Chapter Forty-Eight
I check into Ma’s hotel, two floors down from her. After getting back to the apartment, I’d packed as fast as I could, extended Monty’s food service, and got the hell out of Dodge. Ma is elated, because it means I get to spend more time with her before she leaves.
Or rather, more time with my nephew.
Within the first forty-eight hours, I’m receiving constant calls for help with Abel. Not that I’m complaining. I love being with the little man, and it’s obvious they’re struggling to keep up with their crazy schedule while carrying him on their hips. So, I volunteer to babysit for the remainder of their time here while they’re off doing whatever it is famous celebrities do.
Abel is a riot, and I adore his cherubic cheeks and pudgy fists. He’s the perfect distraction from Jaxon and his devious, manipulative family.
When Abel is awake, I focus wholly on him. While he’s asleep, I consider what my next move will be. The truth is, I’ve never been on my own before. It’s been Melanie and me since…forever.
With Mel, I’ve never had to make an important decision alone. Never had to live alone. And now that she’s gone, I feel so lost. I’m such an odd, odd ball—I can admit that—and it’s going to be one helluva challenge finding a new friend or fitting in anywhere.
It’s been five days since I moved. And for each of those five days, Markus has emailed me at 9 a.m. on the dot, begging me to reconsider. I know it’s just a matter of time before he pulls out the big guns and hunts me down. He is Markus King, after all. Hopefully, I’ll be oceans away before then.
As for Melanie, I’ve yet to receive a call or a text from her.
Nothing.
A clean cut on our friendship.
It stings. It really, really stings.
This evening, Ma is too tired to come out to dinner with me, and Jahleel, though equally tired, has a nightclub appearance. So, I end up sitting by myself in a vegan restaurant ten blocks from the hotel.
I take a book with me, because, well, I saw the title and couldn’t resist.
Psychopath Free: Recovering From Emotionally Abusive Relationships With Narcissists, Sociopaths, and Other Toxic People, by Jackson Mackenzie.
I read as I eat.
I also break the rules and order wine for the first time ever, because the words on these pages are painting a vivid picture of Jaxon King.
I order another glass.
Or maybe I’m being too harsh. Jaxon is not a psychopath or a sociopath. He’s a con artist. Big difference. Psychopaths and sociopaths don’t have hearts or consciences. Jaxon King might not have a conscience, but he does have a heart, so he’s not what this book says.
I stop drinking.
If Jaxon is a psycho, then so is Markus. So is Alessa. So is Melanie. So is…
Me.
I slam the book shut.
No.
I signal for my check. The bill comes, and I pay up. I walk out of the restaurant. And leave the book behind on the table.
I don’t wish to be friends with paranoia, so I leave it where it belongs. Behind.
I walk the ten blocks back to the hotel and crawl into bed, no closer to a decision on what to do next. Or how to forget that a frosty-blue-eyed sonnet called Jaxon exists.
More than likely, that’s never going to happen. Jaxon was my first in so many different ways. And no one ever forgets their first, do they?
I’m awakened the following morning by the annoying sting of something digging into my flesh.
I flick open my eyes and find I’m on my stomach. As I roll onto my back, I feel it—a cool gold chain around my neck and a heavy, heart-shaped sapphire-and-diamond pendant resting on my chest.
No.
No.
I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and grasp the pendant. On an exhale, I slowly reopen my eyes, look down, and…my heart weeps.
The Blue Promise.
The necklace from the Castellos Museum. The same one a certain person picked up and kept.
Jaxon.
I jackknife up in bed, darting a frantic glance around the hotel room.
Kicking off the sheets, I scamper out of bed and run around the suite, checking every room, every crevice, every corner.
He’s not here.
But he was here.
Bloody hell.
I trek back into the bedroom and halt when I notice something on the pillow opposite the one I slept on.
With uncertain steps, I go over and pluck it up. It’s an instant photo. Of me. Asleep, in my ivory silk nightgown, with the necklace around my neck. I look…virginal.
Scrawled on the white space at the bottom of the photo is, “What I see when I think about the future.”
I flip it over. There’s writing on the back, too, written in silver pen on the black backing.
Anne Boleyn was never a virgin. She didn’t deserve the necklace. But you do. So take it as a symbol of my promise that I am yours, and yours alone.
Aww, how romantic. He’s gifting me the necklace he stole from me. Does he seriously think that will touch my heart?
The fact he got into my suite, put a necklace around my neck, and snapped pictures of me, all without my knowing, makes me clench my teeth in anger.
How the hell?
The wine.
Crap. See? This is why I don’t drink.
A scream of fury is caged up in my throat, begging to be let out. But before I can set it free, there’s a knock on the door.
Ma.
Damn it! Time to babysit.