Page 44 of Daddies' Little Troublemaker

I used to not give a fuck about empty houses. In fact, I preferred empty houses. Probably a leftover effect of growing up with my mom and dad bickering, then my mom and stepdad, whose bickering turned into shouting. If they were gone, I felt safe.

But right now, an empty house means Evelyn isn’t here. I shouldn’t care, but I do.

The door from the garage to the kitchen opens, and someone huffs in exasperation. That’s definitely Evelyn, and I feel my shoulders ease. Stupid reaction, but whatever. She’s home and I’m relieved.

She slams the door shut.

“Stop slamming the damn door!” I holler, only half-joking.

“Fuck you!” she shouts back.

Oh. So we’re going to be outright antagonistic this afternoon. Not what I expected, but okay. Lately, the few times I’ve seen her, she’s been hostile but not overtly so. This is a new level.

She goes past the living room, not even looking at me. There’s a flush against her cheeks, like she’s been exercising. Where did she come from? I didn’t hear a car. It’s weird she didn’t come in the front door, now that I think about it. I don’t think she went for a run—she’s wearing a flimsy little skirt and blouse.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“None of your business,” she says without even turning around to look at me.

Wow, she is in a mood. Shrugging, I try to pay attention to the game. The Surf Rats are up by two, top of the sixth inning.

Thumping sounds come from her bedroom, like she’s throwing things around. What the fuck is she doing in there?

Then I hear it—it sounds like a sob.

I mute the game and listen. There’s another sob.

Little girl is crying. I’m up and moving down the hall almost at a run. I should stop and think about whether she would even want me in there, but for some reason I can’t.

Her door is ajar, and when I knock, it swings open. A suitcase is open on her bed—that was probably the banging sound, her retrieving it from the closet. She’s pulling open a dresser drawer and gathering a bunch of clothing, presumably to toss in the suitcase.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She nods toward the nightstand, where she’s left her copy of the house key. Usually she wears it as a pendant on a necklace, but now the chain on her neck is bare. “M-moving back in with my mom and Harold.”

The fuck? “Why? I was just kidding when I shouted about slamming the door.”

“It’s not that.” She shrugs and dumps her armful of clothes into the suitcase. “My mom and Chloe want me there to help plan Chloe’s wedding.”

“Do you want to be there?” I ask.

It would make things so, so much easier if she was out of this house and not constantly looking so fucking sexy, turning me on simply by existing. I could tell Mark she had other places to be, and then I could go another twenty-something years without seeing her, and Mark would never have to know I hooked up with his daughter.

Yet the thought of her leaving right now, especially when she’s upset, has my chest clenching in dread.

And I know what a piece of work her mom is, based on what Mark has told me. Francesca is the worst. Pushy, manipulative, narcissistic.

Evelyn doesn’t answer, simply whirls back around and yanks open another dresser drawer.

“Evelyn,” I say in a lower voice, “do you want to live at your mom’s?”

She blinks back tears. “It doesn’t matter what I want. They need me.”

Fuck that noise. When she spins around with her arms full of clothing, I grab her in my arms. Holding her tight, I say, “Evelyn, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Let me go,” she says, but she’s crying.

“Just let me hold you for a minute, please,” I say. “If you still want me to let you go after a minute, I will. Please?”

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