Page 31 of Keeping Ava

“Right. Get the recipe, and for the rest of the day pretend that everything is perfect. Enjoy his generosity and gift.” Or as best I can. And I plan too, but my curiosity is also tingling, and instead, I take the opportunity to snoop a tiny bit.

See more of Elijah.

The room is a decent size and decorated with a warm sandy color on the wall and a white trim. A desk sits in the middle of the room with a wall of bookcases behind it, both in a dark and rich wood finish. On the left is a small table that holds what looks to be a signed basketball and a football helmet: teams in the state of California.

There’s also a rug and a large picture of some sort of mechanical item that I can’t identify.

Other than that, he has a lot of books: on his shelf, on the left side of his desk, and stacked high on the chair opposite his work area.

I love it.

My feet carry me to his shelf, and I inspect the titles there, noticing that he owns a few of my favorite classics. There are also a few mysteries and psychological thrillers. The one that catches my eye, though, is a very worn copy of the Art of War.

Taking it in my hands, I open to the first few pages and notice his notes within. From a favorite line to his interpretation, he’s made it a mission to decipher each word into a way that works along with his way of thinking.

It’s endearing and as I read a few, I find myself smiling.

“Too cute.” Placing it back on the shelf, I take notice of a picture on the next shelf. There’s no denying the younger version of himself wearing a graduation cap from his high school, and the woman beside him has to be his mother. They look so much alike—black hair and hazel eyes and wide, infectious smiles. She looks so proud, and he’s letting her have her moment.

He really is perfect.

I move onto another, and it’s him at his academy graduation. A younger version, but more of a man—bulkier and with less of a baby face. Here he’s all well-defined jawline and kissable lips, strong arms and sexy eyes.

You came here for a recipe, not to drool over a picture.

“Right. Recipe.” Taking a few steps back, I turn around and sit down in his chair. There’s no password, so I’m inside and typing my email information within seconds. The very moment it opens, things change for me and the happiness I’ve felt since walking into his kitchen evaporates. There are hundreds of unopened emails, and all from the same address.

Each subject line is more desperate—angrier than the next as my eyes skim down the page.

“How the hell has he been able to do this?” Clicking on the arrow that takes me to the very last page, I look at the dates and realize that some of these go as far back as Jason’s time in custody. Multiple times a day. Every single day. “No. I’m not going to look at this anymore.” Leaving the emails, I get up and rush out of the room. I’ll wing the dessert. It’s better for me that way. “I’m safe, and Elijah won’t let anything happen to me.”

I have to believe that, or I’ll go insane.

* * *

“Someone’s been busy.”

“Shit!” I scream, dropping the plate I’m washing into the sink full of soapy water. It splashes, the cold water soaking the front of my thin T-shirt. My hands hold onto the sink’s edge, heart racing as I try to calm the small surge of panic it sent through me. “Why do you keep doing that to me?”

“I’ve been saying your name since walking into the house.” He’s not apologetic in the least.

“Liar.” But I know it’s the truth. I’ve done everything in my power to concentrate on our food—lose myself in something that’s always brought me comfort.

When I’m in the kitchen, I’m whole. At peace.

“Look at me.” And I do, my body turning around before I give it permission to. “Are you okay?”

“I’m...” The words die as I take in the items in his arms. How do you stay mad at a man holding a single sunflower and a bottle of wine? “Are you leaving again?” At my question, he raises a brow and shakes his head. That’s bad. Very bad. “Someone gave you a gift?”

Because God knows that I’m hanging onto a threadbare line of sanity and decorum. I want it to be for me, but wanting it and it being a reality are two very different things.

Complicates my plans. The fact that I must fight this for both our sakes.

Elijah’s lips quirk into a sexy grin as he steps closer. One foot and then the other, he doesn’t stop until he’s standing close enough that his masculine scent infiltrates my senses. That his heat sears an invisible tattoo of his name on my skin.

“What are you doing?” It leaves me on a shaky breath, goose bumps rising on my skin.

“Just giving you a gift.” He reaches behind me and places the bottle of wine on the countertop, his arm brushing mine. My reaction is automatic; I shiver, and his eyes meet mine. Hazel on blue. “Is that okay? After today, you deserve to be spoiled a bit. Let me.”

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