Page 52 of Never Fall for an Angel

“Oh, sweet thing, I’m sorry.” Paulina drops whatever she was holding and makes her way across the room, but I back up, stumbling into the wall on pure instinct. My heart ricochets in my chest, my throat threatening to close with her outstretched hands reaching for me.

I don’t know these people. In the last week, I’ve been stalked secretly, stalked openly, chased by a group of dangerous men, watched someone get run over by a killer Challenger, drugged and kidnapped.

Oh, and I fell in the mud and probably sprained my ankle because my psychopathic ex-boyfriend was chasing me.

How willing wouldyoube to let some random woman—who, by the way, sold you out—pull you in for a hug?

“Look, I picked something out especially for you,” she says, reaching for a separate bag. She holds it out to me, but I can’t bring myself to take it. Not because I’m not grateful but because a sickening heaviness slips through my stomach that threatens to bring my toast back up.

Paulina must sense my unease because she concedes and pulls it out of the bag for me.

“Christian said you like books, so I picked up a couple I found at the store.”

Warmth pools behind my eyes at the cover of the book on top. The name scribbled in elegant writing at the bottom one I know all too well.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Paulina says softly, but I can’t take my eyes off my sister’s name on the front cover of a new book I hadn’t even realized she’d written. We used to sit and talk about her writing for hours, coming up with stories together, naming characters.

“Mila’s had a rough couple of days. Let’s give her some space,” Christian murmurs, his voice rising above the ones in my head telling me that I’m a worthless sister who missed the birth of her first nephew, book releases, my other sister’s new store opening, and countless other milestones.

Milestones I’ll never be able to get back.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. I hate it. I force myself to unwrap my arms from around myself and take the books, which puts a smile on Paulina’s face. “I love reading,” I add, just because she brought me a nice gift, and here I am crying all over it.

“Of course, dear,” she says quietly, and there’s a heaviness in the room now that I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. “You just let me know when you’re done with those, and I’ll bring more.”

I give her a gentle nod, trying to inconspicuously clear my throat of the lump that’s formed there. Thankfully, Rudy saves me by launching into a list of things that need to be fixed around the island.

“And that boat. Get rid of it.”

“Oh, what’s he going to do with it, Rudy? It’s not like he can haul it off the island,” Paulina chimes, walking back over to the table.

“Sink the fucker.”

“Language,” she chides, and the two continue to remove items from their bags and place them on the table.

In the meantime, Christian meets my gaze, noticing me still attempting to become one with the oak paneling behind me.

He holds out his hand with a bottle of my favorite shampoo, and my stomach tightens.

Carefully and as silently as possible, as if I can avoid drawing attention to myself, I cross the small space between us, placing my books on the table and taking the shampoo.

I haven’t had good shampoo in ages.

And cue another thing I’m crying about because this psychopathic Mila-napper remembers things about me that even I can’t.

Christian and I stare at each other, and the air hums with electricity. Warmth settles deep in my stomach and makes my toes tingle.

Warmth that will undoubtedly only break my heart in the end.

Even so, it’s one small truce on a long list of the many fucked up problems between us.

—But it’s a start.

Christian retreats to the bedroom upstairs for a moment to put on some clothes while I hang back and put things in the fridge for Paulina when she hands them to me.

Thank God because my body was starting to get confused. For a moment, I was worried that I was actuallyenjoyingthe vision of Christian in nothing but a towel.

Then, he comes downstairs fully clothed in a pair of jeans that should be illegal on a butt as nice as his and a black T-shirt under a flannel, and I realize, with despair, that it wasn’t the towel at all. It’s just him.

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