Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  She dug out her tube of red lipstick and held it up. She’d pestered me the whole car ride tonight to put it on, but I’d refused. I’d won the battle, but I was about to lose the war.

  “Bitch,” I groaned under my smile and snatched the tube from her.

  She laughed. “It’ll look amazing on you.”

  Once I’d smeared on the red lipstick and returned it, I stole away through the kitchen. Up an empty back staircase I went, seeking out a quiet room where I could read until Emily would text me it was time to go. No one would miss the weird Northcott sister with oddly green tinged hair and bright red lips.

  The first room I came to was dark. The door was open, just a sliver, but enough for me to see it was occupied. A girl was perched on the edge of a bed, her dress pulled down around her waist and her pale breasts undulating with her shuddering breaths. A man, his back to me, was on his knees before her, his head buried between her spread thighs. She threaded a hand in his hair and clenched it tight as she gasped in contentment.

  I hurried past the open door with my cheeks burning, and a rope of desire tightened inside me. Was it envy, or curiosity, or both? I wanted to know what that felt like. The sensation of someone besides myself giving me pleasure.

  I was so fucking curious about sex.

  But I wasn’t going to find out tonight, here on the mostly empty second floor of the Hale estate.

  My footsteps were quieted by the plush carpeting as I wandered down the corridor. The walls were covered in more intricate paneling. The whole enormous house felt masculine and cold, and I couldn’t imagine growing up here. Not that I pictured Royce, or his younger brother Vance, as the poor little rich boys. They were quite the opposite. The Hale men were cunning, ruthless predators.

  But all this space wasn’t so much secluded as it was isolated. Did they ever get lonely? Macalister and their stepmother were workaholics and never around. In fact, Alice Hale was currently at a spa for “an intensive cleanse,” but there were whispers. Rumors that Macalister had put her in rehab.

  I tried several doors until I found one that didn’t lead to a bedroom, but a library. Or maybe it was a home office. A warm toned writing desk was placed across from a marble fireplace.

  I didn’t turn on the six-armed chandelier overhead. Instead, I flicked on the desk lamp, which cast soft amber light up onto the shelves of books. The gold embossed titles on the spines glinted back at me. The bookcases spanned every inch of the room except for the curtain-draped window at the back, where bronze velvet fabric pooled on the floor.

  It smelled like books in here. Like leather, and logs that had been burned during the winter, and . . .

  Power.

  I fell in love with the library in one slow, wonderous blink. There was a brown arm chair with a matching ottoman backlit by the window, and I was drawn to the spot like a magnet.

  I curled up there, tucking my legs beneath the scratchy crinoline of my white dress, and pulled my mythology book from my oversized purse.

  Outside, the sun set and darkened the room, but time halted as I read. My obsession with mythology had begun a long time ago. I liked how twisted the stories were. Murder, and betrayal, and jealous wrath . . . all the worst traits were displayed in the Gods’ behavior, and they were unapologetic about it.

  It was fascinating.

  The book was so engrossing, I didn’t hear the door open, or click shut, or the footsteps that approached. It was only the unnerving sense I was being watched that caught my attention. I glanced up from my book to find a pair of hungry eyes staring at me.

  Chapter Two

  My lungs seized with an awful, cut-off sound.

  Royce Hale’s thick, wavy brown hair was swept back over his high-arched eyebrows and hypnotic eyes. He was tall and trim with broad shoulders and stood with his hands hooked in his black suit pants pockets, his thumbs peeking out. His posture was causal, yet it wasn’t a word I’d use to describe him. Perhaps oppressive, or invasive, or . . .

  Sexy.

  I narrowed my eyes. No, he was only sexy if I found arrogant pricks appealing, and I’d decided long ago I didn’t. Besides, he was Emily’s. Over the years, the only attention he’d given me was when he wanted to be mean. It was entirely possible he didn’t remember my name.

  “Marist Northcott,” he said, his tone like sweet liquor with a sharp, bitter aftertaste.

