Morning came way too early. Somehow, I dragged myself out of bed and got dressed. I debated if I could get away with skipping hair and makeup but remembered what Xander had said about telling the story so no one else tells it for you.
After what I’d pulled with the press the day before, I couldn’t afford to show weakness.
As I finished donning what I mentally called my battle face, there was a knock at my door. I answered it and saw the maid who Alisa had told me was “one of Nash’s.” She was carrying a breakfast tray. Mrs. Laughlin hadn’t sent one up since my first morning at Hawthorne House.
I wondered what I’d done to deserve this one.
“Our crew deep-cleans the house from top to bottom on Tuesdays,” the maid informed me, once she’d set up the tray. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll start in your bathroom.”
“Just let me hang up my towel,” I said, and the woman stared at me like I’d announced an intention to do naked yoga right there in front of her.
“You can leave your towel on the floor. We’ll be laundering them anyway.”
That just felt wrong. “I’m Avery.” I introduced myself, even though she almost certainly knew my name. “What’s your name?”
“Mellie.” She didn’t volunteer more than that.
“Thank you, Mellie.” She stared at me blankly. “For your help.” I thought about the fact that Tobias Hawthorne had kept outsiders out of Hawthorne House as much as possible. And still, there was an entire crew in to clean on Tuesdays. I shouldn’t have found that surprising. It should have been more surprising that the entire crew wasn’t here cleaning every day. And yet…
I went across the hall to Libby’s room because I knew she would get exactly how surreal and uncomfortable this felt. I knocked lightly, in case she was still sleeping, and the door drifted inward, just far enough for me to catch sight of a chair and ottoman—and the man currently occupying them.
Nash Hawthorne’s long legs were stretched out on the ottoman, his boots still on. A cowboy hat covered his face. He was sleeping.
In my sister’s room.
Nash Hawthorne was sleeping in my sister’s room.
I made an involuntary sound and stepped back. Nash stirred, then saw me. Hat in hand, he slipped out of the chair and joined me in the hallway.
“What are you doing in Libby’s room?” I asked him. He hadn’t been in her bed, but still. What the hell was the oldest Hawthorne brother doing keeping vigil over my sister?
“She’s going through something,” Nash said, like that was news to me. Like I hadn’t been the one to handle Drake the day before.
“Libby isn’t one of your projects,” I told him. I had no idea how much time they’d spent together these past few days. In the kitchen, she’d seemed to find him irritating. Libby doesn’t get irritated. She’s a gothic beam of sunshine.
“My projects?” Nash repeated, eyes narrowing. “What exactly has Lee-Lee been telling you?”
His continual use of a nickname for my lawyer only served to remind me that they had been engaged. He’s Alisa’s ex. He’s “saved” who knows how many members of the staff. And he spent the night in my sister’s room.
This could not possibly end well. But before I could say that, Mellie stepped out of my room. She couldn’t be done with the bathroom yet, so she must have heard us. Heard Nash.
“Mornin’,” he told her.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile—and then she looked at me, looked at Libby’s room, looked at the open door—and stopped smiling.
