ON THE MORNING of her father’s funeral, Bishop held the front door of the house open for Penelope, and she brushed past him, her black, wide-brimmed hat knocking sideways as it collided with his broad chest. She tugged the hat back down, not saying anything, not making eye contact.
Her nerves were raw. Her throat hurt and her lungs burned, as if her dreaming self had spent the night wandering through the flames of hell. She kept her head down, afraid that if she met Bishop’s gaze, she might lose it.
As she’d lain in bed, tossing and turning into the early morning, she’d try to pin down the color of Bishop’s eyes, but her brain couldn’t come up with it. All she could remember was pain and darkness. Deep, haunted, sooty eyes, as if whatever signs of life had once been there in his irises had been burned to ash.
What she saw in Bishop’s eyes should scare any seventeen-year-old girl left to his care, but it didn’t scare Penelope. Nothing scared Penelope except being completely alone.
He led her to a black sedan and held the door for her there as well. Though he was probably just being polite, the gesture made her feel cared for. Special. That’s how pathetic she was, that she would manufacture devotion even from this hostile stranger, but she didn’t care. She was on her way to bury her father. She was entitled to feel fussed over, even if it was all in her head.
She removed the hat before tucking herself into the car. There was a brief moment of muffled silence, the kind you only hear inside an expensive car, and then Bishop opened the opposite door and joined her in the back seat, his presence bringing with it the scent of male soap and leather she’d caught hints of as she’d brushed past him at the front door.
Pen hadn’t seen him since their tense meeting in the library the day before, and she was glad for his silence now. She’d hid in her room as much as possible, and when she had come out for food, or to inquire about transportation to the funeral, Bishop had been in the lab.
This morning, her guardian was a study in silence and stillness, yet she felt comforted by him. Bishop had a powerful presence, and, thanks to her father’s rejection, Penelope had a powerful absence inside her. Sitting next to Bishop, she felt a rare sense of calm.
The driver opened the front door and Penelope jumped. After nodding to them through the rear-view mirror, he pulled beyond the gate of the estate and onto the road.
Curiosity got the best of her, and she looked over at the sight of Bishop in a suit. He was so mesmerizing that he may as well have been on fire. She couldn’t look away.
The black fabric suited him, emphasizing his charcoal eyes. His demeanor was the same as she’d seen the night before—grim, and maybe even a little menacing—but the well-cut suit gave him an extra aura of power. He held dark sunglasses in his hand, ready to complete the dangerous-man ensemble.
There was something about him that felt dangerous, she realized. He exuded a hostility that seemed to warn people off, like a constant, low rattle of a diamondback’s tail. Maybe she was fooling herself, but somehow, she felt that hostility was directed at everyone else in the world, but not her. Or maybe danger just turned her on.
He shifted, catching her staring, and she remembered to breathe. Out of sheer defense, to stave off the dreaded inquiry of how she was doing, she asked, “You have a driver? Wow. I see Dad’s money is treating you right.”
“I can’t drive,” he answered, his voice giving away no emotion. “I have a visual impairment.”
“Oh, right,” Penelope mumbled, her face burning. She picked at the hat in her lap.
“That hat’s not going to hide your hair, you know. I don’t see well, but even I can see that.”
She glanced over at him and one side of his mouth was crooked into what was almost a smile.
“I’m not trying to hide my hair. I dyed it pink just for the funeral. I brought the hat to hide my eyes if I want to.”
“I don’t think pink’s on the list of appropriate funeral colors.”
She looked out the window with no intention of answering him, but she was speaking before she could stop herself. Talking to him was natural, somehow. Almost as if she was just thinking, but out loud.
“I’m done being invisible.”
“If I can see you, you’re far from invisible.”
She turned back to him and his forehead was crinkled in confusion, or maybe concern.
Not wanting to ask, yet needing to know, she cleared her throat. “There are no pictures of me in the house.” She paused and looked down, then forced herself to ask the question. “Did you know about me, Bishop? Before my father died and left me to you?”
He didn’t answer and she risked a glance at his face. His lips were pressed in a thin line, and a twitch in the muscles of his clenched jaw confirmed what she’d suspected.
“Invisible,” she whispered.
He curled his free hand into a fist on his knee, and she wondered if he was angry for her, or angry she was a surprise. Maybe both.
They drove the rest of the short trip in silence. At the funeral home, Bishop accompanied her to the viewing chapel. The crowd in the lobby and hallway was thick and suffocating, but seemed to part when they entered the building, as if her and Bishop’s arrival had been announced.
