I missed all our days.
I wondered if Mrs. McTavish would be down for a foot soak and charcoal mask party later. I could eat peanut M&Ms and drink Dr Pepper while she had shortbread and tea.
I missed Dr Pepper.
Before I got too lost in remembering all the things I missed, Mrs. McTavish walked into the dining room with a plate in each hand. She sat one plate in front of me, and I smiled up at her.
“Either you brought me a shit ton of carrots or you’re finally going to sit down and eat with me.”
She opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a deep male voice.
“Thank you, Mrs. McTavish. That’ll be all for now.”
Grey.
Grey was home. And he was having dinner with me.
She set the plate at a place setting at the far end of the table. Then she nodded at Grey. “Yes, sir.” When she walked past me, she stopped for a moment, cradled one hand on the side of my face, and smiled.
I wished I had an ounce of her hope.
And then she was gone.
Grey and I were alone.
He wore all black, and his hair was styled to perfection. A light shadow of stubble covered his chiseled jaw. Suddenly, I felt underdressed. I wished I’d worn something pink with lace after all.
He picked up his plate and moved it to the spot directly beside me. Then he pulled out his chair and placed a small rectangular box on the table. It was wrapped in white paper with a silver bow tied neatly around it.
My heart pounded at his presence, at his closeness, at his thoughtfulness. “You remembered.”
Today was my eighteenth birthday. Well, today was Lyric Matthews’s birthday. I had no idea when Lauren Van Doren’s birthday was. We hadn’t really discussed it.
I’d been here almost a year.
It felt like a lifetime.
“Of course, I remembered,” he said like he’d spent the last ten months being the picture-perfect husband.
Still, the fact that he remembered my birthday set the tiny embers of hope in my chest aglow. There was warmth there when all I’d felt for so long was the cold. I wanted to blow them out. I didn’t want to hope. Because I knew the only reason he was here now was to give me this box. Tomorrow he would be gone again, and I would be alone. I knew he meant well, but it made my chest ache. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. Happy tears, sad ones. I wasn’t sure.
Kind cruelty.
“Should we eat first?” I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to open this box. Since I was ten years old, my dad had showered me with presents on my birthday and Christmas. I guessed he was trying to give me the childhood he never had. I’d always looked forward to tearing off the wrapper and seeing what was inside. But for some reason, I was more excited about this one gift, this one small box, than any present I’d ever received in my entire life.
He smiled, and the sight of it lit a full-blown spark to those tiny embers. “No.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, then nodded toward the box. “Open it.”
Three tiny words that set a thousand butterflies loose in my belly.No, open it.
My heart raced as I pulled the silver ribbon, then tore away the wrapping. My throat tightened around a lump as I removed a cell phone from the box.Do not cry.
My finger tapped the screen, bringing it to life. There, on the home screen, was an image of Tatum and me. It was from her sixteenth birthday party. We were leaning against the rail on her father’s yacht. Some creepy asshole—probably one of the Brotherhood men—had just tried hitting on her. I was aggravated because Lincoln kept flirting with some little twat just to piss me off. But we’d both painted on perfect smiles for the camera. Tatum always made me smile.
How did he get this picture?
“Your only contact is me. You will only ever call me. If you try to call anyone or text anyone other than me, I’ll know. You have access to social media, but I suggest you don’t use it to reach anyone. If you do, I’ll know.” His words were conversational, cold, like he hadn’t just given me a piece of my life back.
My heart thrashed wildly in my chest. “You got me a phone.” My fingertip lingered over thePhotosicon. If he found one picture, maybe there were more.Should I even get my hopes up?I tapped the screen, inhaling a sharp breath at what I found. One hundred sixty-two photos had been added—pictures of me, of Tatum, of my dad, of my life. There were even a few of Lincoln.