TWENTY-THREE ROWAN

TWENTY-THREE

Rowan

I’M PRETTY sure something is wrong with Arabella, but she’s not talking. And that’s the problem. She’s not her usual, nonstop talkative self and that’s odd. She’s always got something to say and has no problem saying it either.

What’s her problem?

And it started before we had to lie to my parents, meaning that has nothing to do with her somber mood. It’s not like I can ask her what’s up at the dinner table. I’m sure whatever is bothering her, she’s trying to keep private. Or maybe nothing is bothering her and it’s a me problem.

Wait a minute. Maybe I am the problem and I’m the one who’s bothering her.

Shit.

I’m in a terrible mood for the rest of dinner, despite the fact that Marilee made my favorite dessert—a giant slab of warm chocolate chip cookie with vanilla ice cream on top, melted to perfection. I take a few bites before I push my bowl away, not bothering to acknowledge the look Mom sends my way when she sees me do it.

“Not hungry?” Mom asks me in that soft voice that always takes me back to my childhood. When she’d ask if I was okay after a rough day and she could sense my unease. She’s always had excellent mother’s intuition and I don’t want to trigger it tonight.

“Dinner was great. I ate too much.” I pat my stomach for extra emphasis.

“Oh, Marilee, did you hear what Row said about your dinner?” Mom calls with a laugh.

“I did,” Marilee says, beaming at me. Her favorite thing is feeding everyone, especially me. “Silly boy, not saving room for dessert.”

I can feel my cheeks heat from her calling me a silly boy and I chance a glance in Arabella’s direction, embarrassed. I love coming home but the problem with bringing someone who’s never been here before—especially a female someone—is that the people closest to me can sometimes treat me like I’m still a little boy. Which sucks.

Bells is not even looking in my direction. She’s too busy tapping away at her phone, texting someone. Who could it be?

I’m immediately filled with jealousy and that’s some straight up bullshit. I have no right to be jealous of whoever she’s talking to. She has a life outside of me. Hell, I’ve pushed her away more often than not and maybe she’s done with me. Maybe she’s being polite and merely tolerating my ass while she’s stuck here for the rest of the week and—

“I hate to do this but I’m beat.” Arabella rises to her feet and stretches her arms above her head, the hem of her sweater dress rising and showing off her bare thighs. Those thighs have been fantasy material for the last twenty-four hours, and seeing them in the flesh, close enough to touch, doesn’t help matters. “I’m going to retire to my room for the evening.”

“Aw, Arabella. I hope that you’re feeling okay?” My mother frowns, her concern for Bells etched into her features. Mom already loves her but that’s Mom’s biggest problem. She falls fast and hard for anyone us kids bring around, eager to welcome them to the family and accept them as one of her own.

She has a big heart, and even Dad says it sometimes bites her in the ass.

“Oh, I’m feeling fine. I’m just full. And sleepy.” Arabella even yawns for good measure, covering her mouth with her fist before she lets it drop. The sweet smile on her face would trick anyone. She looks perfectly fine but I know, I just fucking know, she’s not. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”

After everyone, save for me, murmurs good night to her, Arabella exits the dining room, taking her delicious scent with her. I immediately miss her presence, but Dad doesn’t give me long to think about her leaving. He waits approximately two minutes before he starts in on me.

“Rowan, we know you’re eighteen years old and we understand what that’s like. At least, I do more than anyone else at this table. But if you’re actually sneaking into that sweet girl’s room at night to do—I don’t need any of the details—you need to stop.”

I sink into my chair, wishing I’d left with Bells. Thank God he didn’t launch into this speech with her still here.

“And with that, I’m out.” Beau jumps to his feet and tosses his napkin in the center of his empty bowl. The kid ate every drop of his dessert and his dinner too. “Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Marilee.”

Before either woman can say a word in response, my little brother is gone. The lucky fucker.

“I didn’t sneak into her room,” I insist, wondering if my lies are as convincing as Arabella’s. She’s great at it. “Like I said, I was just kidding around with her.”

Dad stares at me, his gaze unwavering, and it takes all of the control I’ve got not to squirm. The man can be intimidating when he has to, and lucky for me, I haven’t done too much to piss him off over the years. “She’s a nice girl. Seems a little—fragile, if you ask me. Even a tad na?ve? And I don’t want to witness you taking advantage of her while you’re both here this week.”

“Take advantage of her?” I think of Bells basically daring me to sneak into her room. How she’s already had sex with Bentley Saffron Jones—five times, I might add—and stripped naked in front of me last night because I made her angry. And he thinks I want to take advantage of her? “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“I hope not,” Mom adds with a soft sigh. “She’s the sweetest and your father is right. She does have this air of fragility around her.”

I actually scoff. I can’t help myself. “She’s probably one of the toughest girls at our school. Nothing seems to ever get her down. She’s always smiling, always friendly to everyone, even those who don’t deserve her kindness. Bells told me she has shit parents who don’t give a damn about her, which sucks. There are some girls who are always trying to intimidate her or make her feel bad, but I know they’re really just jealous. And you should see some of the outfits she wears to school every day. She loves the attention. Does that sound like a fragile person to you?”

My parents go quiet, sharing a look before Mom speaks. “Have you ever considered that maybe she’s seeking attention any way she can get it because she doesn’t receive any from her terrible parents?”

Huh. There’s a theory I never thought of before.

“Your mother has a point. Just—be careful with her, Row. You might believe she’s strong, but is she really?” Dad’s brows shoot up in question, and all I can do is shrug, trying to play it off but damn.

