Page 76 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sunny

Iwanttocurlup and take a nap, but the thought of sleep is terrifying. A shower sounds like a much better alternative.

The bathroom is bigger than two rooms of my apartment. A pristine white claw-foot tub sits against one wall, with a separate glass-enclosed —shower in the corner. The counter holds neatly folded towels and basic toiletries—another surprise.

I turn the shower on as hot as I can stand it, letting steam fill the room. As I step under the spray, I close my eyes and try to let the water wash away the tension in my shoulders. It feels wonderful. The shower gel and shampoo smell clean but decidedly masculine—it makes me wonder whose room this is normally.

My mind drifts back to my apartment—I'm already regretting not having some of my own things. My sketchbook. My pillow. The few photos of me with my dad I managed to save and keep tucked away. I hope they're still there when we go back. The thought of someone in my space, going through my things, makes my skin crawl.

After drying off with what must be the softest, most luxurious towel I've ever used, I start opening drawers in search of a brush. The bathroom cabinets are meticulously organized—razors, shaving cream, deodorant, all lined up with military precision. I finally find a brush in the bottom drawer, barely used by the looks of it.

Standing there in a towel, I stare at the heap of clothes on the floor. I nudge the pile with my toe and can feel that at least the hoodie I was wearing is still damp with sweat. The thought of putting any of it back on sounds horrible.

The dresser in the bedroom beckons. I push down feelings of guilt as I start opening drawers and rummaging through them. Everything is perfectly folded and organized by color, each stack neat and precise.

In the third drawer, I find a collection of T-shirts. One catches my eye—faded black and soft from countless washes, with bright red lettering advertising "Lucy Lou's Bar & Grill, Old Bridge—Serving Cold Beer & Hot Wings Since 1981."

I pull it on, and it falls to mid-thigh. I can't imagine any of the men I met downstairs wearing it. It seems too... blue-collar.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and hesitate. It looks like I'm drowning in the soft material. I take a minute to weigh out my options—but one more look at the discarded pile of clothes in the bathroom and clean wins out.

After combing through my damp hair, I feel better. Cleaner. But the room feels too quiet, too still. The voices from downstairs have only gotten louder, rising and falling in a steady soothing rhythm.

My curiosity gets the best of me. Besides, the smell of bread wafting up from the kitchen makes my stomach growl.

I have a moment of hesitation about being seen in nothing but this shirt, but I remind myself that these men met me at Siren's. They've seen a hell of a lot more of me than what this T-shirt covers, even if it doesn't feel like it.

I pad down the stairs quietly, following the voices into what looks like a dining room. The guys are gathered around a large wooden table, heads bent together in discussion. Wolf has a laptop open in front of him, and there are papers spread across the table.

They all look up when I enter, conversation dying immediately. Z's eyes slide up my bare legs and stop at the front of the shirt. Recognition flashes in his eyes, followed by something dark and intense. His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away, his jaw tight. I realize this must be his shirt I'm wearing—he gave me his room. The silence is thick, awkward. I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

Chase looks from me to Zane getting a read on the situation before clearing his throat and breaking the tension. His voice is deep and surprisingly gentle when he speaks. "Perfect timing. Jayce is just about done with dinner." He pulls out the empty chair next to him. "Come, sit. We were just finishing up anyway."

I hesitate for a moment before taking the seat offered. Wolf closes his laptop, sweeping a stack of papers into a folder. Whatever they were discussing, they clearly don't want me involved.

"Hope you like garlic," Jayce calls from the kitchen. "Because I might have gone a little overboard."

"Like we'd ever expect anything less," Ty snorts.

"Ha. Ha." Jayce retorts, emerging with a huge pot of pasta. The rich smell of tomatoes and herbs fills the room.

Chase gets up to help, returning with a basket of garlic bread and a bowl of salad. It's surreal, watching these intimidating men move around each other in perfect choreographed movements.

"Wine?" Z asks, holding up a bottle of red.

I shake my head no, watching as he pours generous glasses for everyone. The normalcy of what's happening around me is throwing me off balance.

"So," Chase says as we start passing dishes around. "You're an artist?"

I nearly choke on the drink of water I took. "How did you"

"Z told us about your drawings," he shrugs. "Says you have some hung up on your walls. I draw too." He nods toward the sketchbook I noticed earlier.

"Oh." I twirl pasta around my fork, oddly touched that he noticed. "Yeah, I guess."

"She's being modest," Z cuts in. "Her work is incredible."

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