Page 79 of The Anti-Heroes Collection

I hate that whenever I’m here, I feel as if he’s won.

As if he owns me.

Put a smile on your face. Pretend to be happy.

It’s hard to pretend I’m not bothered by Trent.

The alternative, however, is letting him win.

So, as I walk through the barren hall, I think of a time before. Before I lost my smile. Before the year I turned ten, when my sister moved us into yet another mansion. Before I met the boyfriend, Tony, who owned it. Before I realized he was beyond scary.

Okay, way to not think of depressing shit, Payton.

I shake my head and brush away my memories.

No place for them—here, now, or ever.

“You’re late.” I hear from behind me.

Turning, I see Trent standing at the other side of the hall.

He starts to walk toward me until we are inches apart.

I didn’t expect him here. Doesn’t he work?

I certainly didn’t expect him to be dressed in casual clothes.

It’s four thirty on a workday.

Yet here he is, standing in gym shorts and a T-shirt.

I take him in.

I might not be able to see his chest, but I don’t need to in order to know his body is insane.

I can see that he is lean but cut, even with the shirt on.

Look away.

Don’t allow him to catch you staring.

I lift my gaze from his chest, and of course, my perusal didn’t go unnoticed.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Nope. Don’t bank on making a dime on starring in postcards, honey,” I fire back.

“The lady doth protest too much.” Jeez, what’s up with everyone and Shakespeare.

First Heather, now him. Is this some cosmic joke implying that my life is a tragedy?

“I wish your vocabulary matched your manners, Aldridge.”

“You have drool on your mouth.”

I almost lift my hand to swipe at my jaw. Almost. But thank God, I don’t. I would never hear the end of it if I did.

“What do you want?” I ask.

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