Chapter 4

FOUR

Frigid, cold air bites my skin as soon as I step out of the car. Despite the cold, the familiar sea salt taste hits my tongue when I open my mouth and breathe out. A cloud spills from my mouth, leaving a trail as I whip my head to the side and watch the taillights of my ride disappear around the corner and out of the neighborhood.

I swallow the lump in my throat and wrap my arms around myself. I'm glad I decided to wear a sweater. Aside from the one I had buried in the bottom of my bag I don't have a single piece of clothing to prepare me for surviving winter in New England. It may be nearing the end of March, but the start of spring doesn't hit for another month. Boston is still in the throes of winter.

A crisp breeze rolls in, causing the bare trees to sway. Their branches bend and creak, singing a song to anyone willing to take the time to listen. The air washes over me as if it were welcoming me back with open arms. My chest squeezes. I don't want or need its welcome. It's a simple reminder of what I was escaping when I left.

Over the past three years, I've kept my distance from home and immersed myself in Los Angeles, putting as much distance between my family and me. It was an easy decision… but coming back here wasn't.

Tears sting the back of my eyes when I realize the scenery and community may have changed, but one fact remains: I never escaped the abuse. Only this time, the abuse came from my boyfriend instead of my father.

I've been hurt at the hands of two men who were supposed to love me… so they claimed.

I ghost my fingers along my cheek, thankful the pain is now gone. It could be the pills I swallowed on the flight over finally kicking it, or the injury inflicted by Maddox isn't as bad as I first thought. I haven't looked in a mirror since I was standing in my trailer, staring back at Ruby standing behind me with her look of pity. I have no idea if the bruising is still present. Years of covering myself with the right combination of creams and powders has allowed me to perfect the art of concealing any evidence.

A shiver ripples down the length of my arms, and I wrap one around myself, gripping onto my bicep as I look up and down the street. Aside from the wind and singing branches, it's quiet. Peaceful, even.

Large, brick houses covered in vines of ivy line the wide, cobblestone street, each one set far back off the road, their yards separated by tall, black, wrought-iron fences.

Although this neighborhood isn't the one I was raised in, it looks eerily similar. My stomach wobbles as I take in each picture window and each aged-brown brick. At first, I want to believe I'm imagining it. My eyes dance from house to house, hoping to pull some difference that will solidify my decision to go through with this. I fight the urge to leave and find somewhere else to go. But I remember my brother's text. The one telling me this was the best, safest place for me to stay. No one would know I was here or bother to ask why. He told me I could stay here as long as I need to, no questions asked.

I didn't tell my brother my reason for running away.

Archer and I are somewhat close, considering we're twelve years apart, but we've never been close enough for him to ask questions that require him to dive into the details of my life. To him, I'm a happy-go-lucky twenty-one-year-old living out my dream. It's all he needs to know.

Part of me still harbors bitterness for him not standing up for me. I used to dream he'd show up and demand to take care of me the way he knew our father couldn't. He wasn't na?ve to our father's abuse. But I guess the old saying rings true: ignorance is bliss.

Archer ran away and assumed the dynamic at home would change, but he never stuck around to check if it did. He never looked back.

I tried to do the same.

I rub my arm and take a step forward. My foot lands on the stone-paved driveway. This house isn't surrounded by a large, wrought-iron fence. Instead, the stone driveway winds up the front lawn, stretching all the way to the house resting at the top of the hill. From where I'm standing, I can't see the entire house. My feet slowly carry me closer to the large, brick exterior.

I tighten my grip on my duffle bag when the house comes into view.

It's massive.

A large balcony sits off to the side of the house, facing the garden in the side yard. Brown, dried-out flowers and leafless branches cover what look like they used to be rows of garden boxes, as if the plants dying inside them have been rotting there longer than I've been alive.

As with some of the other houses, rich green vines of ivy cling to the brick exterior, sprawling over some of the windows along the top floor. A paved-covered patio in different stone than the driveway lines the front of the house. Complete with two old wooden rocking chairs.

One is empty.

The other isn't.

I stop in my tracks at the sight of him.

I hold my breath, concentrating on keeping my chest moving.

I wasn't expecting to see him here; at least not today. Archer told me he would leave the key in the black mailbox beside the front door.

He's slumped in the chair, his tie loose around his neck, practically unraveled down to his stomach. With his long legs parted, his hands dangle between his thighs. The dark blue suit he's wearing stretches across his muscles. Dark hair peppers the sharp line of his jaw, and his bottom lip is parted slightly to allow tiny breaths to pass through. His brown hair is a disheveled mess, with pieces clumped together, proving it must have been styled with some product before.

