by Erin Watt
The inside of her apartment is as cramped and depressing as I remember it being. It’s tidy and smells clean, and she’s put a clear vase of daisies on the narrow windowsill, but the flowers do little to de-ugly the place.
Hartley’s gaze follows mine. “I thought a splash of color might help brighten things up,” she says dryly.
“Not sure that’s even remotely possible.” I walk to the small counter and open the microwave door. Wow. I didn’t know microwave models this old still existed. It takes me a second to figure out how to work the stupid thing.
I heat up the burrito while Hartley ducks out to use the bathroom. As I wait for her, I open the cabinets in search of a snack. All I find is a box of crackers. The rest is canned food.
“You finished snooping?” she grumbles from the doorway.
“Nope.” I peek inside the mini fridge—this sad excuse for a kitchen isn’t even big enough for a regular-size fridge—and study the meager selection of staples. Butter, milk, a small carton of orange juice, some veggies, and Tupperware containers full of already-prepared food.
“I cook all my meals for the week on Sunday,” Hartley explains awkwardly. “That way I don’t have to worry about what to eat.”
I pick up one of the clear containers, study it, and place it back. “These are only dinners,” I note.
Hartley shrugs. “Well, yeah. Breakfast is usually a granola bar or some fruit, and I eat lunch at school. On the weekends, I work and there’s usually no time for lunch.”
It clicks now, why she’s always loading her tray at Astor with like four meals. Clearly money is super tight for this girl. She’s struggling. Guilt pricks me as I recall how I scarfed down her entire lunch the other day.
I check the microwave countdown. Twenty more seconds. Plenty of time for me to bite the bullet and ask, “Why aren’t you living with your family?”
Her whole body stiffens. “We…don’t see eye to eye on things,” she replies, and I’m surprised I even got that much out of her.
I want her to elaborate, but, of course, she remains stubbornly silent. I’m not dumb enough to press for details. The microwave beeps. Steam rises from the burrito as I open the little door, and I use a paper towel to pick up the edge of the plate so I don’t burn my hand.
“Let’s give this a minute to cool down,” I suggest.
She looks slightly aggravated, as if the delay is unacceptable to her because it means she has to spend more time with me. I’ve never met a chick who’s less interested in hanging out with me.
Hartley walks over to the sofa and sits down to unlace her shoes. Then she kicks them away as if they committed some heinous crime. She’s silent for a few seconds. When she speaks again, her tone is riddled with defeat. “Why did you bring me food, Easton?”
“I was worried about you.” I grab a knife and fork from the cutlery drawer. Not that she needs an entire drawer—she owns two forks, two knives and two spoons. That’s it. “Why did you ditch school in the middle of the day?”
“My boss texted me,” she admits. “A shift opened up, and I couldn’t say no.”
“How long are these shifts?” I ask, because she left Astor around noon and didn’t get home until midnight. She was gone twelve hours. That seems like a really long shift for a part-time waitress.
“It was a double,” she says. “Doubles suck, but it’s hard for me to get hours. There are two other waitresses with young kids and they need the hours more than I do.”
I think about her bare cupboards and debate the truth of that statement. She does need those hours. Pretty badly.
Or maybe she doesn’t. I mean, I’ve got money. I’m not sure how much this dump costs, but it can’t be even a tenth of my monthly allowance. I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep if I parted with some of that cash.
I place her dinner on the coffee table, along with a napkin and a glass of water, and try to think of a way to offer her money without pissing her off. When Hartley doesn’t make a move to pick up her fork, I sit on the other end of the couch and cross my arms.
“Eat,” I order.
She hesitates.
“For God’s sake, I didn’t poison it, dumbass. You’re hungry. Eat.”
It doesn’t take any more coaxing after that. Hartley cuts into the burrito with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. She devours nearly half the thing before slowing down a little, proving that she must’ve been starving.
She has a hard time accepting a ten-dollar burrito from me. How am I going to convince her that she should take a few grand?
“How come you don’t tell anyone that you’re working?”
“Because it’s nobody’s business. Yeah, I wait tables at a diner. So what. Why is that something that needs to be spread around school? It’s hardly a big deal.”
Frustration has me leaning forward. I rest my forearms on my knees and study her intently. “Who are you, Hartley?”
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I looked you up—”
Just like that, her shoulders snap into a straight, angry line.
“Oh relax,” I say. “It’s not like I found any deep, dark secrets. All I know about you is that your dad ran for mayor and lost.”
The mention of her father casts a shadow across her face, and I find myself scanning her arms for bruises. Did her dad beat her and she ran away?
I try to fish for more information by saying, “And I found an article that says you have two sisters.”
Rather than confirm or deny that, she simply stares at me with the most tired expression I’ve ever seen. “Easton.” She pauses. “Why are you looking me up?” Another pause. “Why are you buying me dinner?” And another. “Why are you here? Why would you leave your big fancy house and spend your entire night waiting around for me? I’m surprised you weren’t robbed out there.”
I have to laugh. “I can take care of myself, babe. And to answer your question, I’m here because I like you.”
“You don’t even know me,” she says in frustration.
