"Here's your room." Kyle pushes the door to the room at the end of the first-floor hallway.
He steps aside, and I walk in. The room is spacious, with pink furniture and enough lighting from the big windows. My suitcases are parked at the foot of the bed, and the walls are too bare which tells me nobody has lived in it.
"It was our guest room, but we don't have many guests these days. Mom cleaned it and made everything pink for you." He makes a disgusted face that makes him look kinda cute.
I shrug, walking to the table and setting the urn on it. "I like pink. It's nice."
"Oh…" He gives me a surprised look while I move around the room, taking it in and opening drawers.
"Dad was saying you don't like the cold. Is it like a sickness or something?"
"Or something," I reply vaguely, not wanting to go into the details of how I've always struggled with colds from a young age and how nobody knew exactly why. Something to do with my immune system, and it might've been inherited. My mother said it was a curse from my father's side on days when she was dead drunk.
I turn away from the empty wardrobe to find Kyle looking at me with a strange, mischievous look, and I'm suddenly aware of the slight shift in the air.
"I could warm you up if you like," he says it with a straight face, and I can't be sure if he's joking or not until he bursts out laughing.
"Shit, Arielle. You should see your face." He clutches his chest, trembling with laughter. "I was joking! You're like family now, and that's gross."
I don't laugh because I don't find it funny. For a moment, my mind had conjured an image with him that tightens my stomach with nausea.
Kyle sees the look on my face and stops laughing. "You should lighten up, Arielle. Settle in, and I'll come get you for dinner. I think Dad is going to make Jean show you around, but I know all the best places, so I'll drive you around too."
"Okay."
He stares at me expectantly, then shakes his head. "You don't talk much, do you?"
I blink at him, wondering what he expects me to say to people I just met.
He claps his hands together awkwardly and gives me a salute. "Bye then."
Once he leaves, I shut and lock the door, falling on the bed and feeling tears burn behind my eyes. But I don't let them fall. I've not cried since the funeral, and I won't because my mother doesn't deserve it, leaving me the way she did.
Life isn't a bed of roses. And if it were, it's the type that killed you—Just ask my mother.
I push the thoughts away and spend the next few hours unpacking, taking a warm shower, and trying to call Alina, who doesn't answer.
As I open my journal to write like my therapist recommended, I hear a knock on the door.
Kyle's voice sounds on the other side. "Arielle, dinner!"
I close the book, throw a wool sweater over my top and baggy pants, and let my hair hang loose. The only thing worth mentioning that I got from my mother. Long voluminous hair, black as the night's sky. My blue eyes came from my father, and my fair skin and small frame are a nice combination from both.
I open the door, and Kyle is standing with a bright grin and a pretty little girl on his back. Wild blond hair flies all over her cute face, framing sparkling green eyes.
Kyle turns sideways so she can smile at me with two missing front teeth. "I'm Diana. I'm four."
"Hi," I say, stepping into the hall. "I'm Arielle."
Her eyes widen. "Like the little mermaid?"
A small laugh bubbles out of me, catching me off guard.
"You can laugh," Kyle says, mystified.
I ignore him, my face growing blank once more. "I'm not the little mermaid."
"But you look like a mermaid," Diana responds, sounding adamant.
Kyle laughs. "Uh oh. Guess who's getting stuck with a nickname. Little Mermaid. I like it. High five." He raises a palm, and Diana highfives him. Before I can address the ridiculous statement, Kyle bounces away, running down the hall with a giggling Diana.
Great.
I follow them, frowning. Before I reach the stairs, my phone starts ringing. I pull it out, checking the caller and feeling slightly better. Alina.
Finally.
Instead of going back to my room, I move to the hallway bathroom Kyle had pointed out earlier. The last thing I want is to have someone overhearing our conversation. As my oldest and longest friend, I know Alina would have some unsavoury things to say about my new situation, and they already don't like me, so I don't want to give them more reasons.
With my phone in hand, I open the bathroom door and freeze in the doorway. A cloud of steam hits my face, and from it a naked man emerges.
A gorgeous butt naked man!
I suck in a breath and almost scream. Heat instantly floods my face as my eyes, without my permission, slide down the incredibly muscular physique, the toned abs, and before it can go lower, I throw a hand up to cover my face and look away.
An awkward silence drapes over the air, broken by the constant ringing of my phone. And I wither inside, hoping the ground could swallow me and save me from this horrifying situation.
The man clears his throat, and his deep voice fills the air. "Pass me the towel."
"What?" I choke out.
"The towel," he spells out, and I think I hear amusement in his voice. But it can't be. He can't find this funny. "I was going to get it when you barged in. So get it for me and bring it here."
I look at him sharply, remember he's naked, and duck my head again. "I'm—I'm sorry but I—"
"Now. It's on your left." His tone leaves no room for argument.
The sensible thing to do is to turn and leave. Run and not look back. But something keeps me rooted. The urge to obey surpassing every other feeling. I spy the towel rack and grab the towel, positive that my face is now the colour of a ripe tomato.
I hold it out to him, making sure to keep my head down. The image of his naked torso burned into my brain.
"Bring it here, you're too far away."
We're standing a few feet apart. I'm not far away, but I take a small step. "Here."
He takes it from me and, after a long second, says, "You must be Arielle."
I nod even though it isn't a question.
"Nobody ever taught you to knock?"
Hot shame burns through me. "I didn't think anyone was in here. I'm sor—"
"You can look now. I'm covered enough."
Slowly, I drop my hand and raise my head. His gray eyes are twinkling with amusement. He looks like a copy of Liam without the scruffy beard and bushy hair or soft eyes. Maybe even larger with the way he dominates the small bathroom. His hair is cropped close to his head and icy blonde. A fading bruise is under his sharp jaw, and the glimpse of a tattoo on the side of his neck disappears into his back.
I swallow dryly and force my eyes to remain on his face. "I'm sorry." I barely hear my voice.
"I'm Casper," he says, and all amusement fades from his face. Something dangerously cold crawls into his eyes. "If you try this shit again, you won't like what I'll do to you."
And I can tell he means it, and I let myself imagine what he'll do, and somehow I end up with him pushing me into a wall and wrapping his large hands around my neck.
"Get out," he orders. I don't need to be told twice. I turn and flee from the bathroom, trembling with something that has nothing to do with fear.