His eyes are closed as if he's in a deep sleep.

"I know, I know," he mumbles. "The grass needs to be cut, but I'd rather you didn't walk in it."

Half of his face is shielded from view, and he doesn't move from his spot. If I didn't already recognize his voice, I'd wonder if it came from someone else other than him.

I rub my toe across the long blades of green grass. "Your garden on the side of the house is more of an eyesore than the length of the grass. Don't you think you should be more concerned with getting that cleaned up?"

He finally moves. Slowly.

One eye pops open, followed by the other. Shifting in his chair, it rocks as he repositions himself. Relaxing against the back, he peeks up at me.

His eyes are familiar. The same blue-gray eyes I used to dream about. He's the same man I remember, but he's different.

He's a far cry from the Micah I saw that day at the pool.

Years later, I remember laying in my bed at night, reading the headlines sprawled across social media.

MICAH HARDING, YOUNGEST SON OF BILLIONAIRE JAMES HARDING, SENTENCED TO TWO YEARS IN PRISON AFTER ARREST FOR DRUG POSSESSION AND DRUG TRAFFICKING.

"Addy." He sighs, pulling himself up by resting his elbows on the arms of the chair with a groan. "I didn't realize it was you."

"How would you?" I ask, shrugging, playing off the use of my childhood nickname. "Seems I caught you at a bad time. Do you normally sleep on your front porch?"

The corner of his mouth curves into a half grin. Three lines dip between his lip and his cheek. "No, this would be a first." He rests his head back against the wood and peers up at me with a narrowed gaze. "Just a late night."

"Oh." I nod, tucking my lip under my teeth, unsure what to say. The last time I spoke to Micah Harding, I was a brokenhearted, eleven-year-old girl, who was embarrassed and ashamed that Micah felt the need to save me when I didn't need saving.

Now, here he is again, offering me a place to stay. Saving me.

"I've just flown in from London." He rubs the heel of his hand over his eye. "Once I landed, I had something to do for work."

I frown. "I'm not sure how that led to you sleeping on your front porch, but you don't have to explain anything to me."

I step back when he quickly stands and sways on his feet, and I immediately smell stale alcohol. I scrunch my nose as he looks up at me.

"It's not me. Well, I drank a little too much, but it was the first time in a long time. Besides, the smell isn't from that." He points to his feet. "Hazards of the job."

The bottoms of his blue slacks are covered in visible stains, and the toes of his brown suede shoes are discolored. From what, I don't know. All I know is that it doesn't smell good, and it isn't any of my business.

"I believe you." I nod once, and swing my gaze to the house behind him. "Archer told me it was okay to stay here, but if it's not…" I hitch my thumb over my shoulder.

"No," he rushes to say. "You can stay here. I told him it was okay."

"Okay. Um, thanks." I awkwardly tug on the ends of my sleeves, digging my nails through the fabric into my skin.

It's strange seeing Micah this way. Talking to him this way. Last time I spoke to him, I was dripping wet in my perfectly pink bathing suit. The one I wore just for him.

He's changed now. Not only are there a few more lines in his forehead and the corners of his mouth, there's a pain in his eyes I don't remember being there. The gray has darkened, as if they're carrying the weight of ten years more experience.

"Here." He moves, running his hand over his hair again. "We'll go inside, and I'll show you the house."

"Is this yours?"

"Yeah," he says over his shoulder while digging his keys from his pocket. "I bought it a few years ago off this family who inherited it from their grandfather. He was in his nineties and lived here alone. The family had no interest in keeping it or fixing it up. That's why not much has been done to it."

"But you've owned it for several years?"

"Yes." He sticks the key into the lock, and my eyes fall to his hand. Dozens of cuts cover his knuckles. Dried blood lines each cut. I try to peek at his other hand to see if it could be swollen, but I'm unable to catch it before he's pushing the door open.

It's not until he steps inside do I realize I don't know Micah at all, outside of public knowledge. I know he's a billionaire, he's thirty-three, the youngest of three brothers, and he's my brother's best friend, as well as a recovered drug addict—all traits I could easily find if I were to do a simple online search.

Before that fateful summer I turned eleven, Micah had always been a part of our lives in some capacity, though I only ever saw him every now and then when Archer decided to bring him over to our house. After the summer he pulled me from the pool, I never saw or spoke to him again.

When I step inside the front entryway, and the door shuts behind me, I make another realization.

I've never been alone with Micah before.

The absence of sunlight pronounces his features. He's taller than me by nearly an entire foot, and aside from the putrid scent of alcohol covering his feet, he appears clean. Well, sort of.

