Page 3 of Taste of Addiction

I put my phone down and meander about my new room. I find my new wardrobe in the closet. Feeling barely in the mood for clothes at all, I just settle for a pair of black fleece pants and a red shirt that has a big heart in the center.

A knock at the door makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

“Um, yes? Be right there,” I call to the person on the other side. I pull the hem of my shirt down and move toward the door. I pull it open and see Collins standing with a tray of food.

“Mr. Hoffman wanted to make sure you had an early dinner, given that you slept through lunch.”

“Oh.” I stare down at the tray of Donna’s leftovers, and my mouth waters at the memory of how good of a cook she is. “Thank you.” My eyes wander behind him as I think about how long I napped. “What time is it?”

“Three thirty.”

“Wow. I must have been really tired,” I say, mainly to myself. I take the tray from Collins’s hands and walk it over to my nightstand.

“Miss McFee?”

I turn back to look at the sheepish expression on Collins’s face. Even after all this time together, he can still be a bit shy around me. The man lives and breathes confidence—except when he is filling the role of more-than-a-bodyguard or more-than-just-a-chauffeur.

“There’s a minifridge tucked into the cupboard section of your nightstand. It is fully stocked with your favorite items. However, if you want something else, just text me and I’ll get it for you.”

“Thank you, Collins. I do appreciate it.”

“You’re free to roam the house. There’s a library here and a media room for watching TV. And a fully stocked kitchen. Just don’t leave the premises without notifying one of the security staff. And if you try,” he says, looking me straight in the eyes for added emphasis, “Mr. Hoffman will be furious and sirens will be roaring through the house.”

“Message received,” I mutter. Sheesh. The entire property is gated. What more do they need here?

I wait for Collins to exit before flopping down on the bed and digging into my food. It is heated to the perfect temperature and tastes almost better than it did yesterday. I lean down and pop open the minifridge and select a bottle of cherry soda. I stare at the label. How does Graham even realize my love for this stuff? I haven’t had it in years. I doubt it is just a coincidence. Nothing ever is.

I lazily scan through my shopping app and nibble at my food. I don’t even know what I would order to entertain myself. It’s not like this is a normal occurrence where I am forced to quarantine away from civilization. Typically, I would accompany Claire to the gym or go to work or have my research to gather. Instead, here I am. By myself. Without much to do other than slow down. I guess in a way it is peaceful to know that the pause button in my life is not broken. That I can actually use this time away from the rest of the world as a way to cleanse my mind and refocus my intentions.

I finish up my food and place all of my trash back on the tray. I slip on a pair of slippers that are still in the box at the bottom of the closet. Then, I head out into the hallway and down the stairs in search of the kitchen to drop off my tray. Each room of the house is dimly lit, and the only sound I hear is the buzzing of the appliances.

I grab a bottled water from the main fridge and walk room to room until I discover the library at the back of the house. Just like most things that Graham owns, it is massive and immaculate. Every bookshelf is organized and labeled based on subject.

I run my fingers along the bindings and breathe in the smell of leather and worn pages. Near the window, I find a shelf labeled “Just For Angie.” I burst out laughing over the titles that fill the section—Baby for the Sheikh,Mail Order Bride,When Handsome Meets Hopeless, andAlpha and the Beauty. Graham’s not that far off the mark. These are all books I would gladly read—even though half have some pretty cheesy covers. Seeing them lined up in vivid color makes me want to double over in laughter. They don’t seem to fit with the other more worldly books that decorate the rest of the shelves. I guess my reading preferences are singular in topic.

I removeWhen Handsome Meets Hopelessand curl up into the overstuffed chair that is near the big bay window. The book looks like it is fresh off the press, without any visible blemishes. I turn the page until I find the prologue and begin reading. My shoulders relax, and I kick my feet up onto the window seat when my legs seem to want to fall asleep and slip into the make-believe world that the author describes thoroughly.

My phone rings. When I catch the time of seven o’clock on the screen, I am amazed that I missed the sun setting and the day turning into night—despite having a front row seat for watching. I answer the call and wait for his smooth voice on the other end. He does not disappoint.

“Sweetheart. I miss you.”

“Then why did you lock me away?” I can hear him exhale and I instantly want to take back my question. So, I try to counter it with something light and add, “You know by the time this is all over, your staff will quit.”

“Ha, doubtful. Especially because I pay them a fortune to be amazing at their jobs. Did you eat dinner?”

“Yeah, your mom’s leftovers. Very delicious.” I frown over the impact of today. Thursday. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed dinner. Wish I could be there with you. What are you up to?”

“Oh, just reading in the library. Found my super-secret section and decided to crack a book open.”

“How did I do?”

“Spot-on.”

“Good.”

I hear the tiredness in his yawn despite it not being that late and yearn to wrap my body around his while we both drift off to sleep. “You better get some rest.”

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