Page 52 of Heartless Beloved

“I thought I told you to rest. Judging my conversation skills isn’t taking a break, is it? Do something else. What do you do for fun? Count the dollars in your bank account? Video call your pony?”

She brings a book she’s holding in her right hand just below her eyes, hiding the lower half of her face as she flutters her eyelashes.

“I read.”

“An introduction to political philosophy,” I read on the cover. “That’s not a fucking break. Give me this.” I snatch the book from her hand, pointing at the sofa at the other end of the room with the wooden spoon. “Go watch something stupid on TV.”

“I don’t want to watch something stupid on TV,” she moans. “Can’t I just talk with you?”

“No.”

The light in her beautiful hazel eyes dims slightly. “Do you hate me or something? Why are you cooking for me if you don’t like me?”

“I don’t hate you,” I mumble under my breath. “I fucking hate everyone. It’s not just you.” I turn back to the kitchen counter and grab the glass dish, pouring the sauce and gnocchi.

“You truly know how to make a woman feel special. I understand now how youfuckedso many girls.”

She spins around and heads for the sofa as I angrily slice the mozzarella and add it on top of everything in the dish.

What the fuck am I still doing here…and making her food on top of that.

It pisses me off to know that I lied. I don’t hate Alex. Not even a little bit, which annoys me the most. Why can’t she just be like all the other Stoneview girls? Rich and bitchy. Infuriating and selfish.

No, she has to be sweetandpleasingandselflessandmake everyone around her love her.

I put the dish in the oven and turn around, leaning against the counter. She’s on the sofa, her back against the armrest and her knees up. Apparently, she grabbed another book from somewhere because she’s now readingThe Rise and Fall of The Great Powers.

I huff to myself, cross my arms over my chest, and do something I will most certainly regret. I get to know her. “So what’s that essay about?”

Her head lifts from the book, and she looks at me. “International relations. Geopolitics, to be precise. I’m writing about the place of immigrants in Western countries when they escape a war the West funds.”

“Is that your major? Politics?”

“Political science, yes. What did you study?”

A small chuckle escapes me. “I didn’t even set foot in high school.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Did you just say sorry to me again?”

The corner of her mouth twitches. She’s been caught.

“Well, I…”

“You’re not responsible for my school attendance. That’s all me. You worry about yourself, like the fact that you say sorry way too often. Fuck, who taught you that everything is your fault?”

She looks down at her book and back up at me. “No one,” she mumbles. She knows exactly who, and I wish she’d tell me. I want to have a word with them.

Quickly changing topics, she shifts on the sofa, facing me entirely. “I don’t know why you’re here. I mean, I know why you’re here, but I don’t understand why you’restillhere. Cooking me food.”

I shrug, staying silent. I like the way Alexandra talks. It’s light, eloquent, easy on the ears. She’s like a lady talking to her court. Polite, discreet. Everything she does is light as air.

“I like that you are, but surely there must be a reason for you to always take care of me.”

Yes, there is.

“Perhaps…” She plays with the corner of her book, bending the page with her nail “…you’re attracted to me.”

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