My eyes widen at his outburst. I have a feeling this guy really doesn’t like me, although I’m not sure why exactly.
“I do the cleaning,” I tell him, looking away and painting my toenail a bright red. I don’t know what his deal is. I finish painting the nail, then glance up again, wondering why he’s still standing there glaring at me.
“The place is spotless,” he points out, looking around.
I dip the brush into the bottle, then say, “I like things clean.”
I can’t sleep if the place isn’t spotless. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been very organized and tidy. On top of that, I like to keep busy, and being stuck in the house all day doesn’t give me very many options. Since my father landed in prison, work is out of the question. No one wants an accountant—an uncertified one at that—whose father is in prison for fraud. Besides, I like to clean when I’m stressed out, or angry. It helps calm me.
“You clean,” he says slowly, sounding surprised. “I’d have thought you’d be used to having a cleaner, or something.”
“I did have a cleaner when I lived with my dad,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
I can actually feel the judgment pouring off him. He thinks I’m spoiled and is surprised by the fact that I can keep a tidy house. Like he said before, though, I haven’t really got much else to do. I’ve been taking some college business and marketing classes online, for a degree, to keep me busy. If I’m not studying, I’m reading, cleaning, or working out. I feel like I’m in prison, just a really fancy, expensive one. I can leave the house if I take someone with me, but all my previous bodyguards have preferred that I just stay home, probably so it was easier for them to do their job. Still, what I wouldn’t kill to be able to walk outside that front door freely and without being paranoid that someone is coming for me at any given moment.
I don’t complain though.
This is my life right now, but it’s only temporary. I just need to suck it up and know that so many other people have it worse than being trapped inside a luxurious house. Some people don’t even have a house. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“So you spend all day tanning by the pool, demanding food, and painting your fuckin’ nails?” he asks, looking extremely put out.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” I ask, scanning his face. I don’t bother to point out the fact that I’ve already told him that I clean the place. It’s not like I’m sitting on my ass doing nothing, and besides, what else am I supposed to do? “You haven’t even been here for a full day and you’re judging me? I’ve been living like this for weeks now. Do you think I enjoy being locked up?”
“I’m just wondering why everyone is fighting so hard to protect someone who seems to be nothing but spoiled and shallow,” he says easily, like each word isn’t cutting me.
“You’re a dick,” I tell him, shaking my head in disbelief. “And your job is to protect me, not try to make me a better person. We have a week in this house together, so why don’t you just keep your hastily drawn conclusions to yourself, all right?”
Maybe I was spoiled—my father always gave me everything I wanted.
But I wasn’t shallow.
And I think it says more about him than me that he decided what I was before trying to get to know me, even a little bit. But oh well, he wasn’t the first person to think so, and he wouldn’t be the last.
He ignores my rant and sits down on the couch opposite me. To make matters worse, I find myself physically attracted to him—not that I’d ever admit it out loud. He did have that whole bad-boy thing going for him, a good build, and a handsome face. Although not classically gorgeous, he still has something about him that makes me want to take a second or third look.
“I need to run to the store to get a few things, and you need to come with me.”
I perk up at the thought of leaving the house. I haven’t been outside since the day I walked into this house. “Okay.”
“Do you know the area?” he asks, stretching his neck from side to side and not looking at me.
“No,” I say, leaning back on the couch. “What do you need to buy? I can do a Google search and see what there is around here.”
I’d do anything for a little tiny taste of freedom, even ignore his previous rude-ass comments.
“I saw a grocery store as I was riding in, so that’s fine,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I want to go to a sporting goods store where I can get some weights or something, or I’m going to go batshit crazy here.” He pauses. “And maybe some swimming trunks.”
Not remembering the last time I went shopping in person, I feel a bubble of excitement surrounding me. “Okay, sounds good. I can buy some new stuff too. When do you want to go? Tomorrow morning?”
He nods once. “Yeah, all right. We’ll have to take the vehicle they left here—can’t take my bike.”
“That’s no problem,” I say, unable to stop the smile spreading on my lips.
“Should’ve known shopping would be your weakness,” he grumbles, stealing the remote and changing the channel.
I don’t let his comment get to me. Let him think what he wants—I don’t care.
I am happy to be able to go shopping.
If I could take a walk in a park, or go to the library, even better—but I’m not going to push it.