Three
Poppy
As prisons go, Honey Cove is luxe. I’ll give them that. The villa the doctor escorts me to is way smaller than my father’s mansion, but almost as fancy and well built.
The ceilings are high, the windows huge and sparkling. Sunshine spills across tiled floors, and waxy green houseplants hang in baskets from hooks on the walls. There’s a purple woven rug; a jug of cucumber ice water waiting on the counter. A butterfly flits by the nearest windowsill. A bookcase covers the length of the living room, and a bowl of juicy-looking peaches rests on the coffee table.
Beautiful. Not that it matters.
Pretty places can still be rotten underneath.
And there are clues, too—reminders that this is no vacation. There’s no kitchen, for starters, and no sharp or heavy objects. When I peer around the bathroom doorway, the shower has some kind of lock on the temperature controls.
God forbid I hurt myself. I’m my father’s property, after all.
“Does it pass your inspection, Miss Lennox?” The doctor’s tone is sour as he follows me from room to room. And okay, I guess I’ve been kind of a brat to him so far. But hey, how else am I supposed to behave with my prison warden?
Even one with those deep brown eyes.
“It’s okay.” I close the bedroom door with a snap and stroll into the center of the living room, nudging at where the driver left my suitcase abandoned on one end. I flip the zipper over, scratching at the hardy fabric with my fingernail. “I mean, if you hold me captive here, I’ll sue you for every last cent you have—but sure, the cucumber water is a nice touch.”
It’s a bluff. I can’t afford a lawyer. Until I get my ruined summer trip refunded, I can barely afford bus fare.
But there’s that frown again. Thick eyebrows pinch together, just a couple of shades darker than the doctor’s bronze hair. He rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble crackling in the silence, and watches me steadily.
“You’re not a captive.”
I beam at him. “Awesome. Then I’ll leave.”
He lets out a long sigh. Like I’m so unreasonable, when he’s the one playing jailer. “After your assessment, if you are deemed medically fit—”
I wave an airy hand. “Yeah, yeah.”
See, I’m sure Hot Doctor trusts the process, butIknow that my medical notes from back home are worth jack shit. Every professional in a fifty mile radius is wrapped around my father’s finger; he probably wrote those notes himself, word-for-word, or at least got one of his slimy aides to do it, then told my doctor where to sign.
And those notes are gonna be my ‘context’? I’m never getting out of here.
Pushing down the gnawing despair, I stretch up my arms, yawning until my jaw cracks. Making a big production of how tired I am. “Well, it’s getting late—”
“It’s four fifteen.”
“—and you’ve still got all those other patients, right? So.”
“So,” Hot Doctor agrees. But he stands there watching me for another long moment, the sunlight spilling over him through the window. The way it glints gold in his hair makes him look almost leonine.
His toned chest presses against his white coat with each breath he takes. Even with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed, I canfeelthe tension humming through his frame.
Damn. This guy really hates me.
Well, he can join the club. My father probably hands out lapel pins.
“Dinner is at seven.” I half listen as Hot Doctor rattles through the welcome talk, my fingernail still scratching at my suitcase. When I swallow, my throat is tight.
I can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe my father did this.
It was just atrip.A few stolen weeks of independence. I wasn’t gonna embarrass him, or hurt his chances of reelection. I wanted to tour the freaking museums. Would that be so bad?
“Miss Lennox.”