He was good at that. Running away.
Bentley stumbled out of the house and walked around the back, body still shaking with the memory of waking up in the hospital room right across from Margot.
And not even knowing it until he was moved to a different floor.
It might as well have been worlds away from her.
His grandfather kept it hidden from the media.
And told Bentley that if he was seen wandering the halls he’d cut him off completely. It was for his own protection, he’d said.
Protection, his ass.
With a sigh Bentley moved through the back garden where he’d earlier picked flowers and down the stairs to the back porch.
The glistening pool shone in the distance.
Sink or swim?
Hell, he felt like he’d been doing nothing but sinking since he arrived. She was everything and more than he remembered—he just never realized how violently the memories would assault him.
Or how badly it would hurt when she looked at him like he’d destroyed her—when all he’d ever wanted to do was kiss her.
Twenty-eight days.
Of hell.
And then he’d go back to his life—and leave her in the past for good. There was a reason he’d buried all of those feelings that went along with Margot—because some people were too important to risk losing twice.
The water in the pool glistened.
Bentley sat on one of the white plastic chairs and let the warm air wash over him as he took deep, soothing breaths.
Soon, the anxiety started to melt away. He just had to focus on getting the woman to accept some damn flowers, go on a picnic, accept a gift— He burst out laughing.
Right, he just had to, you know, solve world hunger and cure cancer at the same time. How hard could it be?
She was his ticket to bigger things. To better things.
To finally moving on.
To a life that meant more than what he had.
God, listen to him! Barely two days with the woman and he was sounding like a depressed asshole!
“Think, Bentley, think.” He ground his teeth together as he tried to figure out a way to reach her without losing his mind.
What did he even know about her now?
She clearly still hated him.
Hated flowers.
Wrote books for a living.
Books?
Was that his way in?
He quickly pulled out his phone and got on Amazon. At this point he was willing to try anything.
Chapter Ten
It was too quiet.
And not the good type of quiet you find on a nice summer evening when you crack open the window and fresh air fills the room.
It was a bad quiet.
It was a Bentley Wellington quiet.
Like he was just waiting to pounce.
Two days had passed since their fight over breakfast, and for the most part, he’d left her alone.
For the most part.
She’d learned that the best way to avoid him was to stash food in her room and make sure that she kept the door locked.
So basically she was a prisoner in her own house—which wasn’t any different than usual, but this time she was essentially locked in her room. Which meant no swimming.
It was really all she missed other than the amazing movie room downstairs. She had everything she needed in her room.
She’d probably die in this room.
She wondered briefly how long it would take someone to find her.
God, when had she turned into this depressed, crazy person? All she needed was a bazillion cats and a shopping cart to complete the image. It was like Bentley’s arrival reminded her of how lonely she really was.
With a defeated sigh she typed one more chapter, then scanned the clock on her computer…
It was eight o’clock.
Too early for bed.
And too late to still be working, since she’d already put in over twelve hours that day.
She cracked her neck just as a soft knock sounded at the door.
Right on time.
At least she’d give him that.
Every night he dropped a fresh-picked bouquet of flowers outside her door. And each time they left a little dirt spot on the hardwood. She was pretty sure he did it to be irritating.
With a yawn she opened the door only to jerk back.
In one hand, Bentley had a bouquet of flowers, in the other about ten paperback books.
“Can I help you?” She leaned against the door and waited.
He grinned and then shoved the stack of books at her. “Hold these?”
“Wait—”
He held up a hand and then waltzed right into her room and deposited the bouquet of dirty flowers right on her nice, clean white bedspread.
She let out a growl of frustration. “What part of ‘Leave me the hell alone’ do you not understand?”
“Um, let me see…” He tapped his perfect jawline with his right hand. “All of it?”
“Take your dirty books and leave.” She shoved the stack back into his chest and huffed.
“Dirty?” He frowned. “Did you even look at them?”
“Fine. Your illustrated children’s books with really fancy pictures and one-syllable words like cat.” She grinned, proud of herself at the insult as he rolled his eyes.
“Look.” He nodded his head.
Curiosity got the best of her. She looked at the stack of books and let out a little gasp.
Jane Austen. Jane Eyre. James Patterson, to name a few. Some of them she’d read before, while others were new to her. “I don’t understand.”
“Common ground,” Bentley said in a low voice. “I figured that the only thing we have in common other than being forced into this situation”—he shrugged—“is that we both like books. I thought it could be a fresh-start present. You know, since we already broke the proverbial bread and you threw things at my face.”
Her lips twitched. Ugh, why did he have to be funny?
And good-looking.
“You don’t read.”
“Says who?” he countered.
“Says…” She let out a frustrated sigh. “You always used to make fun of my reading.”
“It’s called flirting, Red. How else was I supposed to get you to talk to me? Ask about the weather? Pull your tight little bun every day?”
