Page 92 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
I hate it that she’s close to Byron because I can’t stand the bastard. He’s too damn perfect—perfect face, perfect manners, perfect pedigree. His family loves him, his friends think he’s a great guy, and women fawn over him until I want to vomit. But it’s a small victory that Perfect Byron doesn’t know what Iris likes.
“This place has the best grapefruit juice. Freshly squeezed. That’s why,” I say, since I can’t tell her the truth—that it was Ivy’s favorite. And because I’m being a crazy fucking bastard, I keep testing to see if there’s even the slightest chance she’s Ivy.
If Edgar were here, he’d kill me for not letting him handle this like I promised. But it’s like a fresh scab over a wound. Impossible not to pick at it, even knowing I’m going to end up making it bleed again.
Our server brings the food. The toast is cut thick and has a generous amount of fresh berries and powdered sugar, maple syrup on the side. The bacon’s also thick and perfectly cooked—crispy and not overly greasy. Again, this used to be Ivy’s favorite.
I attack the food, monstrously hungry from skipping breakfast. But Iris merely picks at hers, cutting the toast into little pieces and moving them around. She doesn’t eat more than a couple of small bites.
“If you don’t like it, we can get something else,” I say, torn between disappointment and chagrin. Maybe I should’ve let her choose her own food.
“No. It’s fine.”
“You barely ate.”
“I don’t have a lot of appetite.”
“How come?”
“I had a car accident nine years ago. Since then, not much appetite. I eat because I have to, but…” She shrugs.
“Sam mentioned the accident. It sounded serious.”
A pained shadow crosses her expressive face. “If he told you, then you know about my parents’ deaths.”
“Vaguely. It came up at the reception yesterday. He and I didn’t get to talk long.” Partly because I can’t stand the old man and his presumptuous ways.
“Hit and run. I was in the car, too. I lived. They didn’t.” She looks briefly down, then away, her eyes unfocused. Hunching her shoulders, she wraps her arms around herself. “I heard they died instantly. No pain,” she says, still not meeting my gaze.
I recognize what she’s feeling because I felt it too. When Katherine died. When Ivy died. Survivor’s guilt.
I want to say something, do something to make Iris feel better, but I don’t know what. I’m not a man who naturally knows how to comfort others. I wish I had even a tenth of Harry’s ability to cheer people up.
So I flounder for a moment and say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Then I stop, hating how inadequate those five words are. How I loathed them when I heard people say them to me. “I’m sure they’re glad you survived,” I add, then wince inwardly at how empty that sounds.
She studies me, but she isn’t judging me in the least. Her face isn’t showing the contempt and anger that simmer when someone tosses you a bullshit platitude and the only thing stopping you from telling them off is social decorum.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’re right. They would’ve wanted me to live. I’ve been fortunate to have people who were there for me.”
“Like Byron?” Most likely Sam was there first. But I want to understand exactly what’s going on between her and Byron.
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t meet him until two years ago.”
“But you’re staying at his place.”
“I am, but only until I get a job and can afford an apartment.” She stops. “How did you know it was Byron’s?”
Because his place is featured in magazines, and I’ve heard a few of my female employees talking about it breathlessly, discussing the price, location, décor and more. They admire the luxury home and covet the man.
“The front desk person told me when he was checking to see if I was on the guest list for Byron Pearce or you,” I say.
“Oh.” Iris nods, apparently buying it. “I’m only staying here because it’s more…convenient. It’s really my uncle, Sam, who took care of me. He still does that…a little.”
“So why isn’t he paying for an apartment for you?” I ask, starting to get annoyed with Sam for being cheap. She shouldn’t have to live with Byron.
“Because I already have a place to crash until I get a job and my own place. I’m going to work on a résumé this week and start applying.”
I don’t give a shit—Sam still should’ve gotten her an apartment. “Why a résumé? Aren’t you going to be a musician? You’re easily good enough to turn professional.”
