“Yeah right.” She scoffs. “You know she’s only being nice because she feels sorry for me. I can tell when she looks at me.”
I don’t agree. “I think she cares for me and wants me to be happy, and she knows you’re my friend. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“She cares for you?” She huffs out a laugh. “She’s your boss, isn’t she? Don’t kid yourself.”
I know it’d be impossible to explain to Ariana the nuances of my position here at Rosethorn—it’s not exactly black and white—but my silence gives her the wrong impression.
“You remind me of that little white dog she carries around,” she says with a laugh of disgust. “You think these rich people give a fuck about you? You’re a pet to them.”
“You’re being rude,” I bite out harshly.
“No, I’m being honest. Wake up, Maren. What are you really doing here? Playing dress-up? Pretending to be one of them? It’s pathetic.”
Ariana has always had the uncanny ability to beat me back into a corner so that my voice and my opinions become too small to give life to. I know she’s wrong. I know it, and yet I stay silent as she walks toward me and forces me into a hug.
“I know that sounds harsh, but I just don’t want you to get hurt when they’re done with you, okay? That’s why I’m here, actually. It’s perfect.”
“What is?”
“We can leave here together. Go back to Providence, find an apartment.”
I frown and pull away so she’s forced to hold me at arm’s length. “Do you have a job?”
“Not yet.”
“How are we going to afford an apartment then?” I prod her, reminded of all the reasons we used to butt heads in the past. Ariana lives for impulse decisions and wild rides. It doesn’t matter to her what the aftershocks entail.
“We’ll figure it out. Aren’t they paying you pretty nice here? Hell, we can probably sell that stupid blue dress they want me to wear tonight and make two months’ rent right there.”
I bristle at the idea, but she doesn’t notice.
She steps back and sighs. “Think about it. Okay?”* * *Later that evening, after Rita’s finished curling my hair and applying my makeup, I sneak down to the kitchen in my robe so I can get some water and a quick break from Ariana. She’s being so bossy with Rita, telling her exactly how she’s supposed to be applying eyeshadow and mascara, as if Rita isn’t an absolute genius at this sort of thing.
I take my time walking back up to my room, strolling through the upstairs corridor at a snail’s pace, taking a moment to admire paintings I might have glanced over quickly in the past. Footsteps sound down the hall behind me and I turn in time to see Nicholas arriving with his leather bag in tow. He must have just come in from the city, still wearing black pants and a white button-down. His brows are pinched together as if he’s still carrying the weight of his work on his shoulders.
He looks up and catches sight of me, and I freeze on the spot. His hard expression lessens as he continues toward me, dropping his bag when he’s only a few feet away.
“Hi,” I say, smiling shyly up at him.
“Hi,” he says, reaching out to wrap a hand around my arm so he can tug me close. My question of how he and I would act when we saw each other again is answered for me. Our foreheads touch and my eyes flutter closed.
I inhale a deep breath—maybe the first I’ve taken all day—surprised to find it’s Nicholas’ scent that calms the nerves I’ve had ever since Ariana first arrived.
“I missed you this week,” I admit, giving him the gift of honesty.
“I missed you too,” he says, picking his hand up off my arm to cradle my neck. His thumb brushes my skin and I shiver on impulse. “Normally, I visit Newport once or twice a month in the summer. Recently, I can’t seem to stay away.”
“Why have you been coming so often?”
“Because of you.”
His confession, said so quietly, sends butterflies rushing to my stomach.
I open my eyes and lean back so I can see him. He’s so handsome, rough and dark and severe. He’s the same Nicholas he’s always been, only now, I think I understand him. And yet…I want to understand him more.
I want to kiss him. My eyes even fall to his lips longingly, but I hold off, unsure of where we should take this reunion.
“Are you still going to the gala with Barrett?” he asks, rubbing my arm.
“I wish I weren’t.”
He doesn’t let go of me, though I brace for his departure and his anger. If the roles were reversed, I’d be upset if he were going with someone else.
Instead of leaving, he presses a kiss to my cheek and whispers against my ear. “If he hadn’t beat me to it, I would have asked you. I would have had you on my arm the whole night. I would have snuck you away to a private corner and taken full advantage of you.”