoughts.

We’ve met for our weekly Saturday lunch, and while I don’t like to pretend it’s more than what it really is, I’m usually more talkative—it helps it go by faster.

I glance down at the pho that I haven’t tasted and continue to push the rice noodles around like I have the past five minutes, which is a travesty. The recipe is from my mother’s book, one my father would break out during the weekend as a way to honor her memory. And every single recipe is divine.

Each one is a Vietnamese dish that was passed down generations, taught to the daughter from a young age by her mother...only, mine was never able to teach me.

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