Page 57 of The True Garza
But he doesn’t bite. He just strides off to the bedroom and shuts the door.
Okaythen. Maybe this is a good thing. If his intolerance of me is stronger than his intolerance of long, important meetings, then focusing on ignoring me rather than focusing on enduring the meeting might actually help him.
Either way, my part is done.
I head upstairs—and, damn, that’s one big-ass bed. The private balcony affords a lovely view of the grounds and naked mountains.
I set about unpacking my things. Jules had ended up seeing me after all, as my wardrobe was lacking formal or black-tie garb. Determined to get the charge as high as possible on True’s bill, she loaded me up with appropriate outfits and cleaned me up—curls popping, nails glistening, face fresh, body hairless. She’s damn good at what she does, that Jules.
Done unpacking, I collapse onto the enormous bed, my eyes pleading for a quick nap after driving so many hours. The dinner meeting isn’t for another hour, so a twenty-minute nap won’t hurt.
I’m on the cusp of dozing off when I sense his presence. Strong and demanding. Senses instantly heightened, my eyes snap open.
He’s leaned against the doorframe, snacking on something. Cashews, it looks like. All while looking like a full-course meal himself.So unfair.
I prop my head up on my hand. “If you’ve changed your mind about this room, you’ll have to fight me for it.”
“What did he tell you about me?” he asks.
“What—who—?”
“My brother.”
Ah. That’s what his sulking is about?
“That you have a disorder that’ll make this trip difficult for you.”
He shakes his head. “He worries about me too much. I had a plan.”
“Which was?”
“Pretend to be him.” He shrugs. “Everyone’ll be so on edge by my—his—presence that they’d be relieved if I left the room.”
“I don’t think that would’ve worked,” I say. “Aesthetically, everything about you two might be exact, but your demeanors and mannerisms are night and day.”
He smirks as if he knows something I don’t.
“What?” I demand.
“It’s not that hard pretending to be my brother. All he does is glare, growl, and intimidate.” He tosses a cashew into his mouth. “I’ve tricked you into thinking I’m him many times.”
“Wait, what? When?” I sit up. “Why would you even do that?”
“The first time, it was to see if you looked at him the way you look at me,” he admits. “The other times…I just wanted to see you without you knowing I’m seeing you.”
See, this is what I mean by him confusing the absolute fuck out of me. My heartbeat is so loud in my ears right now. Why does he keep doing this shit to me? “How do you think I look at you?”
“I like that it’s only me who gets that look from you, London. So fuck if I’m telling you so you can start hiding it from me.”
Indignation fills my veins. “Is this fun for you?”
His expression clears, his voice hard as he replies, “You have no fucking clue hownotfun this is for me. Being around you makes me anxious, agitated, and calm all at once. You got any idea how maddening that is? It’s a million fucking times worse than sitting still, being quiet, or reading chunks of words.” He aggressively rubs his forehead as if it hurts, cashews spilling from the packet to the marble floor with the action. “You’re my fucking disorder now, London.You.”
With that, he turns and leaves, mumbling something inaudible.
And I’m left staring in disbelief at the spot where he stood.I’mhis disorder? What on earth did I ever do to him? That son of a bitch has done nothing but mess with my head since our reunion. If anything, he’smydisorder. How dare he try to blame me for whatever the hell he’s feeling, when all along he apparently knew that I wanted him and has been having a damn field day with it.
“Screw you, True,” I mutter under my breath as I grab one of the pillows and shove my face into it. “Screw. You.”
