Chapter Twelve
1315 Words
Chapter Twelve
“Your knees are bleeding,” Sylvester said, around a forkful of macaroni and cheese.
Adalia glanced down at the drying blood and didn’t say a word.
“You want to tell me what happened, girl?” her father asked, dropping his fork into his plate and scooching up on the couch. He was in the living room again, with that blanket draped around his shoulders and a TV dinner clutched between his wrinkled hands.
The illness had aged him over a matter of weeks, and it set off an ache in Adalia’s chest. There was too much guilt to bear. She’d failed her business, her father, and now Trent. Hell, she’d even failed DeShawn on some level, though that seemed a bit of a stretch.
“Adalia,” her father barked, and she straightened. She dropped her fork and pushed the tray away onto the coffee table. The TV was on mute for once, and there were no high speed chases blaring in the silence. Only a news reporter.
There’d been a shooting in the neighborhood and an unarmed innocent person was hurt. Anger gripped her, and she gestured to the set to distract Sylvester.
“Yeah, that’s been running all day. But I’m more concerned about how you injured yourself, right now.” He stabbed a macaroni tube and waved it at her on the end of his fork.
“There was an accident at the shop.”
“An accident?” He grunted, then popped the macaroni into his mouth and chewed noisily. “What kind of accident?”
“The kind that breaks glass, Dad, it’s not important.” Adalia picked up her tray again and wrestled her macaroni around with her fork.
“You’re not telling me something.” Sylvester leaned back and studied her over his empty plate. “There’s no point keeping it inside, Adalia. You need to talk and I’m here for you.”
“Here for me? Dad, you’re hardly ‘here’ for yourself. How can I possibly ask you to support me when you’ve got enough trouble as it is?” She grabbed his empty tray and took it to the kitchen with her full one.
“Everything is fine,” he grumbled from the living room, but she didn’t go back in. Sylvester Montclair was determined to refuse her help, financially, emotionally and in any other way, yet he put pressure on her to open up.
It was ridiculous.
The doorbell rang, and she swore under her breath. She wasn’t in the mood for DeShawn. Adalia stomped off down the hall, then straightened her blouse and opened the door.
“Hi,” Trent said, standing with his hands tucked behind his back, chest pushed out. Purpling bruises ran up the side of his jaw and his cheek, but he didn’t seem bothered.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, gripping the doorjamb. Trent had been furious after the fight. She’d expected him to avoid her, maybe even tell her that she wasn’t welcome in his bakery anymore. He’d gone on so much about it being ‘his shop’.
“May I come inside?” He didn’t move, simply waited, the picture of patience, the complete opposite from the afternoon.
Adalia didn’t reply, but stepped back from the door. He entered, and his footsteps resounded on the wooden floor. She glanced out into the empty street, illuminated by flickering neon light.
Trent brought his hands to the front and swung them at his sides for a moment, then frowned and held them still. “I don’t agree with what happened today.”
“I said I was sorry. Look, I didn’t invite DeShawn there. I told him to leave even before you came in,” she murmured, brushing a bit of macaroni off her skirt. “But then again, you did fight him. You didn’t have to do that.”
“There are only so many times I can put up with a certain type of behavior before I snap.” He unbuttoned his jacket and left it hanging open. He dressed casually... at least it was casual for him, with a tight white shirt, jacket and jeans that clung to his thighs.
“I know DeShawn can be irritating, but –”
“I’m not talking about DeShawn’s behavior.” Trent silenced her without motion. The words were more than enough.
“What? My behavior?” Adalia’s attitude soured instantly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You continue to allow that man back into your space. You know his presence in your life is detrimental, yet you allow it,” Trent replied, his speech business-like, clipped off. He kept his distance. The heat between them was non-existent.
“I don’t allow anything. I can’t control him,” she insisted, poking her palm with her fingernail. The jabs of pain kept her grounded.
“Clearly. That or you don’t want him out of your life.” Trent sneered.
“Stop it. I don’t want DeShawn interfering. I’ve asked him multiple times to butt out, but he won’t listen. Like I said, I can’t control him.” Adalia walked through to the kitchen and took out two coffee mugs. He followed, but she didn’t watch him. She didn’t want him to see how happy she was that he was in the house. The way she felt about him made Adalia feel pathetic. Why was it like this? This was worse than a crush, or even love... it was an addiction.
She clicked the switch on the coffee maker and it bubbled to life.
“You making coffee, girl?” her father called from the living room.
“Yes, I’ll bring some in for you in a moment.” She took out an extra mug, and Trent pressed against her back, then ran his hands up her arms and rested them on her shoulders, with his thumbs at the base of her neck.
“I have a proposition for you,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck with the tip of his nose.
“Now is definitely not the time to proposition me, if you know what I mean,” she answered, jerking her head in the direction of the living room.
Trent chuckled then nipped her neck, sending shivers down her spine. “That’s not what I meant.”
Adalia frowned and brought the sugar out, then placed the bowl on the counter and turned to him. He didn’t back off right away, but lingered in her space, consuming her gaze with his.
“What do you mean proposition? I’m still in the middle of your last proposition and that’s only led to a broken window.” She braced her palms on the counter.
Trent stepped away. “I don’t like the thought of DeShawn coming by here and causing trouble for you and your father.”
“That’s really none of your business.”
His laugh was throaty, like an old-time villain from a movie where the woman gets tied to the train tracks. “You’re my partner. Of course it’s my business.”
Adalia spooned sugar into the mugs. “What’s the proposition?”
“I want you to move into one of my apartments. Rent won’t be much and you can stay there without a deposit or paying anything until the bakery takes off.” Trent spread his arms and shrugged. “What do you say?”
Adalia dropped the spoon into a cup and blinked, staring at the backyard. This could be her answer to everything. She could get out of her father’s house, help him save money on groceries, and get rid of DeShawn all at once.
But it was too much. What if he wanted something in return for the favor? And this was kind of like a handout.
“I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t charity. I’ll expect you to pay the deposit and first month’s rent back to me, once we get the ball, or should I say croissant, rolling at the bakery.” Trent was dead serious.
She spun on the spot to answer him then froze. Sylvester Montclair was in the doorway, blanket gone and back straight. He glared at Trent, who met his gaze without blinking.
“Absolutely not,” her father growled. “You’re not living with this guy.”
“Dad, it’s not like that, and anyway, this isn’t your decision to make.” Adalia strode forward, but Sylvester held out a hand to her.
“Not my decision. Hah, guess you’re right about that, girl. It’s not like you owe me anything.” And with that, he disappeared into the living room.
- Writer