  The jerk remembered me. I lowered the book in my lap. “My sister was looking for you.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged upward. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but he was amused. “I bet she was.”

  I gave him a slow, plain blink, letting him know I wasn’t going to engage. Lots of women fell all over him, but I wasn’t one of them.

  He took a step deeper into the room. The tie around his neck was the same green as his daddy’s money and the knot at his collar was askew. Had he loosened it recently, or not quite finished getting dressed? Perhaps he’d been the man on his knees in the other room, making the woman moan. His suit was the same shade of black, but his hair wasn’t rumpled.

  “Did you find Emily?” I asked.

  He sobered. Something ghosted through his eyes, but it was gone too fast for me to recognize the emotion. “Yeah.”

  The single word carried an unmistakable finality to it. This was something he didn’t want to discuss. Instead, all he did was trap me with the gravity of his gaze.

  This was what I remembered most about him, how he’d stare intensely. He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t flinch. He peered at you as if it were only a matter of time before he discovered all your secrets. Everything you tried to hide or were ashamed of, he’d find it. His scrutiny always forced me to look away first. I had to run before he learned just how exposed I felt around him. He’d take it as an advantage and somehow exploit it.

  He was so fucking comfortable holding my gaze too long, staring into the depths of me. Like me, he typically said whatever he was thinking. Honesty was a great trait, until it wasn’t. Too much of it and it cut painfully deep. As acute as his stare was, I tried not to wither.

  “Congrats on your MBA,” I said flatly.

  He waved my insincere pleasantry away like it was an annoying fly. “It must be some book to have you hiding up here.”

  “I don’t like parties.”

  It came out before I thought better of it, but Royce didn’t seem offended. “Yeah, me either.”

  What was he talking about? “Do you know how many times my sister snuck home after curfew from one of your parties? If you don’t like them, why’d you throw so many?”

  He considered my question. “The bigger the party, the more freedom I had.” He grinned. “Fuck, half the time I wasn’t even here.”

  He’d revealed it like a secret, and an unwanted thrill shot through me. If this wasn’t widely known, why would he share it? Everything in Cape Hill was about being elite and exclusive. Money was easy to come by, but power was harder, and knowledge was its own form of currency.

  “What are you reading?” His question was simple, but a demand, nonetheless. His father was the king of Cape Hill, which made Royce a prince, and I was merely a subject in his castle. So, I was forced to hold the book up for him to see. His eyes sharpened on the gold and white artwork on the cover. He sounded dubious. “Mythology?”

  I nodded then dropped my gaze to the pages, striving to look indifferent. I couldn’t read as he stood over me, but I’d act like I was. I could pretend I didn’t smell his cologne or was wondering if he’d just finished fucking the girl down the hall and was prowling for his next meal.

  “Is that for a summer class or something?” he asked.

  “No.”

  As I tried to focus on the page, his confusion was distracting. “Why are you reading it?”

  “Because I want to?”

  My tone was a bit more pointed than I meant for it to be, and the silence that hung in its aftermath was taut. I glanced up to find Royce’s eyebrow arched halfway up his forehead. He didn’
t like my sass.

  Or . . .

  Did he?

  Something thickened in his eyes, hot and heavy.

  “And this is more riveting than my party?” He placed his palm on his chest, covering his heart, feigning I’d wounded him. “I’m deeply offended.”

  “I’m sure,” I said dryly then refocused on the printed page. I scanned the words and absorbed none of them. It didn’t matter. Seconds later the book was yanked from my hands. I scrambled up out of the chair, chasing after it. “Hey.”

  Royce held the book out of my reach and wore an evil grin.

  “Oh, my God, are you five?” I said. “Give it back.”

  Instead, he clamped one of his large hands down on my shoulder, keeping me an arm’s length away as he skimmed the passage I was reading. My heart skipped as his fingers tensed against my skin, the heat of his palm soaking through the lace cap sleeve. I didn’t like the way his touch buzzed through my body. He’d probably touched a hundred women who’d melted from it. I wasn’t going to add my name to that list.