“You did both of those things.”
He held up a book and waved it in her face. “Until I found common ground and asked you about reading.”
“You said you failed reading, as if it was an actual class offered to freshmen, and asked me to tutor you.”
His eyes briefly flashed with heat before he turned away. “And since I was too hard to resist—”
“—I always resisted,” she felt the need to point out. “Besides, it’s not like you liked me”—she swallowed—“in that way.” Breathe, in and out. “We were just friends, Bentley.”
“Weird. I remember having vivid daydreams about my friend.”
Her head jerked up just in time to see him lick his lips and stare at her mouth like he was hypnotized.
No.
Don’t let him in.
Not again.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “Now, please leave.”
“Did you just say ‘please’?” His mouth dropped open before he winked and took the remaining books from her hands. “Now, where do you want me to put them?”
“Wait—” She reached for him but it was too late. He was already at one of her bookcases, which wouldn’t have been such a big deal if it wasn’t the same bookcase with a picture of her parents.
And Bentley Wellington holding her hand in the background.
He froze and then a grin spread across his face. “So, just how long have you been fantasizing about me, then?”
“That’s it. You need to go.” She tried grabbing the books from his hands, but he jerked away from her. He set the books on the nearest shelf and
grabbed the picture. “I have to admit, I never took you for a stalker…How many more pictures do you have of me, Red? Be honest.”
She’d kept this photo because it was the last photo she had of her with her parents and her best friend.
Her parents were in a loving embrace, while she and Bentley were laughing in the background.
She had been looking at him instead of her parents.
Story of her life. She’d always been looking at him.
Bentley chuckled and pointed to her sixteen-year-old self. “You know, I would have probably kissed you if you’d asked. I always was curious what it would be like.”
It was too much.
The man holding the picture wasn’t the same person as the boy she’d had a crush on. Back then Bentley was dangerous—hadn’t Brant warned her time and time again? But the man facing her now was downright deadly.
“I’m pretty sure,” she said as she jerked the picture from his hands “that teen pregnancy wasn’t on my life goals list.” He didn’t look hurt but his eyes went cold. “Besides, you’re Bentley Wellington, the guy women sleep with when they’re bored with their husbands or don’t have anything better to do. What would make you think I would ever feel anything for you except for pity?”
He jerked back as if she’d slapped him.
Too far, Margot.
Even he didn’t deserve that.
But he’d thrown their friendship in her face—again. As if he’d been doing her a favor back then—and maybe that was where all her own hostility was coming from.
When their eyes met again, his dripped with hatred. “And to think, this pitiful man was going to offer to fuck you—after all, it must burn, knowing you’ll be a virgin the rest of your life.”
“Out!” she screamed. “Get out!”
“No need to shriek,” he sneered. “I’m gone.”
He slammed the door after him. The picture fell to the floor and cracked, but for some reason Margot thought it felt an awful lot like her heart had broken, too.
And she only had herself to blame.
Chapter Eleven
If avoiding a woman who lived in the same house as him was an Olympic sport, Bentley would have been a gold medalist.
It had been a day since their fight in her room.
Since he’d let his anger get the best of him.
Since she’d made him feel about as useless as his grandfather did.
It seemed every time they tried to have a decent conversation, one or both of them lashed out. The only thing he couldn’t figure out was how she knew exactly which button to push with him.
Because she’d hit her mark.
And it had burned like hell the rest of the day.
Because for some reason he didn’t want her looking at him the way everyone else did. Like he was useless, replaceable, only out for a good time.
“Fuck this.” He’d been moping for a whole day. He’d needed to get outside before he lost his mind.
He numbly jerked his T-shirt over his head, then pulled both his jeans and boxers down and jumped in the pool naked.
The very nonheated.
Cold.
Frigid-as-all-hell.
Pool.
He surfaced from the water and smoothly moved from one end of the pool to the other, his body gliding through the water in even strokes.
Already, his stomach felt better even if the heaviness was still there. How the hell was he supposed to reach a woman who refused to accept food from him? Who looked like she was in pain when she smiled at him?
Who didn’t just shut him out…
…but found ways to attack him in the process?
Bentley knew that he deserved some of her hatred. It was one of the reasons he was pissed about the whole scenario to begin with. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he never thought she would be this unforgiving, or have such a strong memory.
He wasn’t sure if he should feel guilty over the fact that she still hated him and was still hurting, or thankful that he wasn’t the only one who still remembered all of their time together.
He kept up the same pace for a good ten minutes and forced all thoughts of Margot completely from his mind.
Which meant there was only space for the water and the memories.
“Oh come on, you’re never serious.” Grandfather chuckled. “It’s what makes people love you. You’ve got your grandmother’s sense of humor.” He pulled out a cigar and lit it. A cloud of white smoke engulfed his head. “Now, why would you want to go to graduate school? You’ve never been into your studies.”
