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Once they pass him my food, he pulls into a parking spot, gets out of the car, and hands it to me.
“Don’t ruin your dress,” he warns as I begin to take everything out of the bag and set it on my lap.
“I’m sure I won’t be wearing it again,” I utter. “Enzo doesn’t seem like the type of guy who has his woman wear the same dress to two events. None of these people do.”
The second the words leave my lips, I wish I could take them back. I’m supposed to play the part like I fit in. Instead, I’m here, freaking eating a Big Mac and talking about everyone like I don’t belong.
I mean, I don’t. And something tells me Hudson already knows that.
“None of these people?” he mumbles.
“Um …” I whisper, pulling my lips to the side. “I mean, I grew up poor. When I needed a pair of shorts, I’d just cut my pants off. So … by these people, I guess what I mean is, rich people. Like Enzo.”
“And your uncle Beckett,” he says, raising a brow.
“Yeah, well, him too.” I shrug.
He eyes me over before he closes the door and gets back into the front seat. And within seconds, we’re driving toward the crew house.
“Oh, they gave me an extra pie.” I hold it up. “Want it?”
“No,” he mutters.
“Are you sure? They are the best.” I wrap my hand around the packaging. “And it’s nice and warm. Which means the inside is all gooey and even more delicious than usual. Trust me, sometimes, they don’t bother warming them, and then they suck.”
I realize quickly that I’m rambling—something I do when I’m nervous—so I silently vow to myself to stop.
He doesn’t respond, so I take that as a definite no, and I stress-eat the second apple pie to stop myself from talking to someone who clearly doesn’t want to converse with me.
As we head toward the house, he never speaks to me again and doesn’t look my way either.
But the grumpy bodyguard … well, tonight, he helped me find my bracelet and took me to get food too.
Ten days. That’s how long I’ve been here. But somehow, it feels like ten months. Natasha is back home with my uncle. Enzo, creepy as he might be, also left a few days ago for a business trip out of the country. So, I haven’t even had another weird-ass dinner or awkward fundraiser to endure.
One dinner and a fundraiser, and I still got out of sleeping with him. And for that, even as screwed up as this entire situation over here is, I’m grateful.
I’m lonely, to the point that I’m sinking into some sort of depression. Exactly what used to happen when I was a kid and my parents were at their worst and I felt all alone in the world.
I do the same thing day in and day out. I wake up, I dress, I eat breakfast, I walk around the gated area outside, doing laps until lunchtime. All while Hudson and Rossi follow me around. And then after lunch, I find a new spot in this place that’s practically a castle, and I sketch. And when I’m tired of that, I read. I read rom-coms that make me feel less shitty about my situation. Books where the main characters fall hopelessly in love and I can actually laugh.
But sometimes, I’m not actually reading. Sometimes, I have a piece of paper tucked into my book. I’m writing down notes—things like when the guards come into the complex, or when certain cars pull up to parts of the building, or where Enzo and his father are supposedly traveling to, or anything else that might be useful to why I’m here in the first place.
I can’t wait forever. And with Enzo out of town, there’s no better time to snoop. As long as I’m inside the house, Rossi and Hudson back off and don’t follow me like a shadow. So, today is the day I use all I’ve learned from observing everyone who lives here, and I start doing what I came here to do. With the only people here being Hudson, Rossi, and the chef, it should be easy enough for me to sneak into the room where I always see Enzo taking his crew and find out what is in there.
Though two guards are here—Rossi and Hudson, they stay near the entrance in the main part of the house. And the chef disappears when it isn’t mealtime.
Sitting up in the chaise lounge I’ve been lying in, I stretch my hands over my head as I look at the camera in the corner of one of the many living areas. There are cameras scattered throughout the house. But oddly enough, not near that particular room. At least not that I’ve noticed.
Slowly, I stand, gazing around to make sure I really am alone before I head toward the large wooden door. I’ve seen a key be used to get inside, but I grew up on Sunset Drive. I can pick any lock.
First, I make sure it wasn’t left unlocked. When I turn the handle, it hardly moves.
Of course it’s not unlocked. Why would it be that easy?
Taking a bobby pin from my hair, I jam it in the lock and begin wiggling it around. This is, hands down, the hardest lock I’ve ever attempted to pick. But eventually, it clicks a little, and I know I’ve unlocked it.
I raise my hand and start to push the door open when, suddenly, an arm is around my waist. It doesn’t pull me backward, but keeps me rooted in the same place.
