Margot froze.
Bentley cursed himself for slipping.
“Thirty days?” Margot whispered in a hoarse voice. “Did you just say thirty days?”
“You should get some sleep.” Bentley slowly started backing away.
“You aren’t staying here thirty days, Bent.”
“The hell I’m not.” He smirked. “The rules have changed. Just ask your grandmother. Besides, I bet you always wanted me as a roommate…think of all the benefits. I can wash your back in the shower, scratch any…itches you may have—”
“—Bentley, if you get anywhere near my body I’m going to kick you in the balls, got it?”
“How hard of a kick are we talking here?” He eyed her up and down. “Because I seem to remember you faking a case of the hives so you wouldn’t have to participate in gym class.”
Margot rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t really matter how hard the kick is when the package is that—” she tilted her head and smiled “—small.”
Bentley’s eyes narrowed. “You really want to start something you can’t finish, Red? You’re stuck with me for the next month…maybe you shouldn’t pick a fight you can’t win.”
“I don’t need to win,” Margot fired back. “I just need to survive.”
“So is that what you’re doing? Surviving?” He was pushing her too far.
Her eyes widened as her cheeks colored a bright red. “It won’t work.”
“What won’t?”
“Whatever you’re trying to do. I don’t have friends or company for a reason.”
“I know.” He finally turned to fully look at her. “You’re that reason.”
She stared him down like he was Satan himself. “Bentley, I’ve talked to some of the best shrinks money can buy—what makes you think a man who fucks his way through life and doesn’t even remember most Friday nights is going to be the one to have a breakthrough?”
He straightened. “Maybe because the man who fucks his way through life understands desperation when he sees it reflected in someone else’s eyes—even if they are a different color than he remembers. Good night, Margot.” He turned on his heel and walked out the door.
Chapter Eight
After less than twenty-four hours under the same roof as Bentley, Margot was seriously contemplating calling her grandmother and faking a miraculous healing of the mind. Not that Margot’s mind was broken, but her grandmother worried about Margot’s aversion to all things that she used to love—everything but books.
Her mom had loved the garden outside.
And her dad had basically just loved life.
So it felt wrong going outside, enjoying the life that was stolen from them because she hadn’t been paying attention.
It was easier to stay locked inside.
And every time she was tempted to step outside to do anything other than swim, it was like her leg pained her more, convincing her with this terrifying sense of dread that if she did step outside, she wasn’t honoring their memory.
Not that she’d ever admit that to Bentley of all people.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized it was the principal of the matter. Why should she get to enjoy anything, when she was the one living while her parents were dead? Buried. Cold in the ground. She should be punished.
The phantom pain returned to her missing right calf.
Like it always did when she thought about the accident.
The screeching sound of brakes, the shattering of glass, metal twisting.
Her skin broke out in a cold sweat.
With a huff, she sat up in bed and attached her prosthetic. Her skin was pink where the surgeon had amputated—probably because she’d been putting more weight on it than she was used to.
Another strike against the playboy. Not only was he mentally taxing—he was physically hurting her without even realizing it.
Sighing, she followed the leg with a pair of jeans that weren’t too tight, and then added a T-shirt and tennis shoes. Everything was covered, and if he didn’t look too close, he shouldn’t notice the leg.
Or lack thereof.
The problem was going to be trying to last another twenty-eight days without him noticing. The last thing she wanted was Bentley’s pity. He’d already looked at her like she was broken—it would just get worse if he knew the true extent.
The last thing she wanted was for him to apologize for abandoning her, and for that apology to be out of guilt, rather than because he was truly sorry.
Thirty days.
What the ever-loving hell was her grandmother thinking? When she’d texted her grandmother to complain, the only response she got was:
Surprise.
Right.
Surprise.
As in, Yay, aren’t you so glad that I bought you a man and then somehow convinced him it would be a good idea to hang out with you and cheer you up?
Margot cursed herself for opening up to her grandmother a few months back—telling her that she was stressed and having a rough day. People were allowed to have rough days! Her grandmother asked her if she was happy; she’d said yes!
She didn’t need cheering.
In fact his presence was literally doing the exact opposite of what her grandmother probably wanted.
It was making her remember.
When all she really wanted to do was forget.
Her old life was gone.
Now she had a new one—one that wouldn’t even fit a portion of Bentley’s ego.
Her bedroom door mocked her.
Taunted her.
And she was reminded all over again about his intrusion and the way he dared judge her and his ridiculous offer of advice.
She shook with anger. It was so insulting, and humiliating, the fact that he was right—she was hiding from the world. At least partially. But it wasn’t because she was depressed or in a bad place. It was just easier not to have to deal with all the stares, the disgusted looks, the memories.
Ugh.
Her stomach grumbled. She couldn’t starve, though the idea did have merit, because at least then she wouldn’t have to face him again.
But she’d eaten her last protein bar yesterday.
