Page 27 of Beautiful Monster

Quickly, I step back, giving her space. I didn’t mean to back her into a corner like that, but as soon as there is space between our bodies, I miss the proximity.

Her thin little throat bobs as she swallows, turning back toward her things. I see the fight in her eyes lose to the pain that overwhelms her. She’s not ready to talk about them yet. Yelling at me is less painful. I’m an easy target.

I’m fine with that.

Gently, I place a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine, Sunny. I know it’s hard.”

She doesn’t respond so I pull away and move toward the door. “I’m making pasta puttanesca for dinner. Have you ever had it?”

She shakes her head, her chest heaving even faster than before.

“Text your mom and tell her you’re working late if you have to. I don’t want you going back there until the boys are gone and your mom’s asleep. Understand?”

“Okay,” she whispers as I leave the pool house.

Sunny eats silently across the table from me. I notice a fresh doodle in black ink on the inside of her left arm. In my empty dining room, she’s dwarfed by the high-back chair I inherited from my mother, although I never really wanted the set. Formal dining arrangements aren’t my style. I eat most of my meals alone around the kitchen counter or in restaurants where I am usually not alone. I feel about as out of place as she looks. Her dark hair is twisted into a round bun on the top of her head, and without a touch of makeup on her face, she looks sun-kissed. It’s like a thin layer of warmth over her already warm honey skin from days spent in the sun. Ironic for a girl who never seems to leave her house.

I can see the strings of her bikini under her tank top, and I wonder if she ever wears regular clothes.

She doesn’t look up while she picks at her pasta. I wouldn’t claim myself as a master chef by any means, but I do love to cook, especially for other people. On the very rare occasion I had a woman over to cook for, it was usually because I liked her a little more than the others. It was because I was trying. Trying for what…I don’t know because it never worked. I could keep her devotion for a few weeks, maybe a month before I’d be sticking my dick elsewhere and undoing every goddamn good thing I worked toward.

“Do you like it?” I ask, but she only glares up at me, her leg bouncing under the table.

I’m about to drop my fork and give her hell for her silence again, but she sits up a little straighter and speaks before I can. “It’s good.”

“Does your mom cook?” I already know the answer.

She stares at me through her lashes, and it’s enough of an answer.

“Eat your dinners here. I’ll cook for you.”

Her eyes dance around the empty room with the boxes piled up, and I watch a question form on her lips like she’s building the words up with her tongue one by one. It just isn’t the question I expected.

“Are you trying to be my dad or something?”

“Look at me. I can barely take care of myself. You think I should be taking on wayward teenagers?”

She smirks. “I’ll be twenty in a week, you know. You can stop calling me a teenager.”

“I will when you turn twenty then.”

“Fine,” she huffs playfully, popping a bite into her mouth. “You take care of me. I’ll take care of you.”

I try my damnedest to swallow without letting her see the bob in my throat. My next question will be loaded no matter what I say. I mean, she walked me right into it. I know what she wants me to think, but fuck, she is making it very hard to not be a fucking creep right now.

“And how will you take care of me?” I ask, leveling her with my stare.

Leaning forward, she grabs the plate from in front of me. As she does, her top hangs, revealing the cleavage underneath, but I manage to keep my eyes on her face only. The little brat is toying with me.

With a smirk, she stands from her chair, plates in hand, and leans her hip against the table. “I can do the dishes.”

She slinks away, and I let my chest relax, blowing out the heavy breath that has been lodged in my lungs. This girl is going to fucking kill me.

After the dishes are done, I pour us both a drink—nonalcoholic, of course. Drinks in hand, I follow her back out to the pool house. My phone is blowing up on the kitchen counter, but I flip it on its face and ignore all the invitations and bullshit calls.

For this reason, Sunny is a good distraction. I realize that I could leave her alone to work in the pool house and go get hammered at some random bar in town, but if I keep my eyes on the back of her head as she starts outlining her sketch onto the wall, it will keep me grounded.

CHAPTER 9