When they reached the chapel, Pen took two steps down the center aisle before her eyes landed on the gleaming, black casket, surrounded by white lilies. She pulled up short, and though Bishop wasn’t touching her, he stopped too, as if he was there as her escort, and she was his only concern.
It felt like all the eyes in the room swiveled in her direction. Her chest constricted so sharply that panic seized her. Her mouth dry, she parted her lips, trying to suck in breaths without revealing her inexplicable terror. Her gaze flicked from the casket to the faces surrounding her, filled with that look of pity she couldn’t stomach.
Fifteen paces in front of her lay her dead father, who now would never see her, no matter how hard she tried to make him. To him, she’d be invisible forever.
With horror, she realized that she might throw-up, and she had no idea where the bathroom was. Or the nearest exit. A trash can, a potted plant, anything. Dizziness and nausea warred over which would be the one to bring her down.
Suddenly, a large, warm hand enveloped hers. She blinked and Bishop was the only thing she saw. Bending his face close to hers, his pupils contracted and focused on her. His nearness, a necessity due to his visual impairment, caused his handsome face to eclipse the rest of her field of vision and effectively block her view.
“Penelope.” He spoke softly, as if they were the only two in the room. “Are you okay?”
She licked her lips. “Everyone’s looking at me.” Her voice cracked and she could barely hear her own words above her crashing heart.
Without hesitation, Bishop pulled his dark sunglasses from an inside jacket pocket. He let go of her hand and placed the glasses on her face, his sheer size making her feel like they had a private spot for this discussion. Her hands flew to the glasses as if they were a life preserver and she was drowning, because in a way, they were, and in a way, she was. He took her hand again, firmly, and led her out of the funeral home and back to the car.
He helped her in, and this time, he climbed in next to her, closing the heavy door and muting the noise of the crowd. Pen felt instantly better when the world was blocked out of the quiet, leather-scented oasis that was the back of Bishop’s town car.
He glanced around, as if ensuring their privacy, and spoke without looking at her. “Breathe, Penelope.” His resonate voice filled the small space, and her mind latched onto his baritone words like a mantra she replayed over and over in her head. They barely knew each other, but, instinctively, he seemed to know how she was feeling.
She yanked off the hat and sunglasses and dropped them onto the seat near the door. With trembling fingers, she tore off the tight blazer she’d buttoned over a black lace cami, and gulped for air.
He unbuttoned his own suit jacket and shook out the lapels to get comfortable. Still without looking at her, he settled back into the leather and stretched an arm across the back of the seats in her direction.
Her chest still heaving, she stared at the spot he’d created, probably inadvertently, under the shelter of his arm and next to his strong, manly frame. A spot to snuggle in, to feel protected.
She slid to his side like a rider approaching a skittish horse, and when her body had made contact with his, she felt him go still and steely. She kicked her shoes off and curled her legs up nearly onto his lap, tucking her head against his chest.
“Breathe, Bishop,” she mirrored his words back to him, and after a moment, she felt his chest rise and fall. “Please,” she murmured. “I need to be held for just a minute, and then I’ll be okay.”
She could hear his heart beat in his chest, steady and real. He was solid and capable, and she wanted to hide from the world in his arms for as long as he’d let her.
Pen was under no illusions. The funeral was the punctuation at the end of the childhood she never got to have. After this, it was back to school, more loneliness, and soon, a transition from high-school to…what? College? A career? Adulthood?
How could she do that, when she felt like an alien being? Like she’d never have another soul understand her. Someone, anyone, she could truly connect with. Sure, she hid from people. Always, she hid, in fact, but everyone let her. She was a dead leaf blowing and tumbling through the lives of the people around her, unnoticed and unwanted.
Bishop slid his arm from the seat and curled it around her, first around her shoulder, and then, awkwardly, as if he didn’t know if any spot was correct, he moved his arm lower around her waist, and patted her knee stiffly with his other hand.
The feeling of being in his arms, braced against his powerful torso, broke through something in her. She didn’t have to decide anything, endure anything, while in the shelter of Bishop’s embrace. She was comforted—maybe for the first time that she could remember—she was comforted.
She started crying. Fisting the lapels of his suit coat in her hands, she buried her face against his shirt and sobbed, her body shaking so hard she thought she might come apart.
