Page 2 of The Prodigal

After I…had become the villain.

Remington

Present Day

I’ve never been good with boundaries.

They take away from getting to know the person behind the mask.

Or, in this case, behind the snoring.

Pulling out a handful of shit from the purse, I drop the items I don’t care about onto the counter.

A library card.

A frequent shopper card to some crappy coffee place.

A tissue.

Mints that expired two months ago.

And what looks to be an emergency tampon—I hear no woman should leave home without one. Apparently, Eden Da Luca from Atlanta, Georgia, is no exception. My friend, Halle, would be impressed with Eden’s tampon preparedness and unimpressed with the fact that I’m pilfering through the purse of the front desk clerk at Midnight Gardens Motel. I hear that’s unacceptable behavior—even for guests.

But again, I don’t live with boundaries, nor do I care if my behavior is unacceptable. If Ms. Da Luca didn’t want me going through her shit, she shouldn’t have fallen asleep on the job and left her purse on the counter while her phone played some true crime episode that clearly bored her to sleep.

Not that I blame her. It’s after ten p.m., and there are literally only two cars in the motel parking lot. The place isn’t exactly hosting the nightlife scene. Assuming the dark-haired clerk, with flushed cheeks and a slightly open mouth, is nineteen-year-old Eden Da Luca from Atlanta, she should be more aware of her surroundings. There are people in this world who would take advantage of the fact that she’s unconscious.

People like me.

I bang my hand over the old-school bell on the counter three times before it sends her shooting upright, her eyes widening as she takes a quick glance around.

“Can I get you a coffee or perhaps a nightcap?” I offer sarcastically. “I hate disrupting REM sleep, but some of us would like a nap, too.”

Those brilliant blue eyes snap to mine, lingering for a moment before they lower to my hand.

“Is that my license?” she snaps, noticing the other things I tossed out on the counter. “Is that from my purse?” Heated anger bleeds through her words, and it revs the shitty engine inside me that gets a cheap thrill out of irritating people. “Did you go through my purse?”

I can understand her shock. A stranger helping himself to the essential items you carry with you at all times could be considered invasive, but that’s if the person going through said items has a moral code. I’m sorry to say, Ms. Da Luca here is out of luck.

“That depends,” I drawl lazily, flipping her license between my fingers, “did you leave your purse on the counter where someone could go through it?” Let’s not split hairs here. We both are at fault in this situation. “Because if you did, you can’t dangle temptation and expect me not to accept the challenge.”

Her cheeks redden. “It wasn’t a challenge!”

She lunges for the ID in my hand, but she’s not fast enough to grab it. “You shouldn’t leave your shit on the counter. Someone could steal—”

Motherfucker. I sound like my father.

But Eden doesn’t give me time to dwell on that fact. “Is that what you were planning to do? Steal my purse.”

Please.

Narrowing my eyes, I try to focus on her nose, not on her mouth, which is very distracting under the dim lighting. “You have nothing I could possibly want,” I say flatly. “But the lint-coated breath mints are pretty tempting.”

She sucks in a breath, and dammit, I look at her mouth. It’s full and pouty, with a layer of gloss that really puts some fucked-up images in my head.

“Ha!”

Before I realize it, this nut jumps over the counter and snatches the ID from my fingers, shouting like she just overcame an enormous obstacle instead of simply plucking a piece of plastic from my hand that I wasn’t even holding tightly. “Let this be a lesson to you, Mr. Stranger, you can’t dangle temptation in front of me, either.”

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