I break my attention from Micah long enough to take in my new home. The inside looks nearly as neglected as the front. Marble tile stretches across the large space. Several doorways leading to different parts of the house cover all sides of the room. On the far side of the foyer is a long, wooden staircase—modest for this style of house, but quintessential New England, just the same.

I tilt my head to the ceiling, eyeing the glass chandelier hanging above. The brilliant stone glints and shimmers with the morning sun peeking through the heavy, gray, cloud-covered sky. The large picture window above the door allows a few streams of light to pour into the eerily quiet house. I lower my gaze and find myself staring back at my reflection. A gold, inlaid frame mirror hangs on the far wall.

I suck in a sharp breath, not wanting to look at myself too long. I snap my head away and dart my attention to Micah, who's standing in front of the staircase, watching me.

He nods his head. "The kitchen is down this hall and to the right." Placing his foot on the first step of the stairs, he points down another hallway. "There's a bathroom down there, and an office. I haven't had a chance to clean all the boxes and papers out of there yet, so you won't get much use out of that room."

I follow him up the stairs, each plank of wood creaking beneath our feet.

"There are four bedrooms up here, but three of them don't have drywall, and parts of the floor are missing."

"Sounds like this house needs a lot of work. Are you sure it's livable?"

"It's fine." He waves me off. "I know it isn't as put together as the house you grew up in, and I'm sure it isn't as glamorous as the places you're used to staying at as a model but?—"

"Being a model has nothing to do with it, and neither does the house I grew up in," I cut in.

I hate that he assumes to know me when he hasn't talked to me since I was a little girl. He doesn't know the abuse I endured in the fancy house he claims I grew up in.

I clear my throat. "I just mean I'm perfectly capable of living here. A few boxes and broken floorboards don't scare me."

He stares at me until a small smile grows on the corner of his mouth. "Of course."

Spinning around, he heads down the long, wide hallway. My feet land against the matted blue and gold rug, stirring up an oddly comforting, warm scent. Like walking into a bookstore stocked with hundreds of old, aging books. I wrap my hands around my duffle bag and follow Micah into a bedroom. He scratches at his chin as he surveys it before turning back to face me, and watches me as I take in the room. I drag my finger across the dust coated dresser as I cross the room and sling my duffel over my head before dropping it onto the queen size bed pushed against the largest wall.

"Wait." I turn to face Micah. "If this is the only room that's livable, where are you sleeping?"

"Um." He drops his keys onto the dusty dresser I dragged my finger across. "I haven't stayed here yet. I travel quite a bit for work, so I haven't had a reason to stay here overnight."

"Not even when you're in town?"

"Nope." He shakes his head and blows out a heavy breath. "If I do, I just stay in a hotel or at either one of my brother's houses. Gives me the chance to spend time with my nieces and nephews."

"Hmm." I smile, planting my hands on my hips. "At thirty-three, I figured you would be a bit more settled, married with kids… that whole bit. Sounds as if not much has changed in ten years."

He delivers me another blank stare, the heavy pain returning to his blue-gray eyes. They cloud over, and my heart hammers in my chest, even though I can't pinpoint the reason. It could be nerves from today bubbling to the surface, or it could be that my comment has crossed a line into the personal zone. Our conversation up until now has been formal, as if he were a landlord showing his new tenant around.

Micah's dark eyebrows twitch, and his eyes roll away. He slips his hand into his pocket and crosses the room overlooking the front of the house. "A lot has changed in ten years, Addy."

I cross the room to join him and look out the window, noting the massive houses lining the street, bits of them visible through the bare trees.

"You're right—a lot has changed in ten years." I clear my throat and swallow down the memories of being back in Boston, then turn my head and face Micah's that's only inches from mine. "No one calls me Addy anymore. Just call me Adeline."

I leave Micah and stand beside the bed to pick up an old alarm clock sitting on the nightstand. The time is off by over an hour, so I correct it before setting it back down.

"How much do I owe you for staying here?" I ask him.

He moves to stand at the foot of the bed. "You don't have to pay me." He leans forward and grips the footboard. " Adeline ."

His muscles strain under the sleeves of his suit. His noticeably deeper voice at the use of my full name has a chill prickling down the back of my neck.

I inhale a deep breath, forcing as much oxygen into my lungs as possible before blowing it out. "I can't stay here for free."

"Yes, you can. I don't need your money, and I don't want it."

"I know you don't need the money."

"I'm doing this as a favor for Archer. Really, I don't need you to pay rent. Especially when this place looks like it hasn't been touched since the revolution."

