Page 152 of Never Fall for an Angel

—I actually scoff out loud.

Who am I kidding? The moment I thought Christian was in trouble, nothing would have stopped me.

There are so many things I wish I could ask him. Like why he left? Why he couldn’t just tell me the truth about my stepfather? Why he’s never shared these little pieces of his life before?

I know I won’t get answers, though.

I don’t even know if he’s alive.

—And cue another tidal wave of grief.

The sound of footsteps causes me to jump in my place at the kitchen table where I had been stewing over a barely touched grapefruit.

I hate grapefruit, but Paulina insists it’s good for the heart.

The housekeeper steps into the room, a basket of towels under her arm. She’s singing along to the earbuds in her ears and doesn’t notice me until the last second.

The moment she sees me, she lets out a squeak, and the towels hit the ground at her feet.

God, do I look that bad?

“I apologize, Mrs. Cross,” she winces, ducking her head. “I’ll take these back and wash them again.”

“Nonsense.” I slide from my grapefruit prison stool and stoop to help her pick up the towels. Grabbing an armful, I drop the still-warm linens on the table.

She freezes like I’m going to bite her or something.

I’m not that feral, though, I guess I probably look it in Christian’s baggy T-shirt.

The housekeeper is beautiful. Pretty light brown hair. Striking green eyes that appear almost catlike. What she’s doing working here and not for some high fashion modeling agency, I have no idea.

She stares at me.

I stare back.

I’mstellarat making friends.

“Well, aren’t we going to fold them?”

“That’s my job.”

“Would . . . you like me tonotfold them?” I ask, dropping the towel in my hand back to the table.

“Sorry,” she winces. “Sometimes, I don’t think before I speak.”

I can’t help but chuckle. That makes two of us.

“I’m the last person in this ginormous house you need to worry about.”

“No, Mr. Cross was very specific—”

“I don’t see Mr. Cross here, do you?”

She blushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and glancing around nervously.

God, what did he tell her? That my fingers aren’t allowed to touch anything but expensive Egyptian cotton sheets?

“My name’s Mila, by the way. You don’t need to call me Mrs. Cross.”

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