Devoured: A Novel(31)

“Maybe it would help if you looked up when you’re talking,” Lucas says in a voice that’s sympathetic and strong. Commanding

Slowly, I drag my eyes back up. Lucas is leaning back, his body at ease, his smile satisfied. “I want your word that nothing about this agreement will get back to my grandma or her attorney, Richard Nielson.”

Court begins stuttering, so Lucas confidently takes the reigns to answer my question. “Although Court is bound by attorney and client privilege, I’ve went ahead and had him sign another agreement. Trust me, if he wants to keep his practice and all his cash cows, he knows better.”

Court laughs—a nervous, cough-ridden sound—as I finish scrawling my name. I complete the other two copies and afterward, he and Lucas do the same. Then Court claims he’s got to go—client meeting in an hour—and Lucas smiles at him dismissively.

Feeling a little overwhelmed, a little wary, and utterly confused, I turn my attention away from the door and to Lucas when he clears his throat. “And now they are official,” he says, his voice and eyes far away.

That they are.





CHAPTER NINE





The downstairs bedroom that I’m given—conveniently located a few rooms over from the office—is nearly twice the size of my bedroom across town. Just like most of the rest of the house, it has wall to wall bamboo flooring and smells like lemon cleaner. Unlike the remainder of the house, there’s a high, cathedral ceiling with skylights. Lucas explains that this is the record executive’s college-aged daughter’s room as he slides my bags in the closet. He’d insisted on going to the front of the house and grabbing them for me, telling me how he prefers to bother the housekeepers with as little as possible. When I argued with him that I was capable of carrying my own shit, he gave me a frigid, piercing look.

I’d lunged for the suitcase anyway.

“You’re not even halfway into our agreement, Sienna,” he said, plucking the bag from my hands and stalking toward my bedroom. If I hadn’t followed closely behind him, I wouldn’t have heard him add, “And I already want to punish you for not showing up on time, so don’t f*cking push me.”

Drawing my mind away from how the authority in his voice had made my face tingle, how I wasn’t sure if it was from nervousness or irritation, I clear my throat and say, “If you’re staying in their house, where are they?” Whoever they are.

He sits down on the sofa at the food of the bed. “Artie Morgan, the owner, and his new wife are vacationing in Ireland and his daughter’s at school. Vanderbilt student,” he says. I’m not sure I like the fact that I’m holing up in a room that belongs to someone who may potentially know my little brother. I make a move to sit down, but Lucas shakes his head slowly to each side. “Not a chance. You’ve got work to do, Sienna. No sitting on your ass.”

Seething, I return with him to the plush office a few doors over. “Stand there,” he orders, pointing to an area in front of the desk. Lucas seems pleased that I comply without as much as a whimper. “You read the instructions, right?” he asks, digging in one of the desk drawers in search of something. His unkempt hair flops over his face. It gives him an almost vulnerable look, and my fingers tingle to touch the part of his forehead and cheeks it brushes.

I’ll save wants like this, ideas like wanting him, for when I go to sleep and keep them far away from my reality.

“From cover to cover,” I answer.

“Good, these are yours,” Lucas says. He hands me a small Best Buy bag, and I reach out and take it. Our fingertips skim, causing the hair on my arms and nape to stand on end.

I focus all my attention on the contents of the bag—a cell phone and a Samsung tablet—so I don’t spend too much time dwelling on his easy effect on my body. “Mine to keep?”

He deadpans. “I’m giving you a house. Don’t push your luck, Sienna.”

“What do you want me to do now?” I ask.

His mouth draws up into a grin. Oh, he’s got me right where he wants me and he’s abso-f*cking-lutely loving it. I curse at myself for ever showing my timid nature around him two years ago, yell at myself for showing balls for long enough to go on his radar. When I return his look—an expression that makes my face hurt—his smile fades. He gestures his head toward the leather couch.

“Sit down, Si, and take those god-awful chopsticks out of your hair.”