I can't deny that his admission of only letting me stay here as a favor to my brother stings. I try not to take it personally, but it's hard when I feel I've been reduced to the clothes on my back and the belongings I was able to shove into my duffel bag.

"I refuse to stay here without earning my place." I cross my arms over my chest.

"Fine." He digs into his back pocket and tugs his wallet free. Slipping a black metal card between his fingers, he holds it out for me. "Take this."

I give him a sarcastic laugh. "How is giving me money letting me earn my keep?"

"I need to get this place fixed up. I have no intention of keeping it."

"You don't?"

"No." He shakes the card at me, urging me to take it. "It's kind of what I do. I buy places with the intention of fixing them up, then sell them at peak market value."

"Oh." I frown, looking around the room. Sadness fills my chest unexpectedly. I can't explain it.

"You can earn your keep by buying whatever you want to fix this place up. Archer didn't tell me how long you plan on staying. I'm sure you have a life to get back to so if you can't finish, it's fine. Just do what you can whenever you have the time. I can take care of whatever is left."

I open my mouth, the words resting on the tip of my tongue, begging to spill. I want to tell him the truth, but shame fills my gut. Suddenly, the spot on my face where Maddox struck me last seems to swell. It feels as if it's flashing like a bright red beacon, even if the bruise may be gone.

I want to tell Micah I don't have a set date in mind to leave. I wouldn't know where to go even if I wanted to escape. I tried calling my best friend Ember, but she hasn't returned my call. I only tried her after I called Archer the second I stepped out of my trailer back in Los Angeles. With him living overseas and constantly working all over Europe, he didn't have a place for me to stay. After hanging up, he said he'd get back to me with a solution. When Ember didn't answer, he'd called me back telling me he'd found a place for me to go. A place with Micah.

With no other choice, I took him up on his offer. Archer didn't ask questions then, and neither has Micah now.

The confession rests on the tip of my tongue, but I force it back down. Voicing the truth only solidifies my reality. The truth is easy to ignore when you refuse to speak it into existence.

I take Micah's card and drop it on top of my bag.

"I guess we have a deal, then," I tell him.

He eyes me up and down as he rakes his fingers through his messy hair. "I know you're twenty-one now, and you probably have a million other things you'd rather be doing. Going out with your friends or partying. I understand if you don't want to do this. No one is forcing you."

"No." I choke down the emotion building in my throat. "I told you I want to earn my keep. If this is what it takes, I'll happily do it."

I've never given much thought to interior design, and I'm probably the least qualified to take on a project such as this one, but I'm in no position to be picky. I've spent the past three years keeping myself busy, creating a life that looks drastically different from the one I was raised in. And when it came down to it, it led me right back into the arms of someone with just as much dangerous power over me as my family.

Despite only being blocks from my parents' house, I feel as if this place is still giving me the opportunity to start fresh. At least I can use it as a jumping point to give me time to figure out where to go next.

"Good, then it's settled." He nods as a vibration sounds off in his pocket. He clicks on his screen and reads a message before looking back up at me. "I've got to go take care of some business."

"Okay," I say nervously.

"Your copy of the house key is on the dresser." He points to the keyring he dropped on top when we first walked in.

"Thanks."

"I don't plan on coming back tonight, so you'll have the whole place to yourself."

I close my mouth and swallow my nerves. I don't know why, but I'm conflicted. The thought of staying in a strange, cobweb-covered house, completely alone, has every nerve firing on all cylinders. I give Micah a simple nod, resisting the urge to ask him when he will be back. I know he doesn't live here, but I wonder how often he comes by.

Once he's standing at the threshold, Micah stops and turns long enough to nod at the card still sitting on top of my duffel. "Don't be afraid to use that card for things other than furniture and décor. You can use it to buy groceries or whatever else you might need. The refrigerator is completely empty."

"I can buy my own food, Micah." I ignore the way his gaze makes me feel, as if he's shining a spotlight on me. My heart races, and my palms grow sweaty.

"Right." He taps his fingers on the doorframe, his gold watch glinting in the mid-morning sun peeking through the faded curtains. "Enjoy your new home, Adeline."

Then he's gone, my full name spilling from his mouth and dropping like a heavy stone at the bottom of my stomach.

I sit on the edge of the bed and allow the silence to wrap itself around me. It comforts me like a warm blanket. This house carries a history with it; secrets and memories buried within the faded walls. There's something comforting in knowing I'm alone with them, both inside and outside.

When the thoughts become too much, I quickly stand and swipe the keys from the dresser, leaving Micah's credit card sitting on top of my bag. I shut the door to my new bedroom behind me and set out on my first mission in my new life.

Food.