Redhead On The Run (RedHeads Book 1)

by Rebecca Royce

  “How are you?” she asked again after a long pause.

  I swallowed. “My feet hurt.”

  That wasn’t what she was asking me, and I knew it. But it was about all I could get out right then. Everything else was too much. Much as I adored my sister, I wasn’t sure she’d understand that. Or Bridget, if she’d been on the phone. I was the only one in the family outside of Justin who might be too lost to count at this point. Maybe I was, too.

  Was I?

  “Where are you?” Her voice wavered. She was upset. I mentally kicked myself for doing that to her. I’m sure it had been a terribly long day for her, too. And she had to put up with Dad.

  I looked around. “In Zeke’s guest room bathroom. Soaking my feet. Seriously, Hope, they hurt like hell.”

  She ignored my comments about my feet. “You’re in Zeke’s house? When I called him, I thought he would help you, put you on a plane back to us, not take you in. I’ve never heard of anyone being in that house. Is it huge?”

  I made a hmm sound in my throat that I hoped she interpreted as yes. I didn’t want to talk about his house, although I stored away in my mind the piece of information she’d just given me about no one coming here. Zeke said no one stayed here, but I didn’t know that meant he’d never had guests at all.

  Of course, that might not be accurate. He didn’t have my family over. That didn’t mean people like the woman in the hotel who had wanted him right then and there hadn’t been. I shook my head. I was talking on the phone. I needed to focus.

  “Yes, he took me home.” I should tell her what he’d said about Dad betraying him, about wanting something from me, except I didn’t. I chewed on my lip and considered why I wasn’t announcing what I knew right this second. Truth was I had no idea. Maybe because I’d been abandoned on a park bench.

  I forced my mouth to work. “I’m not sure what happens next. I have all my stuff. I’m soaking my feet. What happened, Hope? Why are you and Bridget on a plane? And fuck, Justin. He… Well, I guess you know what he did.” I let myself say what I didn’t even want to think, let alone vocalize. “I wouldn’t have left you here.”

  Her voice hitched and guilt assaulted me again. Why did I always feel like I couldn’t make them upset? In what way had I been reared to believe making my sisters upset was the worst thing I could possibly do?

  Hope’s tears became my tears. I could hear her cry, and so I cried too. Was it all triplets, or was I the worst codependent person on the planet? It would be easier to talk to Bridget. She never cried. Not since we were children.

  “Dad lost his mind. He ranted and raved the whole way to the airport. He was saying very weird things. I mean… I understand the business the way we all do.” I didn’t, but I wouldn’t get into that at the moment. “But he was saying things, and suddenly he seemed like he might have a heart attack. I was terrified to leave him. Justin got out of the car at the airport and told us what he’d done right before he took off. I was terrified, not sure what to do. And then I thought of Zeke. Dad said that if we didn’t get on the plane, he was cutting us all out. Justin ran off. I…I panicked. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t…”

  I stopped listening. I actually understood. Plus, she thought Zeke would put me on a plane. Very little muss, very little fuss. She’d have helped me back in New York City. Hope wasn’t abandoning me.

  And Bridget would have just trusted Hope to handle it because that was what Hope did. Guilt weighed on my shoulders. “Hope, you didn’t make me do what I did today. And you sent Zeke for me. I’m sorry I just…emotionally bashed you.”

  She laughed, and I was able to take a deep breath again. “I’m so glad you didn’t marry that man. I hated Kit the second I met him. He’s not good for you. Doesn’t see you for all your beauty on the inside. I don’t know anyone who gives and gives the way that you do and expects nothing in return.”

  I closed my eyes. “That’s not me. That’s Mother Theresa.”

  “Oh, Layla. Hold on a second.” There was noise in the background. “Sorry, listen, they’re asking us to sit. I love you. Come home tomorrow. I’ll come and be with you. Until we get this all sorted out. I know we can fix things with Dad.”

  That was the thing. I didn’t want to sort things with Dad. Not anymore. Maybe not again. “I love you.”

