"Sandra back from vacation?"

Sebastian shakes his head and shovels more pasta into his mouth.

His twin jerks his head toward me. "She cooked."

"She has a name," I say curtly. "And you're welcome for dinner. Ungrateful jerks." I mutter that last part under my breath as I stalk out of the kitchen.

Instead of going back to my room, I find myself wandering into the library. Callum showed it to me the other day, and I'm still in awe of the sheer amount of books in the room. The built-in bookshelves go all the way up to the ceiling, and there's an old-timey ladder you can use to reach the top shelves. On the other side of the room is a cozy sitting area with two overstuffed chairs positioned in front of a modern fireplace.

I don't feel like reading, but I flop down in one of the chairs anyway, breathing in the scent of leather and old books. As my gaze moves to the fireplace mantle, my heart speeds up. Photographs line the stone ledge, and one in particular snags my attention. It's a shot of a young-looking Callum in a Navy uniform, with his arm slung over the shoulder of a tall, blond man also in uniform.

I think it's Steve O'Halloran. My father.

I stare at the man's chiseled face, the blue eyes that seem to twinkle with mischief as they meet the camera lens. I have his eyes. And my hair is the same shade of blond.

When footsteps echo behind me, I turn to see Easton stride into the library.

"I heard you tried to kill my brother today," he drawls.

"He had it coming." I turn my back to him again, but he comes up beside me, and from the corner of my eye I see that his profile is harder than stone.

"Let's be straight with each other. Did you really think you'd show up here on our father's arm and we'd all be cool with it?"

"I'm not on your father's arm. I'm his ward."

"Yeah? Look me in the eye and tell me you're not fucking my dad."

For God's sake. Gritting my teeth, I meet his surly gaze head-on and say, "I'm not fucking your dad. And ew for even suggesting it."

He shrugs. "It's not a stretch. He likes 'em young."

That's obviously a reference toward Brooke, but I don't comment on it. My gaze travels back to the picture on the mantle.

Easton and I go silent, for so long I wonder why he's even still here.

"Uncle Steve was a baller," he finally says. "Chicks dropped their panties when that dude walked into a room."

Double ew. That is not something I ever wanted to know about my father.

"What was he like?" I ask reluctantly.

"He was all right, I guess. We didn't spend much time with him. He was always holed up in my dad's study. The two of them would sit there talking for hours." Easton sounds bitter.

"Aw, your daddy liked my daddy better than you? Is that why you hate me so much?"

He rolls his eyes. "Do yourself a favor and stop provoking my brother. If you keep getting in his face, you're just gonna get hurt."

"Why bother with the warning? Isn't that what you want, for me to get hurt?"

He doesn't answer. He just steps away from the mantle and leaves me in the library, where I continue to stare at my father's picture.

I wake up at midnight to the sound of hushed voices in the hallway outside my bedroom door. I'm groggy as hell, but alert enough to recognize Reed's voice, and even though I'm lying down, my knees actually feel weak.

I haven't seen him since our fight in the car earlier. When he got back from dinner with Callum, I was already locked up in my room again, but judging by the angry footsteps and slamming door, I'm pretty sure dinner didn't go so well.

I don't know why I slide out of bed, or why I tiptoe toward my door. Eavesdropping isn't really my style, but I want to know what he's saying and who he's saying it to. I want to know if it's about me, and maybe that's really conceited, but I still need to know.

"...practice in the morning." It's Easton talking now, and I press my ear to the door to try to hear more clearly. "...agreed to cut down during the season."

Reed mutters something I can't make out.

"I get it, okay? I'm not crazy about her being here either, but that's no reason to..." Easton's sentence cuts out.

"It's not about her." I hear that loud and clear, and I don't know whether I'm relieved or disappointed that whatever they're discussing doesn't involve me.

"...then I'm coming with you."

"No," Reed says sharply. "...going alone tonight."

He's going somewhere? Where the hell is he going this late, and on a school night? Worry tugs at my gut, which almost makes me laugh, because all of a sudden I'm worrying about Reed Royal, the guy I attacked in the car earlier?

"Now you sound like Gid," Reed accuses.

"Yeah, well, maybe you..."

Their voices go hushed again, which is so fricking frustrating because I know I'm missing something important.

I'm tempted to fling open the door and stop Reed from doing whatever he's about to do, but it's too late. Two sets of footsteps echo in the hall, and a door clicks shut. Then it's just one set of footsteps, barely audible as they descend the stairs.