True. Bentley had basically fucked and partied through most of college at Yale, and only Brant knew the real reason why. Bentley needed constant distraction, and the sex and drinking worked; it helped relax him, kept his mind off of all of the things that made him snap back in high school. But something had shifted at the end of senior year. Or maybe life just clicked? His usual vices weren’t working as well. Frustrated, he’d left a frat party and on his way home saw a hurt dog; it was limping, and in really rough shape.
Immediately he went into action.
Distraction.
The kind where he was more focused on someone else’s pain than his own.
He’d looked for a collar but found only blood where a collar and name tag should have been. Anger surged through him as he’d picked up the dog, taken it home, given it a bath and a meal, and then realized—that was what he wanted to do.
Being a vet was a completely valid occupation, right? Besides, what else was he going to do? His eldest brother was taking over Wellington, Inc., and his twin was going to school for business.
Why not do something different?
He slept the best he’d ever slept in his entire life that night.
Only to wake up and form a plan.
Over spring break he’d gone to his grandfather’s office first thing to tell him the good news.
“Vets.” Grandfather shuddered. “They aren’t even real doctors.”
Bentley bit back his retort and stared his grandfather down. “The point is that I finally know what I want to do.”
“No.” Grandfather shifted in his chair. “You think you know what you want to do, just like you thought you wanted to go to Harvard only to end up at Yale, just like you switched from Social Sciences to Business to Communications. No, I’m putting my foot down. Give it a few years, and if you still want to do it, you can use the money from your trust.”
But that was years away. Now that he’d finally figured out what he wanted he didn’t want to wait.
“Bentley, I love you, but you’re not serious. You’ll be bored out of your mind, and then you’ll have quit just one more thing.” His grandfather’s face twisted with pain. “Besides, I don’t think it’s good for you to be under so much pressure, the stress for that type of med school could be—” he gulped “—harmful.”
Harmful.
Bentley opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. Searching for the right words before blurting out, “That was years ago. I’m totally fine now. I cope with my anxiety just fine.”
“Coping means you’re getting by. What happens when you get a bad grade, what happens when you lose interest or fail? I can’t see you go down that road again.” Grandfather tensed. “Bentley, I know you, son. You get a wild hair, and then you quit. I’m sorry, but I can’t invest in seeing you hurt yourself, not again.”
The rejection hurt like a bitch.
Truth typically did.
Because Bentley would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid of the very same thing. That fear kept him away from trying because what if…the what-ifs killed him.
But this…this felt different.
What was worse was that his grandfather couldn’t see the difference in Bentley’s eyes, or hear the sincerity in the way he spoke about finally having a purpose, a dream.
And at the end of the conversation, his grandfather winked and said, “Why don’t you go pour yourself a drink and tell me about that n
ew girl you’re with. God knows, she’ll only last another day before she tries to get you to marry her. Be careful, most of them are only after those good looks I passed down to you boys.”
And that was it.
The end of the conversation.
Darkness settled like a blanket around his shoulders, weighing him down as he pushed himself through the cold water.
He opened his eyes just before he slammed headfirst into the wall. Then, with a deep breath, he sank to the bottom of the pool.
And waited.
While the silence of the water washed over him.
And once again, he could feel that lingering what-if. The temptation to ask himself, What if I gave in again. What if I snapped? Because that’s what anxiety did to a person: it played mind games, it made you overanalyze every single thing, and it made you wonder about your own sanity and your own place in the world.
He promised himself he’d never go back to that place in his life—the place where he thought his best friend was dead just like his parents, the place where he wanted to be dead, too, because, for one crazy moment he’d snapped, and all the emotions he’d been keeping at bay came rushing in and dragged him under.
He rarely allowed himself to remember. He couldn’t risk it.
Lucky for him, Margot had a way of tugging those memories free. Just being here with her forced him to take a good hard look at his own life, and he hated what he saw. Because the same sadness in her eyes was reflected in his, the same anger, the same pity, the same guilt. He just didn’t know why she looked that way. And he couldn’t allow himself to care.
He should have stayed away.
He should have told his grandfather to go to hell.
His lungs burned with the need for air.
A purpose. He needed a purpose beyond coping with lingering anxiety and thoughts of all things Margot.
Margot.
Red hair.
Huge eyes.
Swollen lips.
She forced him to ask the question he always avoided at all costs: What the fuck was he doing with his life?
Would he ever be happy? Even with the new VP position within his grasp, was that what he really wanted? To turn out like Brock and spend his life pleasing his grandfather and jumping through every damn hoop until he was wearing the exact same suits, golfing on the weekend, going to all the right restaurants?
The Playboy Bachelor Page 7