  “Is that why your hair looks like that?” he asked. He kept the book high and far away, and it was easy for him to hold me in place, no matter how I struggled. “I get it. Medusa was always my favorite too.”

  I choked on a breath and jerked to a stop. “What?”

  “I assume you’re a fan. With that green hair and those red lips, you sort of look like her.”

  My heart banged in my chest, a side effect of the anger bubbling in my bloodstream. Had he just called me ugly? “Actually,” I snapped, “in most versions of the story, Medusa was beautiful.”

  “I know that.” He looked at me strangely. “Do you . . . not think you’re beautiful?”

  Wait, what?

  He didn’t think I was ugly, but beautiful? The floor beneath my feet softened, and I struggled to stand on this newly uneven ground. I could handle Royce treating me a variety of ways. He could be indifferent, or annoying, or even cruel, but he’d never been nice before.

  It was unsettling.

  He’d sounded sincere, but I refused to believe it. He was working some angle, and I just hadn’t figured it out yet. I had to regroup.

  “What I meant,” I said, “is that in the original versions, she was gorgeous. But once she became a symbol for feminist rage, men retold the story and made her ugly. I assumed that was the version you’d know.”

  His hand slipped from my shoulder, and I was cold in the absence of his touch. His eyebrows tugged together. “Feminist rage?”

  I was vaguely aware this was a ridiculous conversation to be having, but my mouth ran away with itself. “Yeah. She was raped by Poseidon, and after that she could turn any man who looked at her into stone.” I reached for the book. “Not women,” I clarified. “She only used her power on men.”

  I tugged the book gently, but Royce wouldn’t release it. “Interesting.” He cocked his head to the side, and his icy eyes sharpened. “So, you are Medusa.” A smile tilted on his lips. “It was temporary, but you turned me to stone just now.”

  My mind went blank. “What?”

  “Do you have any idea how long I was standing there, watching you?”

  And with that, he let go of the book. The sudden lack of resistance, or perhaps it was the seriousness in his expression, left me stumbling backward. This version of Royce was lethal. He’d sold it well enough for me to believe him.

  But only for a single breath.

  The idea of my beauty turning this man into stone, the one who could have nearly any woman he wanted, fluttered in my belly. And then it soured and crashed to my toes. He wasn’t really a man, but an entitled brat, and it was just a line. I knew better. His favorite toys growing up were the ones that lived and breathed and had feelings that could be manipulated.

  I wasn’t going to be his plaything tonight.

  “Did you forget which Northcott sister you’re talking to?” I tightened my grip on the edges of my book. “Save your attempts at being charming for Emily.”

  It was like I’d unexpectedly punched the hollow laugh from him. “I’m not attempting to be charming. And, Jesus, what happened to you? I don’t remember you being so prickly before.”

  “Really? I’m amazed you remember anything at all about a nobody like me.”

  The half-smile on his lips froze and his shoulders stiffened. His reaction was probably as close to embarrassment as he got.

  “You remember saying that, I guess,” I said.

  He let out a long sigh.

  Back when I’d been a sophomore in high school, I’d begged Emily to let me tag along to some crappy dive bar on the outskirts of town. It had been a school night in the middle of the week. The bar agreed not to serve liquor until after ten to allow the group of kids from Cape Hill Prep, who had formed a shitty band, to perform for an underage crowd. Emily had been dating the drummer—who had zero fucking rhythm—and we’d stood in the crowd sipping sodas as her friends fumbled their way through a pathetic set of five songs.

  I still remembered standing on the sticky floor in the dark, in a place I wasn’t usually allowed to go. The too-loud guitars and muddled music vibrated in my chest as the band covered songs and butchered them, and I thought up to that point it was the coolest moment of my life. All the popular kids were there, swaying to the haphazard beat, and I’d been included. For the first time, I felt like part of something.

  Later that night, we’d wound up at an all-night diner.