  I disconnected the call and managed to take off my undergarments without too much pain before I lowered myself into the water. The next time I ran from a wedding, I was going to make sure I was wearing sneakers. I let my hand hang over the side of the bathtub so my phone didn’t get wet. With a sigh, since I felt about two hundred years old, I leaned my head back and tried to relax. My poor feet were throbbing.

  Or better yet, if I ever had another wedding—and sitting where I was now, I doubted that would ever happen because I was going to be paying my father back for this one for the rest of my life—I was going to go barefoot on the beach. With a car waiting to whisk me away right next to the sand should I have to make a run for it.

  The tears I’d been holding back, sometimes well, sometimes not so well, since the drink at the hotel, flooded my eyes. I’d blame Hope for this. Her tears had brought my own. Even as I thought that, I knew that wasn’t true, but I wasn’t good at handling emotions. I’d had no examples on how to do so in my life.

  My mother certainly hadn’t managed hers very well.

  I pushed that away, way back in my mind. I wasn’t her. I’d been proving that my whole life.

  When the water went cold to match the frozen direction of my thoughts, I pulled myself out of the tub. The towels had been laid out nearby, and I grabbed one. Considering he never had guests in here, the house must be in a constant state of ready just in case someone showed up. They must open the rooms every day, air them out, make sure everything was clean. It was quite an undertaking, but it must have been worth it to Zeke.

  A house that was instantly ready to house a stranded woman with nowhere to go.

  It was time to doctor my feet. I winced at the thought. This was going to hurt, big time, but lately, most things did. I got to it.

  My phone dinged as two messages came through, and although I was quasi-dripping and really uncomfortable, I picked it up to look at it because I was basically leashed to the thing, and I had no idea what to do about that.

  Bridget: Just heard you’re at Zeke’s. Wow! That’s like getting invited to the Batcave.

  I doubted I would find him somewhere beneath the house inventing materials to go eliminate the Joker somewhere in Paris. That was a sweet thought, though. He would look seriously gorgeous in all black, running about in the night saving lives. Bridget couldn’t know what her remark would do to me. My crush on Zeke was a secret I’d take to my grave. If my sisters had men they fantasized about, I didn’t know about that either.

  She was trying to be funny.

  But my humor fled the second I saw the next message.

  Justin: I’m sorry, Layla. I’m really fucked up.

  I stared at it for a second before I set my phone down on the counter. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with that. Was he sorry? And what difference did it make if he was? I knew next to nothing about addiction. Could I really be angry at him if this weren’t the least bit his fault but something out of his control?

  My own reflection caught my attention. There I was. Everyone said I was so beautiful. I’d always thought out of the three of us that Hope was the prettiest. Her curves were more pronounced than my own. Although Bridget had the most expressive eyes. It didn’t matter. Right there was the commodity I brought to the family. My face. My hair. The fact that, according to the PR people at my dad’s company, the camera seemed to love me.

  What was it that Justin brought? He was the male. The one who had been expected to carry on my father’s legacy. His son. He’d been the bright light, the man with the destiny. And now he was apologizing to me over a text message for stealing from me and leaving me in a foreign country with no way to pay for mysel
f.

  I couldn’t even bring myself to be angry at him because it was just so sad.

  Well, I hoped wherever he and Kit had run off to, they were happy with their choices. But that reminded me. I had my own apology to make, and it was a big one.

  I dialed Kit’s number and listened to it ring. He didn’t answer, and I hadn’t expected him to. I’d done a shit thing to him, even if it were the right choice to make. He at least deserved to tell me off personally and not over a text message.

  “Hey, it’s me. Listen, I suspect you know why I did what I did today, but that doesn’t make it okay. If I hurt you, I am so sorry. I know I must have embarrassed you, and your family has to be through the roof angry with me. I need to tell you how sorry I am about any pain you are having. And that I wish you well. When you feel like talking, even if it’s to yell at me, call and I’ll answer.”

