Page 63 of Van Cort
“If I did, how would that sit with you?” I look around the room, glancing at every surface, every covered instrument, every wall. There was love here a long time ago. Boyish maybe, but it was love, and even in my anger, I know he did love in his way. “Does it change your reasoning for being here?”
“No.” He arches a brow at me as I turn back to face him. “You’re still an asshole. She is cute, though.” The arch increases at my understatement. “Truly fucking beautiful then. Perfect.”
“Better. Don’t downgrade her to your idea of mediocre.” He circles the room, flicking up a sheet so he can cover the guitars over again. “How did you know I was coming here with her?” I roll my eyes at the question.
“Because you’re predictable, Rhett. I took her away for fun. It was obvious your next move would involve something serious. Especially considering the contract. Here is about as serious as it gets for you.” He smiles a little and slides his hands in his pockets triumphantly. “Ah, you knew I’d know that.”
“And he calls me predictable.” Asshole. “Good game.”
“Sarcasm suits you less than it used to.”
He smirks. “You’re not here for reparations, West, you’re here for me - because you need me. I get it. I feel it, too.”
“I don’t need a damn thing from you other than your misery.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Really.” He leans on the wall, one of those brows still arched. “There’s nothing else but that.”
“There’s much more than that.” He pulls at the neck of his sweater to take it over his head. “Unsure what yet, but I’m not being blackmailed, so we might as well understand if this can even work correctly with her.” Work correctly. He even manages to make the thought of something interesting sound like a business deal.
And why should any of it be interesting to me? I shouldn’t be even considering his words of love, or her beauty. None of that matters. Only the past matters.
Still.
“Why is she sucking your dick and not mine?” He looks back at me and flicks the button on his pants, toeing his boots off.
“You always were too nice when you asked for it.” Seems like I’ve just always been too fucking nice, according to the laws of Van Cort. Everything would have been different if I was more like him. I fold my arms, pissed at the thought and at him taking charge of me. “Are you getting changed or not?”
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
RIVER
Smoke wafts out of the oven as I open the door to try and rescue the beef.
But the onions and rest of the trimmings are now smoking cinders, charred to death.
“Shit.” I shove the pan onto the stainless-steel plate next to the oven and wave the oven gloves back and forth to clear the air.
This is Everett’s fault.
But as the thought creeps in, so does the smile over my lips.
Gods, he’s dangerous. Commanding me – ordering me – to do things I’ve never wanted to do for anyone before. Yet, there’ssomething warm in my chest, like I’m proud of answering him, of pleasing him with my acquiescence.
I grab the glass of wine and take a large gulp, thinking what else we could eat tonight, given the burnt offering in front of me.
An idea starts idling, and I check the fridge before I head to the lounge and the impressive open fire waiting to be lit.
We’ve already had the formal dinner. And nothing seems to be going to plan anyway. Everything is a little off, in a good way, including Everett opening up. Well, if he’s going to distract me and not have the decency to hire a staff to look after this place, he doesn’t get to choose the dining arrangements.
An experiment plans in my mind, and I search the huge oak mantle for a box of matches to light the fire. It won’t be a gas system. Those are real logs stacked on either side of the hearth. There aren’t any photos here, nor any other personal touches in the house that I’ve seen, and if it wasn’t for him telling me this place was his family home and catching those mournful looks on his face as he drifts into memory, I wouldn’t believe him.
Finally, I find the box of matches hidden at the edge of the wood pile and set about striking the long match. The sizzle of the flame catches on the small wooden split, and I light the kindling already set. The snap and crackle pops around the room as the fire spreads over the dry wood, and I step back to watch as the flames lick and caress their way.
Once it stays burning, I head back into the kitchen and gather items onto the side, taking another gulp of my wine and topping off the glass. The heavy, wooden knife block’s six silver hilts all look at me. Wrapping my hand around the largest one,I pull out a carving fork, and reach the next one and find its pair. I skewer the meat and begin to carve, taking off the burnt ends and hoping there’s still some tender meat near the middle. We might be lucky.
Next, I take the bread and begin constructing the roast beef sandwiches, smearing mustard I found in the fridge across the bread, slicing the tomato and adding to the beef.
