Page 15 of The Masks We Burn

“Ugh, that dickba—” I stop, and an annoyance I’ve never known washes over my soul.

Motherfucker.

* * *

I’m nervous.

Why the fuck am I nervous?

A thousand little butterflies have coasted around my empty stomach since I sent the text, but I can’t narrow down the reason why. There’s no way he passes up a chance he seemed desperate for, but also, what I’m going to ask of him may be a little too much. I mean, thereisthe fact we can’t stand each other. So there’s always the chance he doesn’t want my favor badly enough to agree to my terms and turns me down.

He has done it before.Shit.

Maybe it’s a mix of everything that has me on edge, or just the simple fact I let that little seed of hope grow too big, too soon. I don’t know, but the small beads of sweat sprouting at my brow aren’t just caused by me running around the kitchen.

Baked lemon salmon sits wrapped in foil on the stone plates, strings of seasoned green beans and roasted carrots surround it. It’s a go-to dish I learned after Miss Jean forced me to try my hand outside of baking. I’m not nearly as good at it, but this dish is my best.

I give it one last look before I untangle my apron and walk to my floor-to-ceiling mirror resting against my bedroom wall. My dark jeans cling to my frame, accentuating my curves under aHunter X Huntertee. I gather my pink locks and tie them in a ponytail, pulling stray hair down to frame my face. It would be nice if I didn’t give two fucks what William thinks, but I can be honest.

I do.

More than I should, all because of a conversation that happened five years ago. Is that pathetic or normal? I imagine it’s what people do when they go to those horrific school reunions and want everyone to know they’re so much better off now.

A heavy knock on the door jolts my body forward, a fresh surge of nerves thrumming down my extremities.

“Get your shit together,” I snap at myself, running a hand over the gaggle of goosebumps on my arm aggressively, shuffling toward the door.

When I reach the threshold, I wrap a hand around the cold metal knob and close my eyes, taking a breath. At the end of the night, if William doesn’t take me up on what I have to offer, I’m fucked. I’ll be headed back to my ivory tower, awaiting my court-appointed prince to whisk me away to a new one. But you better believe I’m not going down without a fight because Amora Joy Orlov is no fucking damsel. Because once I figure my shit out, I’ll be unstoppable.

With my new resolve, and deep breath, I finally twist the knob and let the door swing open.

See. This is the very reason I can’t stand him.

William stands in the doorway, his fresh scent instantly slapping me in the face and making my center throb. A white Henley, partially hidden under a tobacco leather jacket, stretches across his obscenely large chest. Dark jeans hang on his hips, perfectly fitted to his athletic body, and I have to physicallyforcemy eyes away from the obvious imprint. But his face isn’t any harder on the eyes. It’s all sharp edges and hard ridges.

Everything but those soft, pillowy-looking lips.

And if his whole appearance isn’t enough, it’s the assorted peonies in his hands. When I raise a brow, that panty drenching smile makes an appearance, simultaneously pissing me off while making me want to ride him on the kitchen table.

How many times can I tell myself to get a grip before I actually do?

“A truce?” William shrugs and holds out the bundle of flowers. “Lily said something about camellias, but I thought these complimented your hair.”

“Cute,” I say, grabbing the flowers and twirling on my heels. I hope he can hear the sarcasm in my words, but I decide to give a retort for good measure. “We’re having lemon crusted salmon since I know how much you like citrus.”

William huffs behind me, the low sound a stark difference to the quiet air, and shuts the door. “I see how this is gonna go.”

“How else would you imagine it?” I ask, grabbing a vase from below the sink and filling it with water. I won’t admit it out loud ,but the flowers are beautiful, and the soft, pastel colors against the ashy green eucalyptus are perfect. It’s a sweet gesture. Cliché and unnecessary, but still sweet.

When I don’t receive an answer immediately, I look up to see William leaning against the front door, his boot-clad feet crossed at the ankle with his hands casually shoved in his pockets.

His gaze is taking in the space and rather than squirm in the sudden discomfort, I shut off the water and plop the vase down a little too hard, forcing his green eyes on me. “You’ve been here before when you visited Remy. What are you looking at?”

He sucks in a breath through his nose and scrubs his lightly stubbled jawline with his thumb. He doesn’t answer my second question but reverts back to the first. “I don’t know. I asked for a truce and figured maybe that’s what this was. Us.” He waves a strong hand between our bodies. “Us learning to be cordial.”

I pull my upper lip down with my teeth as I grab both of our plates and walk toward the small dining room table. “Yeah. See. I’m what people may call the queen of a grudge. I like to hold on until I bleed from digging my nails in so hard, just to prove a point.”

“You only end up hurting yourself.”

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