“I’m trying to!” Feeling that same frustration, I slam my palm against my thigh.
Hartley flinches at the loud smacking sound. Fear darts across her gaze like a skittish rabbit.
I quickly raise both hands in a signal of surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Holy hell, maybe she was being abused at home. Or being abused now, by someone else. Should I call my dad?
“Is someone…hurting you?” I ask cautiously.
“No,” she answers. “No one’s hurting me. I live here alone and I don’t need help. I’m managing fine on my own.”
“This doesn’t look fine to me.” I wave my hand around the apartment.
“Really? And you wonder why I don’t tell people at Astor where I work? Or where I live? I like my place here.” She shakes her head in annoyance. “It’s not fancy, but it’s mine. I provide for myself and I’m damn proud of it.”
“You’re right.”
My admission catches her off guard. “What?”
“Hey, I can admit that I made a mistake. I actually admire the hell out of you. If I didn’t, I sure as shit wouldn’t be following you around, bringing you food.”
She relaxes, but her expression doesn’t entirely lose its guardedness. “You’re not the kind of person I want to hang around, Easton.”
Something jolts up my chest and stabs me in the heart.
“I know that sounds harsh.” She’s totally oblivious to the effect her words had on me. “But I keep trying to tell you—you’re too much trouble. I don’t have time for that.”
Despite the burn of indignation in my blood, I know she’s right. I am trouble. I’m the Royal screw-up who gets into fights and drinks too much and pisses everyone off all the time.
But even though it hurts to find out that she clearly views me as completely unsubstantial, I appreciate her honesty. She’s not like Claire or the other girls I’ve been with, who f
awn all over me and forgive me no matter what I do, since Easton Royal can do no wrong in their eyes.
Hartley isn’t afraid to tell me everything she doesn’t like about me. And I can’t even be mad at her, because all these bad things she sees in me are the same things I hate about myself.
“All I care about is making sure I have somewhere to sleep every night, which means making money,” she says frankly.
“If you need money, I’ll give you money.”
Fuck. Wrong thing to say.
Her fork clutters to the plate. “Did you seriously just say that? What, you think if you hand over some cash, I won’t have to work as much and therefore I’ll have more time to spend with you?” She sounds incredulous.
“I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.” Shame tickles my throat, because that’s how we Royals fix problems—by throwing money at them.
But at the same time, the judgment in her storm-gray eyes needles at me. She’s not like Ella, who grew up dirt-poor. Or Valerie, who comes from the less well-off Carrington side and is forced to accept handouts from her aunt and uncle in order to attend a good school.
Hartley’s family is rich. She might not be living with them right now, but she sure as hell lived with them before.
“I’ve been to your house, remember?” I find myself snapping. “You might not have a steady cash flow right now, but your family comes from money. So don’t look at me like I’m a spoiled brat and you’re the hardened coupon clipper who’s been struggling her whole life. For fuck’s sake. You were at some fancy boarding school up until a few months ago.”
Those gray eyes, rather than blaze in anger like I thought they would, once again convey exhaustion. “Yeah, I did have money before. But I don’t anymore. And I’ve been in this apartment since school ended last May. That’s only four months, long enough for me to realize that I used to take everything for granted. Life isn’t about boarding schools and fancy clothes and mansions. I learned a hard lesson when I came back to Bayview.” She looks me over. “I don’t think you’ve learned that lesson yet.”
“What?” I scoff. “How to be poor? Is that what it’ll take for you to be nicer to me? If I trade in my ride for a bus ticket and see how the other side lives for a while?”
“I’m not asking you to do that. I don’t care what you do, Easton. I’m not here to help you or hold your hand while you learn various life lessons. I’m just trying to take care of myself.” She takes a quick sip of water. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, you don’t even cross my mind.”
Ouch.
That fucking stings.
But the painful sensation fades once I register something—the false note in her voice. The way she’s studiously avoiding my eyes.
“I don’t believe you,” I declare. “I do cross your mind.”
She puts down her glass and rises unsteadily to her feet. “It’s time for you to go, Easton.”
“Why? Because I’m getting to you?” With a look of challenge, I stand up, too.
“You’re getting on my nerves, that’s what you’re doing.”
“No. I’m getting to you,” I repeat.
I step closer, and although she tenses up, she doesn’t move away. I don’t miss the way her breathing quickens, and I swear I see her pulse throbbing in the base of her throat. And the need in her eyes. She wants me, or she at least wants what I can give her, but she’s too proud or stubborn or frustrated to ask for it. Because she thinks she doesn’t need affection or closeness or connections.
I’m starting to figure her out. Not her past. Not the problems with her family, but what makes her tick.
When she’s scared and hurt, she lashes out. Someone less stubborn than me would’ve left by now. But that’s why she’s alone—because she doesn’t have anyone in her life willing to stick it out with her.
I know what it’s like to be alone. I know what it’s like to want and not have. I don’t want Hartley to feel that way. Not anymore. Not while I’m around.
“I’m gonna do it,” I say softly.
Her gaze whips up to meet mine. “Do what?”
“Kiss you.”
