He looks ready to laugh, then shrugs. “Or make a pillow fort, might be more appropriate. God knows my mom has enough throw pillows to smother everyone in Boise to death—no chalk though, fresh out of that.”
“And here I thought you’d still be playing with it. My bad.” I joke, trying to get a jab in.
He stills and locks eyes with me. “Are you going to be an annoying little problem, Belle?”
“That depends.” I take a brave step forward. “Are you going to be a rich asshole?”
“A truce then.” He holds out his hand. “Stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours, smile when you’re in public, don’t make the family look bad, and remember we aren’t friends at school. I already have those, don’t need one more.” He eyes me up and down. “And we really need to do something about your wardrobe.”
I hug my chest. “Kind of hard when you’ve been bouncing from house to house.”
He sighs and looks heavenward like he’s about to make a choice he can’t come back from, then drops my bag in the middle of the floor and drags me into his bedroom.
Panic seizes my chest until he releases my hand and walks over to a huge indoor closet that is bigger than my first room I shared with multiple foster siblings after my mom’s death.
“What size are you?” he yells, then, “Nevermind.”
He comes walking out with shopping bags—two Prada bags, one from Louis Vuitton, another from Gucci, and a box of Yeezy’s.
I’m sure my jaw drops to the floor in elegant fashion when he shoves them into my hands, putting the box on top. “W-what is all of this?”
Is he giving me his clothes?
“Had a girlfriend with expensive taste; the day before Valentine’s Day, found out she cheated on me with Xander—who I would definitely stay away from since he’s the worst—and decided not to give her any of her presents, never had a girl yell at me so much. She looks to be about your size, then again, I only slept with her twice and haven’t even seen you out of this giant t-shirt and loose ripped jeans, but for now, they’ll do.”
I’m still standing there when he holds up a hand and walks away again.
What is with this guy?
I both love and hate him a bit.
So confusing.
Is this how all rich kids are?
He walks into a large bathroom that has a jacuzzi tub I want to sleep in or would sleep in, to be honest, then comes out with a Sephora bag. “Forgot that I grabbed her some makeup and her favorite weird skincare stuff.”
He adds that on top of the box of shoes and then slowly ushers me out of his room across the hall and into mine. He grabs the bag from the floor and drops it inside the guest room.
Tears fill my eyes when I look around.
The bed is a King.
It looks so fluffy I want to nap.
I have my own bathroom, the only time I’ve had my own bathroom—ever. I almost drop everything in my hands when Ambrose very carefully takes them from me, sets them on the bed, and then starts to leave.
“Wait!” I lick my lips nervously. “T-thank you.”
He stares at my mouth for a minute before looking away. “It’s nothing, really.”
“It is to me,” I say quietly.
Tension swirls between us.
I’ve never had a guy look at me the way he is, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Anyway…” He knocks on my wall. “Dinner’s at seven, don’t be late, wear one of the dresses.”
“Why a dress?” I take a step forward.
“Because it’s a Tuesday, Belle, and on Tuesdays and every other day that ends in the word day… it’s formal, just in case someone important stops by and wants to snap a shot of the perfects.”
“The perfects?” I ask.
“What people call us.” His face falls. “See you at seven.”
Chapter Three
Ambrose
She’s really pretty.
Like the kind of pretty that has me almost uncomfortable during family dinner that I’m almost embarrassed about it. I feel like shit too, because I know that while I’m angry, I’m reacting to her in a weirdly physical way—it feels wrong. She came with a trash bag.
A trash bag.
I really am an asshole.
She put on some makeup.
Her hair has soft waves touching past her shoulders in a near-perfect fit, kissing them more like it. The black Prada dress has material wrapped around her right shoulder; the rest is strapless, leather, and she looks like a goddess.
Her eyes are wide as she stares down at the table at all the food as it gets served to us. Protein heavy for me, vegan for Mom, and both for Dad.
One of our maids pours some red wine into everyone’s glasses, half for the underagers.
And so, the awkward small talk begins while I try not to look at her.
And try not to lust like some awkward loser while she takes a sip of her water and stares at the roll in front of her.
Her hands shake when she grabs it, and slowly, effortlessly, she puts butter on it, and I wonder when the last time any of the girls in my school ever put butter on bread—purposefully.
I smile at her and hope it doesn’t look mocking.
My dad starts talking about work, Mom gets her second glass of wine, and we eat in somewhat weird silence as they ask Belle questions about her life before she went into the system.
I am truly not prepared to hear her story and almost want to tune it out when she starts talking about her mom’s death years ago.
A single mom.
A never-present dad.
And then I look around the table and wonder if I really haven’t been a total shit when it comes to my life just because I hate faking it for the media.
I sigh, my appetite suddenly gone.
“You should eat more,” Dad says. “Don’t you have that big scrimmage against Capital next week?”
“Yeah.” I painfully chew the steak on my plate and then take a sip of wine to wash it down. “Should be a rough one.”
“What do you play?” Belle asks as if she’s interested, and I can even tell in her tone she kind of is.
“Lacrosse,” I say.
“Captain,” Mom adds. “Of the entire team.”
“I’m not surprised.” Belle reaches for another roll, then pulls her hand back like she’s not allowed to eat, and something in my chest cracks in half as I scoot the plate closer to her and nod.
Tears shimmer in her eyes, and I hate myself all over again for having a shit attitude and not being the nicest to her at first because I was all up in my own head, not hers.
She had a fucking trash bag for her belongings.
That was it.
Fuck.
“Eat,” I say. “There’s a lot of food, and you don’t want it to go to waste.”
She gulps and then grabs another roll, and nods her head at me.
It’s cute, the way her cheeks turn a slight pink color.
I suddenly want to eat something very different, and I wonder if my appetite would be sated or just set on fire by the taste.
I clear my throat. “May we be excused?”
Dad tosses his napkin. “Any homework?”
“Not that I know of. Got pulled out of school right after lunch, but I’ll check online and try to get Belle updated on what classes she’ll be taking if her name and registration number is there.”