And unless she wanted to chew on some Laffy Taffy for breakfast, the stash in her desk wasn’t going to help her.
Squaring her shoulders, she jerked open the door and made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen and gasped.
Two places were set on the breakfast bar. Her eyes landed on a plateful of scrambled eggs, and to the right of it, toast and bacon.
Damn it. The man learned to cook. Back when they were friends, he couldn’t even make a sandwich without ruining it. And now? Eggs. She had eggs.
Wildflowers rested on their sides in the middle of the table. Dirt still caked the stems. Did the man even know how to pick a flower?
Bentley looked up from his spot at the bar and patted the seat next to him. “I wasn’t sure if you liked eggs. Actually, I wasn’t sure if you fed off the blood of humans and were actually able to even digest food, so I took a chance in hopes you won’t stake me.”
“Funny.”
“I’m hilarious” was his dry-as-hell answer.
“You cook now?” Her mouth watered at the sight of the fluffy eggs. The last time she’d made breakfast had been when her grandmother visited—a month ago.
“I cook.”
“You cook,” she said more to herself than anything.
“I think we established that. Twice now. But by all means say it again, only maybe this time, say it more breathlessly. There’s nothing better than bacon and sexual innuendos in the morning.”
She was tempted to toss the eggs in his lap and smear butter all over his face. Though he’d probably think of it as an invitation.
Bentley always did confuse flirting and fighting.
Before she could reach for the spatula, Bentley was already piling food onto her plate—enough to feed at least four of her.
“That’s too
much.” She stared down at the bacon as steam billowed off her plate.
“You’re too skinny.” He was back to reading the newspaper she wasn’t even aware had been delivered and taking a sip of coffee. “Eat.”
“This won’t work.” She crossed her arms. “Feeding me doesn’t make me friendly.”
“It was worth a shot.” He paused. “It worked for my stray dog.”
“Wow, how nice, being compared to a canine.” She fought back the urge to stab him with her fork.
“She’s a really pretty bitch.” He grinned over his newspaper. “Like someone else I know. All bark, no bite, but a hell of a—” he winked then eyed her slowly up and down “—coat.”
There it was again. The flirting. Why was he really staying for longer than the weekend? What was his angle? Because it sure wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart. Life wasn’t a romance novel with a happily ever after. He wanted something.
“I’m curious.” She dug into her eggs. Not because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t take the smell anymore, and drool was about ready to roll out of her mouth. “Do you compare all women to animals, or am I the only lucky one?”
“I dated an Ashley once.”
“And when you say ‘dated’?”
“I screwed her in the bathroom of a club,” he said in a bored voice. “Twice.” He set the newspaper down on the counter and lifted the coffee to his lips. “She reminded me of a cougar. Does that count?”
Margot shoveled more eggs into her mouth and reached for the orange juice to keep herself from choking.
“Are you ignoring me now?”
Margot almost leaped out of her chair. How long had she been sitting there mentally going through all the images he’d just prompted to flow into her mind? The bathroom stall, a woman, Bentley’s mouth.
Maybe she did need to get out.
Or start writing nonfiction instead of romance. Her imagination was way too vivid; it was hard enough sitting next to him and feeling his body heat. Great. She said heat.
Her heat.
His heat.
Damn it!
“It doesn’t count.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin and tried to calm her shaking hands. “Just like this doesn’t count as a normal friendly conversation. We’re not friends anymore, remember?”
“Good, because I didn’t ask to be your friend.”
Her heart sank. This was why you didn’t let people like Bentley Wellington into your life. Even though she knew he was bad news, she’d still hoped…and there it was. He might have abandoned her. She might hate him. But she still always hoped he’d come back.
“Fine, because I didn’t want that anyway. I don’t want any of this.”
Liar.
“And you think I do?” It was probably the first honest thing he’d said to her, which of course made her even more curious and hurt.
After Margot bit into a piece of the best bacon she’d ever had in her entire life, she turned her full attention to Bentley. “No choice, huh?”
He set his coffee down. “I was threatened.”
“That makes two of us.”
“My grandfather hates me and I was tricked.”
“My grandmother wants me to have unprotected sex with a stranger.”
Bentley started coughing and choking. “Wrong pipe.”
“I think I win.” She took one more bite of bacon and slid off the chair.
“Wait,” Bentley called. “Aren’t you going to take your flowers?”
She eyed the wildflowers as anxiety washed over her. She had no idea what his angle was, and that made her more nervous than anything. A man who was forced to be with her wouldn’t randomly bring her flowers, right?
“Come on.” He held out the flowers, his eyes drawing her in as he raked his gaze over her body appreciatively. “I picked them for you.” His sexy grin was enough to make her crumble.