Her breath hitches. The air stretches thin between us, like when you’re up high in the clouds with nothing but a couple inches of metal between you and the big blue sky. Excitement spreads through my veins as I look into her eyes. I see the same anticipation in response.
“Easton—” she says, but I don’t know whether it’s a warning or a plea.
And it’s too late. My mouth is already on hers.
She gasps in surprise, but her lips soften under mine. Holy fuck, she’s kissing me back.
My head spins and my stomach’s in my throat and it has everything to do with this girl. Her lips are unbelievably soft. So is the skin at the nape of her neck, which I’m stroking with my thumb. I pull her closer to me, wanting to feel the full weight of her. My tongue dives through her parted lips and touches hers, and that’s when she shakes out of my grasp.
It’s over so fast I don’t even have time to blink. Disappointment crashes over me, summoning a low curse from throat. “Why’d you stop?” I practically groan.
“Because I don’t want this,” she says hoarsely, backing away from me. “I told you, I don’t have time to date. I’m not interested.”
“You kissed me back,” I point out. My pulse is still racing from that boner-inducing kiss.
“Moment of weakness.” Her breathing sounds labored. “I don’t know how many different ways I can say this, Easton. I don’t want to go out with you.”
I swallow my frustration. I don’t get this girl. Why kiss me back, then? Moment of weakness? Screw that. She likes me. She’s attracted to me. So why can’t we just do this?
Do what? a voice in my head taunts.
That gives me pause, because…what do I want here? To sleep with Hartley or to actually date her? I was planning on playing the field for my senior year, didn’t want a girlfriend tying me down. There are plenty of girls I can sleep with, but I’m drawn to Hartley in a way I haven’t ever been drawn to another person. There’s something about her that makes me happy when I’m with her.
A crazy idea occurs to me.
“How about if we’re friends?” I ask slowly.
She looks startled. “What?”
“Friends. It’s a seven-letter word meaning individuals who have a mutual attachment.”
“I know what it means. I just don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying we should be friends. Since you’re not interested in me and all.” I wink. “It’s either that or I keep hitting on you and trying to kiss you.”
Hartley makes an exasperated noise. “Why does it have to be either one of those? Isn’t there a third option?”
“Nope.” I offer a crooked grin. “Come on, Hartley Davidson—”
“Hartley Davidson?”
“I’m workshopping nicknames for you. Best friends give each other nicknames.” I shove my hands in the back pockets of my jeans. “Honestly, I like this idea. If we’re not gonna hook up, we might as well do the friendship thing. I’ve never really had a close female friend, so this would be a good experience for me.”
Hartley sinks back down onto the couch. “From what I can tell, you have tons of friends.”
“I don’t,” I blurt out.
Almost immediately, I’m hit with a rush of guilt, because what does that make Ella and Val? My brothers don’t count—they have to be in my life. I do consider them friends, but blood has a way of binding you to someone, taking away your choice in the matter. I chose to be friends with Ella and Val.
So I correct myself, saying, “I have some friends. But I want another one. I want a Hartley Wright.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is this the part where I say I want an Easton Royal?”
“Yup.” I grow enthusiastic. “We’ll hang out after practice. Do our calculus homework together. Not gonna brag, but I’m pretty good with the school stuff if I want to be.”
“The school stuff,” she repeats dryly.
“Yup. Fact is…” I hesitate and then confess, “I’m kind of smart.”
“I know.” She stretches out her legs, flexing her toes.
“You do?”
“Yeah. The notes you wrote out are pretty amazing. Only someone who really understood the subject could explain it like that.”
“Huh.”
“But you enjoy playing dumb, so I won’t ruin it for you.”
“I’m not playing dumb, I’m just not…interested. School’s a drag.”
“If I agree to this—”
I break out in a grin.
“If I agree,” she says, stern this time, “there will be some rules.”
“Hard pass. I don’t do rules.”
She smiles sweetly. “Then I hard pass on this friendship.”
I grumble under my breath. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s hear the rules.”
“You’re not allowed to try to fool around with me.”
“Fine,” I say with a nod, because I already said I wouldn’t.
“You’re not allowed to flirt.”
“Negative. That happens naturally and I can’t stop it.” I hold up my hand in compromise. “But if I do it, you’re allowed to tell me to stop.”
“Fine.”
“What else?”
She thinks it over. “No sexual innuendo.”
“Impossible. Also comes naturally…that’s what she said.” I sigh. “See, you’re asking too much of me. My counteroffer is that you ignore any and all innuendo. My dad always says if you don’t give something your attention, then it didn’t actually happen.”
I can see her fighting a laugh. “Your dad says this. Really,” she drawls. Her voice is full of skepticism.
“Uh-huh. Or maybe it was Gandhi. Someone smart, anyway. We should have a handshake,” I tell her.
She arches an eyebrow. “A handshake.”
“Yeah. LeBron James has a special handshake for each one of his teammates. That’s how you know they’ve bonded. Let’s do one of those.”
“I’m never going to remember some complicated handshake. I vote for a song. You can sing me a song every time we meet.” Her eyes drift shut.