Page 45 of Fire Island
I slide my hands under my head, letting the blanket slip down my bare torso. Two can play this game. Her gaze snags on my body before she schools it away. “I’ll just...” She points to the door and pads for it.
I suppress the chuckle that wants out and throw the covers off. My boner tents my boxers. Gonna have to take care of that before it drives me crazy.
Beforeshedrives me crazy.
So I head for the shower.
When I close the door, I see two towels on the rack instead of one. She didn’t take hers with her. Two toothbrushes stand in the cup on the vanity.
A live-in caregiver would stash her own shit in her room. Not leave it around my goddamn house like she fucking lives here.
I fling the shower curtain back further, and sure enough, body wash and conditioner sit on the shelf by my stuff.
Who the fuck is this little woman? Why are her things in my house?
Does she live here? If so, what is she to me?
Iris has some explaining to do.
I don’t give two shits what Jamieson said, I’m getting answers. As soon as Em comes back and I can get to the mainland. For now, the cheery little twentysomething is going to give me something to work with if she wants to keep living here.
I slam the bathroom door.
Finding my reflection in the mirror, it looks like I’ve aged a decade. Not just the three years everyone keeps telling me I’m missing.
Which begs the question, how did a woman so young wind up here with me?
“Who are you?” I corner her in the greenhouse.
She sets her shoulders back, but no fear shows on her face. Like it damn well should. A strange man who she’s only just met, as far as I know, has cornered her against the back of the greenhouse by the flower bed. Instead, she glances at the green shrub littered with white flowers and hordes of small yellow butterflies.
“What do you mean?” she says softly.
“I may have lost my memories, but not my damn marbles, woman. Who are you?”
“I’m Eve.” She pushes her chest out, tilting her head up in the slightest. “Eve Holland.”
“Cut the shit, you know what I mean.” This mindfuck has run its course. I’m done feeling helpless in my own mind and body, in my own fucking home.
“I—I’m Iris’s friend, from New York.”
“Oh yeah, how’d you meet?”
“Livvy, she’s my editor.” Her face shows no sign of a lie.
I cross my arms. “Livvy’s your editor?”
“Yes, for over six years now.”
“So, since you were twelve?” I ask, raising a brow.
Her mouth gapes, and an incredulous expression contorts her pretty face.
“Sorry,” I say, tamping down the chuckle bubbling in my throat. “Inside joke, I guess.”
Inside my own damn head.
“I will have you know she was my editor for my debut novel at twenty-two. And every book after. I’m twenty-eight, not eighteen.”
