Page 53 of Never Fall for an Angel

Someone save me from myself.

“I’m having some things delivered within the next couple days,” Christian says, completely oblivious to the little X-rated film my mind is conjuring against my will staring him. “I’ll pick them up once we’re settled here.”

“Of course,” Paulina winks at me. “Just gives us another excuse to come out here.”

“One thing you don’t need is excuses,” Rudy grunts, but Paulina ignores him.

“It’s no trouble.”

“I’ll come in and get it. I don’t want you running back and forth for us. We’re just trying to get set up here.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Paulina says. “Rudy just wants to come out here and muck about. You know how old men get.”

“I’m not old. I’m age-challenged,” Rudy smirks, wagging his brows at me where I stand behind Christian’s shoulder. I don’t know why. Right now, he’s just the lesser of two evils.

Crazy person Iknowversus potentially crazy people Idon’t.

“Well, why don’twestay behind and help you get this place in order?”

“No, you’ve done enough,” Christian says, shaking his head. “I’ll clean the place up.”

“I can help.” My voice must be startling because everyone turns to stare at me at once. I hang back against the fridge, awareness slipping through me like an electric current.

Christian is the first to speak up, breaking the silence.

“Mila and I will clean up,” he corrects, nodding to the dry goods laid out on the table in front of him. “You two have done enough.”

On day one of my captivity, Christian and I barely speak, save for dinner when he pushes another bowl of beef stew in front of me and tells me to . . . “eat”.

On day two, I spend the day limping around while he’s off doing whatever it is he does when he’s avoiding me and cleaning what I can with my ankle still sore.

By day three, I’m in full cleaning mode and halfway through Bailey’s book, so I’m actuallygladwhen he leaves.

The moments he’s here are tense, filled with silences my brain tells me to fill with useless words that my mouth won’t allow me to speak.

Neither of us has addressed the elephant in the room. The fact that he still hasn’t told me why I’m here, and I still haven’t told him why I shot him.

It’s a conversation I would rather not have, even though a part of me always knew it was inevitable.

How do you explain to someone that you didn’t want to hurt them? That doing so was the only way to save their life?

That watching the blood ooze out of the wound in his shoulder still haunts my nightmares?

That night weighs heavily on my mind while I scrub every nook and cranny of the cottage, down to the dead mouse under the bathroom sink and what Ithinkwas once a sac of potatoes that’s evolved into a self-sustained bundle of rotted roots.

I clean the cabinets and the fridge. I even take apart all the drawers and wash every dish. I scrub the rough floors on my hands and knees, and I manage to finagle two broomsticks taped together with ancient duct tape I find in the closet off the kitchen to get the ceiling.

By the time I’m finished, the place sparkles, and I’ve finished Bailey’s book.

Life would be great . . .

Except it’s not.

I clean because I have nothing else to do, so when I run out of cleaning, I start walking. I’m a walking conundrum, a fact that’s not lost on me in my stewing as I walk the entire island . . . twice.

Today is like any other day. Christian left early this morning, and he’s been hammering away at the roof since, replacing busted tiles on not only the cottage but the old lighthouse that stands proudly overlooking the jagged rocks below.

I’ll admit, a tiny sliver of me wishes him to fall, but then the instant guilt washing through me quickly dismisses the idea. As much as I want to, I can’t hate him. At least, not all of him.

---