He’s still angry. It’s obvious without even seeing his face. There’s frustration in every line of his body. He’s cast aside the ill-fitting button-down. The shirt’s in a pile in the corner, and his torso’s completely bare. I try not to notice the way the muscles of his back contract as he holds a piece of wood in place. Or the way that tattoo across his bicep moves with every swing of his arm.
A flicker of something begins to burn in my belly, growing slowly and heating the emptiness from the inside out.
“Need something?”
I jump at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t even stop hammering, let alone turn around. So much for me being a super spy.
“You left the luncheon,” I say.
“And so you decided to follow me and make sure I’m okay? I’m touched.” He doesn’t sound particularly happy to see me.
“Hate to break it to you, but I haven’t crossed the line into ‘stalker’ just yet.” I lean against the doorway, trying to look casual. “Mr. Haymore sent me to get something from his office and I heard the hammering.”
He finally stops hammering and turns to look at me. There’s still tension in his face, but he manages a bitter smile.
“Just getting some work done,” he says. “You heard the man. Everything has to be perfect before the press people start showing up.”
He flips the hammer in his hand, but he’s not going to convince me that everything is fine and dandy.
“What was going on back there?” I ask.
His blue eyes flash with something intense, but he keeps the smile. “What? You weren’t inspired by the brilliant Edward Carolson?”
No, not particularly—but I have a good reason for hating Carolson. What I don’t understand is why Ward is having this reaction toward the man.
I step into the room, remembering too late that I still have my heels in my hand. Oh well.
“I wasn’t upset enough to leave,” I say. Funny how easy it is to dull those emotions when you’re trying.
“I’m already working fourteen hours a day for that asshole,” he says. “And I’m not the only one. And in comes good old Carolson, talking like he’s been pouring his own blood and tears into this damn place, expecting us to drop everything just so he can feel important. Those people are all the same.”
I stop three feet in front of him. “Those people?”
“Rich fucks. They’re all the same.” He tosses his hammer aside, and it crashes into his toolbox with a clatter that makes me flinch. “Yelling at us if we poor working chumps aren’t doing our menial labor at inhuman speeds, then turning around and forcing us to dress up and go to stupid luncheons designed to make them feel important. Oh, they all act like events like this are their way of showing their appreciation for all of our hard work, but in reality it’s just an excuse for them to show off and look down at all of their loyal little workers.”
Them. Not just Carolson, then. He means all “rich fucks.” No doubt he thinks the same thing about my family. He already believes we ruined this house. Why shouldn’t we be self-serving assholes, too?
Anger flares inside of me at his self-righteousness. From what I’ve seen of him, Ward’s not exactly the master of good behavior. But on the heels of my annoyance comes the shame: haven’t I been a self-serving asshole all my life? When have I really put anyone else before myself?
Ward still looks like he wants to punch something. His eyes have darkened to the color of a raging sea.
“Trust me,” he says. “Spend a few years around people like Carolson and you’ll see.”
Oh, I see. I see all too well. How am I any different than Carolson? When I was in Thailand, supposedly helping other people, I was posing for pictures, playing a part. I helped renovate orphanages for the photo op. So people would look at me and think, “Ah, that Louisa Cunningham actually cares! She’s not spoiled like the rest of them.” I was cultivating the image of Lou, the selfless, kindhearted heiress.
I feel like all the fight has been sucked out of me. Let Ward or anyone else say what they want about me and my family. It’s true. It’s all true. The empty void is yawning in my belly again, and I close my eyes.
“Addison?”
Addison. That’s right. I’m Addison. I need to smile. Laugh. Not get worked up over someone’s passing comments about rich people.
But when I look up at him, the smile freezes before it ever reaches my lips. He’s closer than I thought he was, close enough for me to be able to watch the anger seep out of his eyes. In its place is something else—something that reignites that little pulse of heat deep inside of me.
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s half naked. My eyes drop to his chest. He was working hard enough before I showed up that there’s already a thin layer of sweat on his skin. There’s a dusting of hair on his chest, lighter and redder than the thicker strands growing on his head. The wicked, rebellious part of me wants to reach out and touch it.
“You’re not here to listen to me vent, are you?” he says, and when I lift my face again I find that devilish glint is back in his eyes. “You’re here for something else.”
Am I? Is that really why I came to investigate the hammering?
I want to. It would be so easy, to stand on my toes and raise my lips to his. To slide my hands across the muscles on his chest. To reach down and undo his belt. There’s no one to stop us—everyone else is still at the luncheon.
He sways toward me slightly, but he doesn’t touch me. He’s waiting for me to make the first move. To admit that he’s right, that I still want what I wanted that first night when I grabbed him without even knowing his name. That I want to taste his lips again. That I want to run my hands through that thick red-brown hair…
But I’m not falling into that trap. I’m supposed to be staying away from men. But it’s hard to remind myself of that when I’m standing so close to him. When I can smell him and feel the heat radiating off of his body.
I muster up my willpower and back up a step. Then another. Then—
My heel hits something, and I’m falling backwards. Out the hole in the wall where the window used to be. There’s a horrible split second when I realize what’s happening. When fear seizes me and my stomach shoots up into my throat. But then Ward grabs me and yanks me back into the room. He falls onto his back, and I fall on top of him.
We both lie there for a moment, stunned. My heart is thumping so quickly I’m sure he can feel it. I can feel his own against my chest. He’s still gripping me by the arms. My hands clutch his shoulders. I don’t know where my shoes are. Probably out the window. My legs have fallen on either side of his, and the sudden realization that I’m straddling him sends a rush of blood up my neck.