A few minutes later, a car engine rumbles from the courtyard, and I know Reed is gone.

14.

The next morning I find Reed in the driveway leaning against Easton's truck. He's dressed in sneakers, long gym shorts, and a muscle tee that is open at the sides, and looking hotter than any jerk has the right to. A baseball cap is pulled low over his forehead.

I look around, but the black Town Car is nowhere in sight. "Where's Durand?"

"You planning on going to the bakery?"

"You planning on burning it down so I don't tarnish the Royal name by working there?"

He grumbles in annoyance.

I grumble back.

"Well?" he mutters.

I scowl at him. "Yes, I'm going to work."

"I've got football practice, so if you want a ride, I suggest getting in the car because otherwise you're going to be walking." He opens the passenger door and then stomps to the driver's side.

I look for Durand again. Dammit, where is he?

When Reed guns the engine, I start moving. What harm can he really do in a twenty-minute ride?

"Buckle up," he snaps.

"I just got in. Give me a minute." I cast my eyes upward and say a tiny prayer for patience. Reed doesn't take off until I'm all buckled in. "Do you have male PMS or are you just in a shitty mood twenty-four/seven?"

He doesn't answer.

I hate myself for it, but I can't stop looking at him. Can't stop sweeping my eyes over the side of his movie-star face, his perfect ear that is framed by his dark hair. All the Royals have varying shades of brown hair. Reed's runs closer to chestnut.

In profile, his nose has a tiny bump on it and I wonder which of his brothers broke it for him.

It's really not fair how hot this guy is. And he's got this whole bad boy vibe that I'm not usually into, but for some reason it makes him even hotter. I guess I like bad boys.

Wait, what the hell am I thinking? I don't like bad boys, and I don't like Reed. He's the biggest asshole I've ever- "Why are you staring at me?" he asks in annoyance.

I push away all my crazy thoughts and counter, "Why not?"

"Like the way I look, do you?" he taunts.

"Nope, just committing to memory the profile of a jackass. You know, so if I'm ever called upon to draw one in art, I'll have some inspiration," I reply airily.

He grunts and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. For the first time in his presence, I start to relax.

The rest of the trip passes quickly, almost too quickly. I feel a tiny kernel of disappointment when the bakery comes into view, which is all sorts of fucked up because I don't like this guy.

"You driving me every day or just this morning?" I ask when he brakes in front of the French Twist.

"Depends. How long you planning on keeping up the charade?"

"It's not a charade. It's called earning a living."

I get out of the truck before he can manage another stupid and mean retort.

"Hey," he calls after me.

"What?" I turn around, and that's when I get my first full look at his face this morning. My hand flies up to cover my mouth. The left side of his face, a part that I now realize he kept shaded from me the entire ride, is bruised. His lip is puffy. There's a gash over his eye and a bruise on the upper edge of his cheek. "Oh my God, what happened to you?"

I raise my fingers to his face, not realizing that my feet carried me from the bakery back to the truck.

He jerks away from my touch. "Nothing."

My hand falls uselessly to my side. "It doesn't look like nothing."

"It is to you."

Grim faced, he speeds off, leaving me behind to wonder what he did last night and why he called me over just now if he wasn't planning on saying anything important. I do know one thing. If I got hit that hard in the face, I'd be pissy the next morning, too.

Despite my better judgment, I worry about Reed throughout my morning shift at the bakery. Lucy casts me some concerned looks but since I work hard like I'd promised, she doesn't say anything.

After my shift, I hurry off to school, but I don't see Reed. Not on the path leading to the gym, not in the halls, and not even at lunch. It's like he doesn't even go to Astor Park.

And when classes are over, it's the big Town Car that's waiting for me. Durand's holding the door impatiently, so I can't even loiter in the parking lot. It's better this way, I tell myself. No good can come from thinking about Reed Royal.

I lecture myself all the way home, but as we pull through the wrought-iron gates, Durand gives me something else to think about.

"Mr. Royal would like to see you," his double bass voice informs me when the car comes to a stop at the front steps.

I sit there like a dummy as I process that Mr. Royal means Callum. "Um, okay."

"He's in the pool house."

"The pool house," I repeat. "Am I being called to the principal's office, Durand?"

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "Don't think so, Ella."

"That's not very encouraging."

"Want me to drive you around some more?"

"Will he still want to see me?"

Durand nods.

"Then I better go." I sigh dramatically.

The corner of his eyes lift slightly in what is considered a broad smile for him.