It had the opposite effect he probably wanted. Because it just reminded her that the only reason he was looking at her like that was because he clearly didn’t know the truth about her leg. Tears burned her throat until she felt like she was going to suffocate. Either he really was attracted to her and was in for a very rude awakening, or he was doing what he did best. Charming his way back into her life by way of a sexy grin and empty compliments.
With a fake cheerful smile, she took the flowers from his hand and tossed them in the trash.
Bentley stared at her then back at the trash. “Are you serious?”
“They were dirty.”
“Because they were outside!” he argued.
She shrugged and spun on her heel when he called out.
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs,” she answered firmly before turning around to face him. “To work, which I’m sure is a completely foreign concept to you.”
Bentley’s expression hardened. “Going back to the dungeon with your blinds closed and panties in a twist?”
“You know so much about women, Bentley Wellington, it’s a shock so many land in your bed.”
“Half of them are drunk,” he said in a teasing tone.
She froze. “Seriously? You think that’s funny? It’s not.”
“Sorry.” He sobered. “I was kidding. I would never take advantage—”
“And yet here you are.” She threw her hands up into the air, nearly knocking herself off balance. “Taking advantage of me.”
“The hell I am!” he roared, jumping to his feet. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than babysit a depressed shut-in who refuses to even step outside the doorway for fear the sun’s going to burn her vampire skin? A girl who can’t even accept flowers or a fucking compliment without attacking? What the hell happened to you?”
There it was.
But if she answered him, she’d have to admit that something did happen—and she was definitely not interested in discussing her injury with him. And the elephant in the room would grow, because she’d be forced to face the truth of why he left.
Maybe he was never her friend in the first place.
Maybe, even back then, he was using her like he did every other girl that landed in his bed.
“I’m not a vampire.” Of course, that was what she decided to fixate on. Everything else he said hit its mark too well, leaving her dizzy with anger.
“No shit.”
“Whatever.” She gave him her back and took a step up the stair, but her bad leg, or what was left of it, suddenly gave out—which only happened if her muscles were too tired.
Bentley’s arms were underneath hers before she could even think to reach for the railing.
“You okay?” His breath tickled her ear. Why did he have to feel so warm? Thick, muscular arms wrapped around her body.
And for the first time in years, she felt safe.
Jerking away from him, she kept walking, head held high, all the way to the top of the stairwell.
“You’re welcome for breakfast.” His hard voice followed behind her.
She slammed her door.
And tried to calm herself down.
Because for a minute—it had worked.
The food.
The conversation.
The flowers.
He’d always been easy to talk to. And now he knew how to cook.
Worst-case scenario, he was going to somehow find a way to weasel himself into her life and then leave her. Because that was what people did—they left.
Chapter Nine
Well, that went well,” Bentley muttered to himself, his body still humming with awareness. Her skin smelled like sugar.
The kind of scent that fills the house when you’re making candy or caramel popcorn.
Great. He was comparing her to food.
Like the dog comment wasn’t bad enough.
It had slipped.
The ugly words.
He’d always been the type that was more comfortable projecting his own issues onto other people—in some twisted hope the attention would
shift to the other person.
It never worked.
Nothing really did.
Except loads of sex.
And doing what he did best.
Ignoring anything that brought him back to that moment, to that moment in his life when everything went black.
“Bentley!” Brant pounded on the closet door. “Open up!”
Bentley rolled his eyes and continued assaulting Jessica’s mouth with his as he slowly lifted her skirt and gripped her thighs. “Go away.”
“Bentley.” Brant’s voice was panicked. “I’m not kidding, man, something happened.”
“Something’s happening now.” Jessica grinned against his mouth as he reached for his pants.
“It’s Margot,” Brant said with a hoarse cry.
Bentley froze in place.
Jessica kept kissing him.
And then he shoved her away, fixed his jeans, and opened the bedroom door. He knew in seconds that something was very wrong.
Because his brother had tears in his eyes.
And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his brother cry.
“I’m not sure if she’s going to make it.” Brant reached for Bentley.
Bentley shoved him away. “What do you mean if she’s going to make it? Where is she?”
Brant shook his head.
“Where is she?” Bentley yelled. “Margot! Margot!” He was hysterical as he started shoving the perfect little vases from their equally perfect table. Flowers and glass littered the floor until his own brother tackled him to the ground.
Police.
Sirens.
Domestic disturbance.
Jail.
And a lingering feeling that the only person in his life who really knew him was gone.
So why live?
There wasn’t any point, was there?
A car ride home.
A lecture.
And one bottle of pills later.
He pounded his fist onto the counter as the taste of acid burned the back of his throat. The eggs were cold, the bacon discarded. His stomach rolled. He made it as far as the kitchen sink before he puked up everything he’d just eaten.
Anxiety had always been a complete bitch to him, making it so that if he was too keyed up he couldn’t keep any solid food down. Which meant he needed to get the hell out of here before her dark moods and memories of what he thought was her death killed him.
The Playboy Bachelor (The Bachelors of Arizona #2) Page 6