Damn.

The moment I can leave the kitchen, I’m out, racing through the house. Running up the stairs, sprinting down the corridor until I’m standing in front of Arabella’s room, rapping my knuckles on the door in three short knocks. She doesn’t respond, and being impatient, I yank my phone out of my pocket and send her a quick text.

Are you asleep?

With my luck, she is.

I wait, leaning against the wall, trying to scroll social media to occupy my mind but all I can think about is her. Fragile, devastated Arabella. Is that who she really is? Am I a blind asshole who’s so wrapped up in my own lustful thoughts that I can’t see her for who she actually is? If that’s the case …

I’m a complete dick.

My phone buzzes with a text, clearing my brain fog.

Bells: I’m taking a bath.

I’m typing out a response when she sends another text.

Bells: Did you want to talk to me?

Me: Yes.

Bells: Come in. The door is unlocked.

I glance around the empty hall, breaking out in a sweat at the thought of getting caught slipping into her room. My dad would put my balls in a sling if he saw me doing this.

Bells: I put too much bubble bath in the water and I’m drowning in it. You won’t be able to see a thing if you’re worried about that.

Bells: In case you’re now disappointed knowing you can’t see a thing, maybe we should talk later.

Fuck that. I’m taking my opportunity now.

Testing the handle, the door opens with ease just as she promised, and I slip inside, shutting it carefully before I turn the lock. I move through the room, taking note of the clothes lying all over every available surface. A pile of shoes makes a little mountain at the foot of the bed and Arabella’s scent lingers in the air, sweet as candy. She’s been here for a little over twenty-four hours and the room is an absolute mess— wrecked by Arabella should be her tagline.

The adjoining bathroom door is ajar, and I can hear her singing along with a song that’s playing. Sounds like Taylor Swift. I’m not a fan but my sister listened to her ad nauseum when we were younger and still does. I’ve picked up some of the lyrics by osmosis.

I pause in the doorway, my gaze finding Arabella sitting in the massive tub, her back to me. She wasn’t lying about the bubbles. The tub is filled with them, even covering her shoulders. I can’t see anything, just as she said.

What a fucking disappointment.

“I know you’re lurking in the doorway, Rowan. Stop staring like a pervert and come talk to me,” she calls.

Exhaling loud enough for her to hear my aggravation, I enter the bathroom and don’t stop walking until I’m standing on the other side of the tub, turning to face her. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, wavy tendrils curling around her damp face, which is all I can see thanks to the bubbles. I can see her neck too, that heart-shaped locket resting in the hollow of her throat. She never takes it off and I wonder why.

“You wanted to talk?” she asks, arching a delicate brow.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” When she frowns, I forge on. “You said you were tired but you were lying.”

She blinks at me. “How did you figure out I was lying? Do you think your parents realized it?”

I shake my head. “They don’t know you like I do, Bells.”

Her smile is slow. “Well, that’s probably best—or is it? I haven’t decided yet.”

“Are you okay?” I ask the question again because I need to know. Did I hurt her feelings? Did my parents? Is she miserable here?

“I’m fine,” is her glib answer. The tilt of her chin, the way she’s watching me with that impassive expression on her beautiful face is telling me otherwise.

“You’re still lying.”

She lets the haughty expression fall and her arms slice through the wall of bubbles when she lifts them above her head, scattering said bubbles everywhere, most of them landing in her hair. “Stop trying to figure me out, Rowan. It’s not polite, calling someone out straight to their face.”

I settle in on the edge of the tub, leaning forward as I keep my gaze on hers. “You don’t need to lie to me, Bells. Drop the pretense and tell me what’s bothering you.”

Her shoulders sag, the bubbles sinking in around her face, and when one floats in front of her, she blows it out of the way with pursed lips. “My mother called me.”

“What did she call you?” I do my best to keep from smiling, trying to lighten the mood.

She rolls her eyes, her lips curling in the smallest smile. “She had some—news for me that I should be happy about, but I don’t think I am.”

The confusion in her voice fills me with panic. And I never panic. I didn’t even panic when I got knocked on my ass and broke my ankle on the football field. I was pissed more than anything else. But my heart is racing and my mouth is dry. Why the hell do I feel like this news is going to be bad? “What kind of news?”

The music ends, Taylor finished singing about whatever asshole broke her heart this time around and the room is filled with silence.

Arabella studies me for a moment, quiet. Assessing. Like she might be afraid to reveal whatever her mom said to her. I keep my expression neutral, wanting her to see I’m open to what she’s about to reveal but there’s that tiny part of me that’s clenched up tight. Worried as fuck.

“She got me an apprenticeship with a world-renowned jewelry house,” she admits, her voice soft.

I let her words sink in. This sounds like a good thing and some of my worry eases. “That’s—amazing.”

“I suppose.” She shrugs, her slender shoulders rising from the thick bubbles.

“Is that something you want to do?”

“When I was younger, it was everything I could’ve ever wanted. It’s a well-known jeweler. My mother said she knows the creative director—how, I’m not sure—but she does buy a lot of jewelry from them so maybe that’s why? It doesn’t matter. Anyway, she asked him for a favor, and he offered me an internship to study with their team of designers.”

Sounds like a major opportunity. “Will it be in New York?”

She slowly shakes her head. “In Paris. That’s where their atelier is located.”

My stomach sinks. Paris. That’s far. “When would you start the internship?”

Arabella presses her lips together, her eyes somehow growing even bigger than normal as she watches me before she whispers, “January.”