One Week Girlfriend (One Week Girlfriend, #1)(26)

I caught Adele snooping around the guesthouse earlier. Peeking in the windows, walking around the entire house. I watched her for a bit, hiding in corners but then I started to get mad. What was she doing? Trying to spy on me? Or was she looking for Drew?

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and threw open the door when I saw her skulking around the front. “Looking for someone?” I asked her, using the snottiest tone I could muster.

She crossed her arms in front of her, elegant as always in a pure white sweater and black leggings. I would look like a slob in a similar outfit. Of course, hers was probably designer and cost tons of money, while my sweater and leggings would come from Wal Mart or Target. “I thought you were gone,” she said.

“Hoping I was gone, I’m sure.” I don’t know where I got the balls to talk to her like that, but I’d had it. The ride home the night before had been a study in torture. No one talked and the tension had been near unbearable. A complete turnaround from the ride to the country club, when Drew and I kissed and he had his hands all over me.

She smirked. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“I figured the feeling was mutual.” I shrug, trying my best to look like I didn’t care, but inside my stomach had churned with nerves.

“You won’t last, you know. You’re not his type.”

I frowned. Of course, I’m not his type. That’s pretty freaking obvious, but I didn’t figure his bitch of a stepmother would so blatantly call me out on it. “And what, exactly, is Drew’s type?”

“Someone more like me.” Her smile grew, like she knew her words socked me straight in the stomach. Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Adele’s answer stuck with me the rest of the day. What the hell did she mean? I didn’t like it. She talks about Drew, looks at Drew, as if he belongs to her. Almost like they’re the ones in the relationship. It’s freaking creepy and makes me wonder if maybe they’ve fooled around in the past.

So gross. And scary. Drew acts like he hates her and that opens up another can of worms in my brain. Lots of what ifs I don’t like thinking about because they’re too ugly to face. It’s none of my business, I tell myself over and over again as I sit alone and wonder.

But he’s brought me into this mess. He’s sort of made it my business, right?

Wrong. Some things are better left alone.

Not if someone’s hurting because of them.

The internal argument battles within me for the rest of the day. Until I’m a total bundle of nerves while I wait anxiously for his return. Where could he be? I know golf games can take forever but nothing like this. And I know he’s with his dad because I’ve kept watch on the damn garage for hours and no one’s returned.

Though Adele left about thirty minutes ago. That freaks me out. What if she went somewhere to meet them?

Crap. I don’t know what to do.

When the door finally opens around seven-thirty, I’m filled with relief. I hear his footsteps echo in the tiled entryway, see him stride by, headed down the hall while I sit in the living area. I have one of those unbelievably soft faux fur throw blankets draped over me and I probably blend in with the couch. He doesn’t notice me, doesn’t bother saying a word.

I chew anxiously on my fingernail, my stomach growling since I never ate dinner. I hear him enter his bedroom and shut the door and I let out a shaky exhale. I was holding my breath and didn’t even realize it.

Not two minutes later he’s out of his room, entering the living area and stopping short when he sees me. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I press my lips together, tell myself to breathe.

“I didn’t see you when I came in.” He looks amazing in a black hooded sweatshirt and khaki cargo shorts, his dark hair ruffled by the wind that seems to be constantly blowing around here. I’d bet a million dollars he has a polo shirt on underneath. Typical golf wear, though he should be wearing pastel plaid shorts and not cargoes. Not that I know anything about golf.

“I’ve been sitting here the entire time.”

He runs his hand over his head and my fingers literally itch to do the same. I remember how silky soft his hair is, how much he liked it when I touched him there. Does he ever really allow anyone to touch him? He tends to move through life all by himself.

That realization fills me with sadness. While I allow an endless, faceless stream of guys to touch me. I crave it because for a brief moment, I feel like someone cares about me. The feeling is always fleeting and I end up as empty as I was before. Sometimes more so.

“I didn’t know where you were all day,” I say to fill the silence since he’s not talking.

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long.” I wonder if it took a lot for him to apologize to me. I bet he doesn’t have to answer to anyone most of the time.

I shrug. I need to act like what he’s done doesn’t bother me. “I’m not your keeper.”

“Yeah, but you’re my guest. I’m sure you were bored all day.” He moves closer to the couch and that’s when the smell hits me.

He reeks of beer. And his eyes are kind of bloodshot, his cheeks ruddy. I bet he’s drunk. My guard goes immediately up and I shove myself into the corner of the couch when he settles down beside me. I hate the smell of beer—crazy, considering I work in a bar.