Page 7 of Provoked

“No, Ingrid. The housekeeper did the packing and I’ve no idea what she selected. I take it you don’t either?”

She shakes her head mutely and I sigh. “Well, another day or two isn’t going to spoil anything that didn’t survive all those years in storage.”

Ingrid casts a thoughtful glance over her shoulder towards the living room. “I guess?”

She doesn’t sound so sure.

5

My leg is achy, and Justin’s yelling isn’t helping anything. His look of disbelief when I called him on it wasn’t feigned, either. He truly has no idea when he’s raising his voice. I don’t get it, but then I’ve never seen him around other people really, so maybe I’m the only one he yells at? The entire year I lived with him, he rarely spent an evening away and it was really only the two of us after the housekeeper left for the day. I never heard him raise his voice to dear, sweet Margot (ugh) who was the only occasional visitor to his penthouse, so maybe it is just me.

Being reminded of that witch makes me even grumpier and possibly ever so slightly bitchy. That’s my excuse anyway for what comes out of my mouth next. “You don’t have to stay here, you know, Justin. Surely Margot wants you back home by now.”

His icy stare stalls any further words in my throat. The silence stretches into painful awkwardness. Finally, he bitesout, “Margot hasn’t been in my life for years. Something you would know if you weren’t so busy avoiding me.”

I flush, embarrassed at the sudden feeling of being a presumptuous child, throwing a tantrum because he wasn’t giving me all his attention all the time.

“Does she know that? That she isn’t part of your life anymore?”

Justin appears startled. “She did show up at my door last week unexpectedly. But I think I made things clear.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s a sense of uneasiness to the set of his shoulders.

I slide off the stool and onto my good leg, limping painfully into the front room. I can feel his gaze as an itch between my shoulder blades. This time, he doesn’t make a move to stop me.

“Miss? That’s everything in the truck. Need anything shifted before we go?” It’s sad that the good-looking mover with all the muscles does nothing for me. His smile is kind though, so I smile back and turn to inspect the pile of boxes stacked neatly against the long wall.

“No, it looks good to me. Thank you.” I limp into the entry for my purse so I can pass them the tip money I carefully set aside for this.

The guy flashes me a dimpled grin when I hand over the money. “Thanks! Just sign here, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

I scrawl my signature across the yellow form and hand it back to him. At this point, I just want this day to be over. I eye the boxes with suspicion. I should know what’s in there. I should care more. But I don’t. My childhood feels like it belongs to a different person. So much has changed in my life since the last time I was in the house that coughed up the contents of those boxes. I barely recognize that girl and I’m not sure who she would have grown into if things hadn’t changed so drastically. And because of that, a part of me feels that I don’t even have a right to those memories or keepsakes.

I watch the moving truck disappear back down the drive in a flurry of dust. I wonder if they know where they’re staying tonight? The romance of traveling the country on a whim disappeared for me after I tried it. It was fun for a brief while. And educational, but I’m ready to sink down roots. To finally feel like Ibelongsomewhere. Even if I have to force it until it’s real.

Exhaustion sinks over me. If I don’t make it back up those stairs right now, it’s not happening tonight. With a sigh, I set my bad leg on the stair tread, grimacing as I settle my weight on it.

Then strong arms wrap around me and lift me up. “Why on God’s green earth are you so fucking stubborn?” The angry growl is so in contrast with the tenderness of his embrace that I turn my head to stare at him. Justin must sense my confusion because he simply sighs and carries me back up the stairs.

He sets me on the bed gently and then abruptly announces, “I’ll bring your dinner up in a few minutes. If you come down those stairs again tonight, you can expect a spanking.” I gape at him. He’s never once threatened to lay a hand on me or given me any indication that he would, with or without a warning. And he has no idea how the idea of him touching me like that turns me on, right? I scan his face quickly, just to be sure. No, he has no idea. I give him a hesitant nod because I mean… He glares at me as if to pin me in place and then grunts ambiguously.

