“And what about your army of servants? Are they going to take the night off and leave?”
“Yes, except for…” I shake my head. “Wait, how do you know about my army of servants?” But before he can answer me, I go on, “First of all: please don’t call them servants. They all work here, for my parents. They’re making an honest living and their job just happens to be keeping my parents’ house. Calling them servants is demeaning. And second of all: as I said, they work for my parents, so they’re not mine. Also there’s no army. We have like, five or maybe six people working on our property.” I scrunch my brows then. “Wait, there’s two more. But one of them only comes two days a week so I don’t know if you can call him full time or what but —”
“Bronwyn,” he warns.
And I shut my mouth, realizing that I’m rambling. “Right. Sorry. But how’d you know?” I narrow my eyes at him, fisting his sweater. “Because you think every snotty rich teenage princess has an army of servants?”
If he says yes to that, I swear I’m going to hit him.
But he doesn’t.
“No, I guess we’ve already established that you’re not a princess.” Then, he averts his eyes for a second before saying, “I might’ve… talked to one of them.”
“You talked to one of them?”
He sighs. “When I got here, yes. One of them opened the door when I knocked — a woman. And when I asked about you, she told me that you weren’t here and that you were due back in an hour or two.”
I’m… astonished.
I’m fucking astonished.
At least as much as I was when I saw him here, standing at the end of my driveway, if not more.
This is surreal.
I quit studying his features then and look away from him because I remember something: the sound of a car door shutting when he first called out my name.
I look in the direction of where he came from and notice the polished glint of his truck.
Snapping my gaze back to him, I ask, my heart starting to race in my chest again, “So you’ve been… Have you been waiting for me to come back home? For the last hour or two.”
My question, hesitant and hopeful, makes him clench his jaw. It makes his heart roar in his chest too.
Just like mine.
I feel it under my palms.
Only I don’t know the reason behind it.
Is it the same as mine? The reason.
Is it because he’s as ecstatic to see me as I am to see him? And because he missed me as much as I missed him?
This is why he came, didn’t he? Not because of stupid soccer practice.
“Come on, let’s go.”
That’s all he says and I fist his sweater even more tightly than before. “But I need to know. I need to know if you were waiting for me. And if you were, did you miss me? I —”
“Your incompetent fucking parents aren’t here,” he speaks over me. “And I’m not leaving you in this house. Without parental supervision.”
My heart that was racing and roaring in my chest comes to a screeching halt.
And my lips part as I drag in large gulps of breath. “Parental supervision.”
His heart, on the other hand, is well and alive. It’s still beating away, roaring and thundering in his chest.
“Yes.”
I rove my eyes over his sharply defined features, looking for something, anything, to tell me that the conclusions I’m drawing in my head right now are wrong. I even ask him, “You came here to check on me because I missed soccer practice?”
A blast, a thunder goes off in his chest then. “Yes.”
“Because you thought my parents did something to me.”
Another thundering beat. “Given your parents’ history, it was an obvious conclusion to draw.”
I twist my fists on his chest. “And now you want me to go with you because they’re not here. Because you think I need parental supervision.”
His eyes bore into mine. “Yes.”
“And that’s the only reason and nothing else.”
“Yes.”
“Right.” I nod. “Okay.”
I keep nodding as my fists go loose around his sweater. As they let go of it.
I also keep nodding when I step away from him.
Which I notice that he notices.
His eyes snap down to my feet, to my winter boots, as I take another step away from him.
“You should leave,” I tell him.
At my voice, he lifts his eyes. “Not without you, no.”
A third step away from him. “I’m not going with you.”
His nostrils flare as he warns like he usually does, “Bronwyn.”
I shake my head as I keep moving away from him. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I want you to leave. Now.”
“Stop moving away from me,” he growls.
I don’t.
“Leave,” I say sternly and his fists clench. “Now.” Ignoring my command, he takes a step forward and I put my hands up. “If you come near me right now, I’m going to scream. I’m going to fucking scream this place down, do you understand? I want you to leave. Leave, Conrad.”