Page 17 of Crushed By Love

“She has nowhere else to go and you do, so you need to leave. Now.”

Bree has the audacity to appear offended, which would be funny under different circumstances. “Are you kidding?”

When he doesn’t budge, her lips thin indignantly. “Fine, whatever. This party is almost over anyway.” She turns her back to us and hastily slips on her top and sheer cover-up, then points to the hot tub guy. “You, what’s your name again?”

He has since climbed out and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Darnel.” He’s staring at her body like she’s a cherry cheesecake and she’s looking at him like he’s her meal ticket out of here. Good, let them have each other.

“Do you want to take me home, Darnel?”

He nods with a smug grin.

She grabs his hand and shoots one last scathing look at Cooper before taking off with her new boytoy. Cooper doesn’t appear to care. And why should he? He’s not exclusive with her or any of the other girls he sleeps with. If Bree leaves, he’ll just find someone else to take her spot in the roster.

My mind swirls with questions, but more than that, I just want to sleep and forget this night entirely. “This doesn’t make us even,” I shoot at Cooper.

“Never said it did.” And then he saunters back to his party like none of what just happened is a big deal.

Seven

Bright and early the next morning, I hobble upstairs despite wanting to stay in bed. At least my rug burn isn’t as bad as it was, but I’m definitely going to need caffeine and ibuprofen to get through all the cleaning that needs to happen after last night.

I saunter into the dining room and am hit with a savory smell. I stop dead in my tracks.

Eggs. Bacon. Coffee.

Today marks three weeks and one day since I arrived here and not once have I seen the twins eat breakfast, and after last night, they should be passed out cold somewhere. But despite the house being in total disarray, a bountiful meal is spread out on the dining room table. On one end sits Mrs. King, and on the other end is a handsome gentleman who must be Mr. King.

“Uh––hi,” I mutter. “Good morning.”

Mrs. King gazes up from her phone and Mr. King peers over his newspaper. I’m struck by the age difference. She looks at least twenty years younger than him, though they’re both beautiful people. I once heard the phrase, “you’re not ugly, you’re just poor,” and these two very well could be proof of that. They can afford whatever they want, including the world’s best plastic surgeons, skincare, vitamins, and nutrition.

The shape of Mr. King’s face is more square like Ethan’s, but his eyes are dark chocolate like Cooper’s. His hair is a shade somewhere between Cooper’s dusty brown and Ethan’s deep brunette, just streaked with highlights of gray to give away his age. He’s the picture of a powerful man, the kind I can imagine has a closet filled with tailored suits. He’s the type of powerful that rules over boardrooms, always in control and always on top.

Today he’s in crisp golf attire and his wife is dressed to match in a white tennis skirt and top. Her breakfast sits steaming on her plate, seemingly untouched, and my stomach growls.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Mr. King says. He gives me a quick once-over and it’s almost like he’s checking me out. I have no idea what he thinks of my appearance. My cheeks prickle because I’m wearing basic cotton shorts and an old high school t-shirt, my mane of red curls knotted haphazardly on top of my head.

I look like I just rolled out of bed, and in fact, that’s exactly what I just did.

“Good morning, Arden,” Mrs. King addresses me coolly, her mouth pinched and eyes sharp with disapproval. “You’ll see to this mess immediately, I assume? Or do we need to reevaluate your position here? If you can’t handle this, you can either resign or we can hire a second housekeeper and split the salary difference.”

Fuck. Her initial instructions cut me like a knife, revealing my mistakes. If there’s a visual mess, you’re already failing.

“Malory, that’s enough.” Mr. King’s eyes blaze in his wife’s direction. I’m confused by his immediate defense of me but I’m not going to protest.

“I can do it,” I promise. “I’ll get to work right away.”

It’s silly to be embarrassed because this mess isn’t my fault. I did my job yesterday and went to bed with the house in pristine condition. The guys threw a huge party and that’s not on me, but it feels like it is.

It feels like I somehow should’ve cleaned up already even though that would’ve been completely unreasonable. Not to mention, I didn’t know Mr. and Mrs. King would be arriving this morning. Every once in a while, she’ll call or text to speak with me about how things are going, but our conversations are brief. She never mentioned her plans.

“The twins had a wild party last night,” I blurt, my cheeks flaming even hotter for doing it.

I’m probably covered in bubblegum pink splotches right about now, looking like I had a run-in with poison-ivy. The couple bristles at my words and I could kick myself. I should’ve kept my mouth shut and my head down. They don’t want to hear my excuses and they certainly don’t want me blaming their precious grown-up little boys.

“And did you participate in the party?” Mr. King asks.

He’s studying me like I’m a fascinating puzzle to figure out. I don’t like it. I want to ask him what he meant when he texted Cooper last night. Does he think he can buy me?

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