Page 40 of Love Contract

The living room contains a single battered leather sofa in front of a television and literally nothing else.

“And there’s the kitchen…”

Sullivan’s kitchen is extremely clean but, again, almost empty. Not a single appliance sits on the countertops, and the fruit bowl contains one lone orange.

A coffee cup sits in the sink, half full of water. When I open the fridge, the milk, eggs, butter, and yogurt look like they’ve never met each other, satellites in the barren, fluorescent-lighted space.

“I’ll get some more groceries tomorrow.” Sullivan eyes the sparse contents of the fridge.

“I take it you don’t cook much…”

“I do sometimes….” He’s a little defensive. “When my dad’s sob—I mean, home.”

Sullivan jerks his chin toward the kitchen window that looks out over a backyard even more overgrown than the front. Distantly, beyond a cracked and empty, weed-choked swimming pool, I spy a pool house almost buried in wisteria.

“Don’t worry,” Sullivan says. “He never comes in the main house, so you won’t see him.”

“I don’t mind meeting your dad.”

“You won’t,” Sullivan repeats.

“Okay.”

I can’t quite read the expression on Sullivan’s face—he looks unhappy and maybe even a little embarrassed, which doesn’t make sense to me because even if his house is shabby and sort of lonely, it’s still massive and ten times nicer than my garbage apartment.

I could spin around in circles with my arms out and not touch anything in this place. I could run up and down the hallways bellowing, and you wouldn’t even hear me from one of the distant wings.

I could live in this place for a week without bumping into Sullivanorhis dad.

“Wishing you stayed with Martinique?” Sullivan asks.

“No! Why would you say that?”

His dark hair falls down over his eyes. He shoves it back, defiant, bluntly noting, “It’s not as nice as you expected.”

“Noooo….” I can’t even make the word come out right. It sounds like, “Newwww…”

Sullivan shakes his head at me. “You’re a terrible liar. One of the worst I’ve ever seen. If I’d known that ahead of time, I would have had serious concerns about our plan.”

“Yourplan,” I remind him. “And I did warn you that I can’t act.”

“Yes, you did,” Sullivan says fairly.

“And I’m sorry I was…um…surprised. I was under the distinct impression that you were loaded.”

Sullivan snorts. “Sorry to disappoint. Now you know the dirty truth—I’m not rich.”

He was, though. Back in high school. I’m not wrong about that.

His parents must have been rich when they bought this house. But that was twenty years ago, at least.

And I’m afraid I have a pretty good idea of exactly when the decline started…

My stomach gives a slow, unhappy roll. I glance out the back window at that dark and distant pool house.

“Every penny I have is sunk into that land,” Sullivan says. “I’m all in on this deal with Angus, sink or swim.”

I guess that’s a good thing. It means he needs this as badly as I do.

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