When his footsteps fade away, I turn on my side and snuggle into the pillow. Margot is gone? Really? I wish I knew how and when and why. But it’s obvious Justin isn’t going to tell me, even if I ask sweetly. And I know that doesn’t increase my chances with him, which I acknowledge wouldn’t be a good idea, given the dynamic of our relationship. But at least witchy Margot doesn’t get him either.

While the casserole is still heating, I lock up the house. It’s old, but I’m relieved to see that the recent renovations included new windows with tight locks and solid well-fitting doors. When I’ve flipped the deadbolts and checked all the windows, I make up a tray for Ingrid. Since she wouldn’t let me take her to the doctor and she’s not on any pain meds, I figure the glass of white wine might suffice to both help her sleep and be a proxy apology. Not that I’m sorry for making it clear to her that she needs to be more careful. I’ll stay to keep an eye on her until she’s able to navigate the house and grounds without a limp.

At the top of the stairs, I head back to her room and then stand transfixed in the doorway. She looks like a genuine fairytale princess. Her long pale hair is spread out on the pillow. Her back is to the door, so only the soft curve of her cheek is visible. Should I leave her to sleep? But if she wakes up to only cold food, will she attempt to head down to the kitchen? Despite my threat of a spanking, she probably would. I set the tray down on the dresser and walk over to wake her with a gentle shake of her shoulder. But as if sensing my presence, she takes that moment to roll over on her back. Her shirt is askew, giving me an eyeful of one perfect breast encased in delicate white lace. I swallow hard. Then she does the unthinkable. She says my name.

“Justin? Justin, kiss me, please,” she moans softly. My eyes widen for a fraction of a second until it hits me that she’s still asleep. And dreaming of me. That shocks me to my core. I clear my throat. Her eyelashes flutter and then her eyes blink open. She stares at me then pushes herself up, resting on her elbows all while blushing furiously. For both our sakes, I pretend I didn’t just hear what I damn well did.

She eyes the tray with dawning consciousness. “Oh! Um, Ishould wash up first. Thank you.” Her eyes won’t meet mine as she slowly gets to her feet and limps toward the bathroom. Helping her would only make everything worse, I deduce. So I leave.

Downstairs, I dish up my own serving of casserole, setting it on the elegantly simple table in the breakfast nook along with a glass of water. I do not want to be impaired in any way if Ingrid needs medical attention during the night. I eat efficiently and as soon as I’m done, rinse the dishes and set them in the dishwasher. I’ll get Ingrid’s dishes in the morning when hopefully whatever that dream was will have faded from her memory. Or nightmare more like. I can’t imagine a scenario where she would want me kissing her.

Then my ego bursts like a balloon. Of course, it wasn’t about me. I’m hardly the only Justin in the world. It must be some guy she encountered with the same name and she was only flustered because she thought I’d think what I so clearly thought.

Relieved, I head back upstairs with more spring in my step. I might as well read a bit before bed. There’s something about the dead quiet and the dark out here in the country that makes staying up seem absolutely pointless. I can’t remember a night in the city when I went to bed before ten, and that would be considered an early night.

Despite my intentions to catch up on work from my phone, my eyes drift shut as soon as I’m horizontal. Images of Ingrid splayed out on the bed dance in front of my eyelids. I groan and roll over, determined to eradicate my dirty thoughts through sheer willpower. It doesn’t work. I drift off to imagining her hands delicately combing through my hair, teasing my scalp in a most artful seduction.

Kitty pouted and fumed from the corner of the carriage where Rafe had stuffed her with a firm hand. And he’d kept one hand on her at all times until the carriage had maneuvered through the crowded streets of the city. It was only when the coachman had been able to let the horses pick up speed that he’d released her. But seeing as he was seated a mere two inches from her person, a gentleman would sit opposite, it barely made a difference. She had to suffer breathing in his delicious scent.

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