ELLA
The Firm will provide for all necessary modifications pertaining to the security and comfort of each client. These may include, but are not limited to, home renovations and the installation of complete monitoring systems. Modifications are subject to change as the service progresses.
My eyes burn as if I didn’t sleep at all. Which doesn’t make much sense given that last night I slept the most I have in months. It was off and on and took hours before sleep came for me, but still. I slept. A dreamless sleep, thankfully.
I’m busy rubbing my eyes when I hear heavy footsteps walk into the kitchen. I’m grateful my back is to whomever it is so they don’t see the exasperation in my expression.
I’m grateful to be out of the center, grateful for my own bed and an ounce more privacy, but I’d like a moment from under the shadow of these strangers.
Gripping the cardboard box, I tilt it and the clink of cereal hitting the bowl is all that can be heard. The second the box is placed on the counter, whoever has joined me pulls out a stool from the island, the legs dragging on the porcelain floor.
If I didn’t feel as exhausted as I do, if I wasn’t grateful to be out of there and safe in a familiar place, I’d have contempt for all of them. Them telling me what to do, making changes to my home without my consent … it’s never sat well with me for a man to take control of my life. Other than one man.
“Morning.” A deep baritone interrupts my thoughts, soothing them and giving me a much-wanted distraction.
Taking my time, I peer over my shoulder, ignoring the warmth the sight gives me. His broad shoulders pull the collared shirt tight as he leans down to reposition the stool once again and then takes his seat. He opted for a burgundy shirt and black jeans today. The dark tones bring out the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
Zander is a handsome man in a traditional sense. Although he’s clean-shaven today, I most certainly prefer the stubble he came with yesterday. His hair is short on the sides, but there’s plenty to grip on top. His tanned skin is a stark contrast to how pale I’ve become. I’d guess from his appearance he worked a blue-collar job, not this.
His last name is the same as Cade’s—Thompson—and I wonder if he’s related and that’s the only reason he’s here.
“Good morning,” I offer him and ignore the raw pain at the back of my throat. The doctor said I needed to practice speaking again to lessen the vocal strain. After the surgery, I could barely speak for weeks. But then again, I could barely do anything for weeks.
“I didn’t expect you to be up this early,” Zander tells me. His name and his promise to tell me his stories kept me company as I lay in bed last night. I believe I remember each of the men’s names, but Zander’s is by far the easiest.
“I never met a Zander before,” I comment rather than offer up my dry humor with the accusation of how he could possibly know what to expect from me. After all, I haven’t known him for twenty-four hours yet; I probably shouldn’t risk offending him.
“Well, I’m glad to be your first.” The corners of my lips tilt up at his drollness. Perhaps he would have liked my joke after all. He adds quickly, as if second-guessing his choice of words, “How are you this morning?”
“My throat hurts,” I whisper but it goes unheard as I pour the milk into the cereal.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says.
After putting the milk back in the fridge, I move the ceramic bowl to the island across from him and answer politely, “I’m all right.” I mean to ask him how he’s doing too, but my throat burns; the cold milk is too tempting not to drink some of it first.
In my silence, Zander says, “I’ll try not to be obvious.”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll give you space while I’m here.”
“Oh,” I say and the word falls flat from my lips. Loneliness creeps between us.
“Unless you’d like the company,” he offers. It’s kind of him, and obvious that he only offered because of my despondency.
“I thought you had stories,” I murmur, peeking up at him from beneath my lashes. There’s a quick spark, one that frightens some side of me I’m not yet ready to confront. It’s too early for such things.
A tall disposable coffee cup hits the counter and I stare at it, rather than the prying gaze that fuels the heat rising into my cheeks.
“We could share stories,” he states lowly. A prick travels along my skin as the tips of my fingers numb. The sugary puffs that float in the bowl come with memories. They dare me to tell Zander why, for two years, I made sure this cereal was always stocked.
At that recollection, I push the bowl away from me. The porcelain protests as it drags against the stone.
“Do you want something else to eat?” I meet his gaze as he adds, “I’m no chef, but—”
“No,” I say and then clear my throat, hating that the simple act makes it hurt that much more. “I’m fine.” What a lie that is. A lie I’m sure this man can read as easily as the written words on the back of the cereal box. I debate pulling the bowl back and eventually give in, my hunger winning out. It’s the smallest things that bring me to the edge. Something as simple as a brand of cereal.
“You all right, Eleanor?”