He seemed to melt under her, and curled both arms around her into a solid and fortifying hug as her body quaked with all the tears she’d never let herself shed, alone in her dorm rooms all those years.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “I know.” And somehow, she knew he did. “I know, Penelope. I know.” He repeated this to her in murmurs until his chin dipped and she felt him kiss the top of her head.
Then, as if he finally felt comfort just like she did, his arms tightened around her. His big hands gripped onto her bare arms and back almost painfully, and his core shuddered as he cried with her.
Bishop loved her dad, even if she hated him. That love, which she thought of as an atrocity, made her want to hate Bishop, but what she felt instead was far from that. She wanted to take his pain away as much as she wanted him to take hers.
“Thank you,” she managed weakly against his shirt, now stained with her mascara.
He unclasped his arms and gently untangled her from him, setting her up straight. “I have tissues.” He pulled some from his pocket, handing her a few.
She was deeply chilled. The air outside the circle of Bishop’s heat was so cold, and she felt her nipples stiffen in her lace cami. She hadn’t worn a bra. The tight blazer she’d been wearing had provided more than enough support for her breasts.
Not caring how badly smeared her makeup was, she dried her tears, then blew her nose. She crushed the tissues in her hand and sat back against the seat, her head tilted up to stare at the roof of the car.
Bishop didn’t speak right away, and she was glad for it. Finally, his strong voice broke the spell. “Are you okay?”
She nodded and handed him his sunglasses. “These were exactly what I needed.” She looked down at her hands, wadding the tissue into a smaller ball. “All of that,” she said brokenly, “was exactly what I needed.”
She turned to him and met his eyes. He stared at her, as if considering her words, then nodded, the look on his face unreadable. He polished the glasses. “I wasn’t sure if I should give them to you.” He spoke down at his hands. “I thought you wanted the people to see you.”
She laughed, a quick, joyless sound. “I did. I just can’t stand that look.” She blinked, thinking her eyes felt dry now, as if she’d cried out all the moisture in them. “That look of—”
“I know the look.” His tone was sharp and she cut her eyes to his. He tucked the glasses back into his pocket with jerky movements. The car was parked in the shade, and the tinted windows added to the shadows of the interior. Bishop’s features were contrasting planes of highlight and shadows.
He glanced at her lacy top, her braless chest, and then quickly away, grabbing her blazer and handing it her in an unspoken request to put it back on. He was close enough to still see her well. Pen was learning the limitations of his sight.
“I know the look,” he repeated, his voice softer now. “The look that’s meant to be kind, but it’s only insulting.”
She didn’t answer, but a chill ran through her. It was as if he’d reached in and plucked that explanation straight from her psyche. She wanted very much to know when Bishop was given those same looks of pity, and why.
“I want to stay.” She’d blurted the words as soon as she’d thought them, and yet she was sure of her conviction behind them. Staying was suddenly the only thing she wanted.
Scowling, he curled his lip, as if the idea was insanity itself.
“Please, Bishop. Don’t make me go back to school. I won’t give you any trouble. I’ll finish senior year at the local school. You won’t even know I’m around.”
“No.” His tone was final.
“I don’t want to be alone.”
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. “There’s no one here for you to be with, Penelope. Return to your routine. It’s the best thing to do in your circumstance.”
She felt herself blanch at his words. Before she could think of how to respond, Marcus, the driver, returned.
“Saw you two leave. Are you ready to go home?”
Bishop looked to her. “Do you want to go back in?”
She shook her head, a few, small jerks of her skull. Her muscles felt atrophied, like she wouldn’t be able to move from her spot if she wanted to.
Bishop paused, looking down before connecting with her eyes again. She kept wanting to hate this man, but there were those deeply-shadowed eyes, the haunting there that she knew too.
His voice was soft. “Would you like to be present for your father’s burial?”
Pen made a disgusted sound and turned away. She grabbed her hat, crushing it in her hands as she worried at the black, straw brim with agitated fingers.
Bishop took it as the answer it was and addressed the driver. “Home,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Apparently neither of us are much for funerals.”
An hour later, Pen didn’t say goodbye before she had Marcus take her to the airport five hours early for her flight. As Bishop had so bluntly put it, there was no one there for her, not that there ever had been. She was alone, and she had to figure out how to live like that for real.
There was no more hope that her dad would stop pushing her away. He was dead. Bishop didn’t want her around. Time to move on.
Penelope was never one to delay the inevitable.