  I almost said I love you. That was habit for me to say to Kit. He said it to me, too. How terrible were we that we said that to each other and neither of us meant it? Did anyone mean it when they said it anymore?

  Were they worthless words?

  I dried off my hair and limped over to my bag to find my hairdryer. I had no idea how long I’d be staying here, or if I’d be here at all, which meant I wasn’t going to unpack more than I had to. This would be the first time I ever did that in my life. Even when I stayed in a hotel room one night, I put away my clothes in drawers. I liked things orderly and where they were supposed to go.

  But since I didn’t even know where I was supposed to go, that seemed pointless at the moment.

  I’d packed for two nights in Paris and an entire trip to Bali, where we were going to stay at a resort on the beach. My honeymoon I’d gotten to pick. The idea seemed sort of ridiculous now. Kit and I had never spent as much time together as we would have on that trip. What would we even have talked about? There was always something in life to do to separate us, and break up the time so I didn’t have to notice how little we had in common.

  He had calls to make—business, purportedly, but truthfully, I had no idea what he did on the phone. Meetings to take. Again, it seemed so completely ridiculous. It wasn’t like he really worked. I’d had photo shoots to go to. Interviews to give. Parties that I was expected to attend. Lunches where I pretended to eat.

  What in the hell would we have discussed for a week in Bali?

  Would we have talked at all or spent the whole time on our phones avoiding each other in between really boring bouts of obligatory sex? Thank goodness we’d used a condom every time. Neither of us had ever suggested going bare. Maybe we’d both somehow known it really wasn’t going to be forever.

  I dressed in a casual blue sundress I’d planned to wear to lunch at the resort and put on my sneakers to go with it. No one would be talking to me about fashion choices if they saw me looking like this.

  Maybe I should go walk around like this purposefully…

  That wasn’t helpful thinking.

  My inner cheerleader, the one who had been quiet lately, needed to reemerge and fast. I was pretty much blowing up my life without her. Or maybe it was just the opposite. Maybe she had been my inner enabler.

  Zeke’s house was quiet, and as I made my way out of the room, I realized that I wasn’t exactly sure which room was his. He’d said down the hall. Burgundy doors. There were four places that looked like that.

  All right. If I were Zeke’s private spot in the house, where would I be? I went to the one on the other end of the hallway and knocked. It was as far from me as he could be, and if I were a person who never had houseguests but got saddled with me, that is where I would go.

  “Come in,” his voice answered, and I opened the door to go in, stopping abruptly as I entered. The rest of the house was ugly as sin, but this room was beautiful. This one really was Zeke’s. Dark colors, wooden panels. A bed bathed in black and gold. Low lighting with huge windows that gave the impression the room was lit up by Paris alone.

  And standing next to one of those windows was Zeke. Shirtless. Gorgeous. Built out of stone. So handsome, he stole my ability to speak.

  In his hand was a shirt that he quickly put on as he eyed me silently. “You okay?”

  I wasn’t the only one who had bathed and now looked more casual. Zeke was in jeans. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him in jeans before. They were dark denim, and he’d now dressed himself in a white T-shirt that fit close to his muscles, showing off just how buff he was, a fact I could one hundred percent attest to, having just seen it first hand with the shirt off.

  Still waiting for me to answer him, he walked over to the dresser and put on his watch. His hair was slightly damp, and the room had the scent of a shower around it, like he’d left the bathroom door open and the smell of his shampoo and soap had seeped in, making everything seem clean and fresh.

  I swallowed. “We need to talk about what’s happening.”

  His smile was surprising. “Can you? Speak, that is?”

  I shook my head. “Often and quite well.”

  “Good. I wasn’t sure there for a second if I was going to need to call a doctor.” He strode past me. “Come on. You must be hungry.”

  I wasn’t actually, but I followed him from the room. “I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “How can you not be hungry? Rather than ordering, since I wasn’t sure what you’d want to eat, I asked Paul to make us some sandwiches and leave them in the fridge. That was pretty universal, I thought. You can bet there is an egg on those sandwiches. I have always loved how the French do that, they just add eggs to things.”