  Royce hadn’t seen Emily and me come in. He’d been drinking coffee at a table on one side and his back was turned, and we’d arrived just in time for him to recap his night. He’d announced he thought the evening was cool . . . up until the moment he’d “seen a nobody like Marist Northcott was there.” My presence, according to him, had made the whole experience lame.

  Sophia Alby was sitting across the table from him and lifted her surprised gaze to me, and it was enough to grab his attention. He turned over his shoulder, just enough to give me a view of his side profile. I saw him, and he saw me, and he had to know his comment had registered, given my shocked expression. He didn’t care how his words had landed or stripped me down. He just shrugged, turned back around, and rolled right on into his conversation.

  I was worthless. He was the prince of Cape Hill, and he had declared me a nobody, which meant it was now law.

  His offhanded comment decided my whole fate at Cape Hill Prep and the social circles I would never be allowed into. He’d labeled me a leper. It wasn’t like I couldn’t survive, but he’d made the last five years so much harder. Not to mention lonely.

  I didn’t like how he’d had that kind of power over me. If there was a specific moment in my life when I’d decided I didn’t give a fuck what other people thought, I’d point a finger to that moment.

  It gave me satisfaction to know if things went well between Royce and Emily as his family wanted, this nobody would become his sister-in-law. Royce’s blue eyes clouded over, but the tension in my body firmed up as the memory drifted through my brain. I wouldn’t show any emotion. I wasn’t going to let him know his offhanded comment had affected me or shaped me in any way.

  “That was a long time ago.” His voice was hollow.

  “Hmm.” Funny. The lingering sting was still sharp enough it felt brand new.

  When his gaze slid down the length of my body, his voice went as smooth as buttery leather. “I was wrong, though. You’re not a nobody.”

  Unwanted heat sparked inside me. It was impossible to look at him and not think about sex. His cheekbones were cut high and elegant, and his mouth could twist into a devastating smirk. Life had cast Royce as a playboy, and he looked every bit the part.

  “Again, save it for Emily.” I’d strived for an annoyed tone but faltered, and it came out breathy. Like I was begging, rather than chiding.

  He took my reaction as a small victory, and it flashed in his eyes. “But I’m not interested in your sister.”

  His meaning was perfectly clear
when he drew in a deep breath, his broad chest expanding and filling the space between us. The library was suddenly cramped and tiny. The shelves closed in, the curtains strangled, and there was no escape.

  An insidious voice whispered inside me, telling me I didn’t want to escape, anyway.

  A war waged between my body and my mind. Physically, I wanted him. I was starved for attention when it came to boys, and on the surface, there wasn’t one more appealing than Royce Hale. But he was also the very reason I had such a hard time finding someone to date during my cloistered life. The crop of eligible men in Cape Hill was small, and I was awkward, and Royce’s comment had been the nail in the coffin.

  He was fucking with me. There couldn’t be any other explanation. What was his end goal? Did he want me flustered and falling all over him like the other girls did? Was he going to pretend to seduce me and then spur me off, humiliating me at the last second? Run to my sister and tell her how pathetic I was?

  “Oh, yeah?” I blinked innocently. “What exactly are you interested in?”

  He matched my harmless attitude, threading his tie through two fingers and slid them down the length. “Avoiding people and staying here in the library with you.”

  It was a rare misstep for him. He’d overcompensated, and this was a bluff. I was excited to have the power to call him on it. I swallowed in a preparing breath, shifted the book into my left hand, and set the palm of my right on the center of his tie, my fingertips resting on his dress shirt. The silk was cool and soft, contrasting against the warmth seeping through the fabric covering his hard chest.

  I wasn’t practiced at seduction, but I threw everything I had at it. “What should we do?”

  His eyes widened. Oh, my God. There wasn’t anything more exciting than seeing the prince caught off guard. It lasted only long enough for me to recognize it before his large hand came down on mine, trapping my fingers in his and pressing my palm flatter against his chest.