  Did they? I usually thought about cheese. And café au lait. I did love coffee. “Really, I don’t eat at this time of day.”

  “You didn’t eat anything but a few peanuts this morning. You’ll eat now.”

  Okay. I would. “Can we talk while we do that? You can tell me what you want in exchange for whatever you’re offering.”

  “Yes, we can talk between bites. People have been doing it for as long as I can remember. Chatting as they consume sustenance.” The kitchen he brought us into was big, well-furnished, and modern looking. Like his bedroom, it seemed a place that was actually used in the house instead of displayed.

  He opened the fridge and pulled two sandwiches out. I didn’t see any staff. I was sure they were around, but they kept themselves away from Zeke. Where did they spend the day? We’d had help in the house, but none of them stayed very long. Two years at a time. Then we’d up and move again. But none of them hid from us.

  Zeke pulled out a chair and pointed at it. I sat down, assuming that was what he wanted. He took the one across from me and placed a plate down that I figured was mine.

  “See?” He winked. “An egg.”

  I could see that. This wasn’t exactly a croque monsieur, I didn’t think. It was more like just swiss cheese. An egg. Lettuce. And some kind of mustard. I took a bite and discovered there were also little baby pickles embedded in the bread. I wouldn’t have thought I’d love it, but it was savory, fresh, and practically exploded in my mouth when I chewed.

  “You like it.” He took a bigger bite than the one I’d been nibbling on, his gaze not leaving mine as he ate his own. “I didn’t ask you if you had any food issues or allergies. I know a lot of people are gluten free or dairy free.”

  That was true. “No, I’m not any of those things.” I didn’t have trouble eating any food or any medical issues that would require me to abstain from anything. I just made it a rule to not eat very much. The bare minimum to get me through. I took another bite. This one bigger. What was it about this food that was so much better than anything I’d ever eaten before? The bread? French women were always so gorgeous and thin. How did they eat like this and stay so fit?

  Before I’d realized, I’d eaten an entire half of the sandwich. Okay. That was enough. I put my hands in my lap.

  Zeke rose from his side of the counter and crossed to a small fridge on the other side of the room. He c
ame back with a bottle of wine that he quickly opened with a corkscrew he pulled from a drawer. Zeke was a person who knew his way around his own kitchen.

  “I don’t think I should drink. I had one earlier”

  He waved his hand. “Barely touched any in the bar. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But it’s red wine. You’re in France. Have just a little.”

  He poured two glasses.

  “Well, what the hell. It’s my wedding day.” I laughed. “That calls for drinks, right?”

  Chapter Six

  “There are always reasons to celebrate. Maybe we both can after today.” He handed me the glass, and I took it. Someone else might drink the wine in one big gulp. Zeke hadn’t poured very much. But I wasn’t that type, even if I wanted to be. I took a sip and then set it down. I knew from too much experience that chugging anything would make me sick. I had what a nanny had once called a delicate disposition.

  The drama wouldn’t be worth the discomfort.

  “You can’t possibly be done eating.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. I am.”

  He picked up the other half of my sandwich. “Are you sure?”

  Zeke held it out to me as though he might feed it to me. That should have been a ridiculous thing. I wasn’t a child who needed to be fed. And yet…I found myself transfixed, staring at his big fingers holding that sandwich out to me like he was gifting me the food. All I had to do was take it.

  I could say no. He wouldn’t shove the food in my mouth or choke me. I lifted my gaze to meet his own. There was a question in it. Would I take it from him? That’s what he wanted, to feed me, and just in that moment, although I’d never be able to explain why exactly, I wanted to please him.

  I leaned forward just an inch and took a bite from the sandwich he offered me. It was the same savory, amazing taste as before, and yet it was so much more, too. Maybe it was the one sip of the wine. Maybe it was just the few more moments the mustard had been allowed to absorb into the bread. Maybe it was the fact that Zeke held it.

  But, fuck, I loved it.