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Authors: Ember Casey
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showing up.”
He flips the hammer in his hand, but he’s not going to convince me that everything is fine and dandy.
“What was going on back there?” I ask.
His blue eyes flash with something intense, but he keeps the smile. “What? You weren’t inspired by the brilliant Edward Carolson?”
No, not particularly—but I have a good reason for hating Carolson. What I don’t understand is why Ward is having this reaction toward the man.
I step into the room, remembering too late that I still have my heels in my hand. Oh well.
“I wasn’t upset enough to leave,” I say. Funny how easy it is to dull those emotions when you’re trying.
“I’m already working fourteen hours a day for that asshole,” he says. “And I’m not the only one. And in comes good old Carolson, talking like he’s been pouring his own blood and tears into this damn place, expecting us to drop everything just so he can feel important. Those people are all the same.”
I stop three feet in front of him. “Those people?”
“Rich fucks. They’re all the same.” He tosses his hammer aside, and it crashes into his toolbox with a clatter that makes me flinch. “Yelling at us if we poor working chumps aren’t doing our menial labor at inhuman speeds, then turning around and forcing us to dress up and go to stupid luncheons designed to make them feel important. Oh, they all act like events like this are their way of showing their appreciation for all of our hard work, but in reality it’s just an excuse for them to show off and look down at all of their loyal little workers.”
Them. Not just Carolson, then. He means all “rich fucks.” No doubt he thinks the same thing about my family. He already believes we ruined this house. Why shouldn’t we be self-serving assholes, too?
Anger flares inside of me at his self-righteousness. From what I’ve seen of him, Ward’s not exactly the master of good behavior. But on the heels of my annoyance comes the shame: haven’t I been a self-serving asshole all my life? When have I really put anyone else before myself?
Ward still looks like he wants to punch something. His eyes have darkened to the color of a raging sea.
“Trust me,” he says. “Spend a few years around people like Carolson and you’ll see.”
Oh, I see. I see all too well. How am I any different than Carolson? When I was in Thailand, supposedly helping other people, I was posing for pictures, playing a part. I helped renovate orphanages for the photo op. So people would look at me and think, “Ah, that Louisa Cunningham actually cares! She’s not spoiled like the rest of them.” I was cultivating the image of Lou, the selfless, kindhearted heiress.
I feel like all the fight has been sucked out of me. Let Ward or anyone else say what they want about me and my family. It’s true. It’s all true. The empty void is yawning in my belly again, and I close my eyes.
“Addison?”
Addison. That’s right. I’m Addison. I need to smile. Laugh. Not get worked up over someone’s passing comments about rich people.
But when I look up at him, the smile freezes before it ever reaches my lips. He’s closer than I thought he was, close enough for me to be able to watch the anger seep out of his eyes. In its place is something else—something that reignites that little pulse of heat deep inside of me.
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s half naked. My eyes drop to his chest. He was working hard enough before I showed up that there’s already a thin layer of sweat on his skin. There’s a dusting of hair on his chest, lighter and redder than the thicker strands growing on his head. The wicked, rebellious part of me wants to reach out and touch it.
“You’re not here to listen to me vent, are you?” he says, and when I lift my face again I find that devilish glint is back in his eyes. “You’re here for something else.”
Am I? Is that really why I came to investigate the hammering?
I want to. It
He flips the hammer in his hand, but he’s not going to convince me that everything is fine and dandy.
“What was going on back there?” I ask.
His blue eyes flash with something intense, but he keeps the smile. “What? You weren’t inspired by the brilliant Edward Carolson?”
No, not particularly—but I have a good reason for hating Carolson. What I don’t understand is why Ward is having this reaction toward the man.
I step into the room, remembering too late that I still have my heels in my hand. Oh well.
“I wasn’t upset enough to leave,” I say. Funny how easy it is to dull those emotions when you’re trying.
“I’m already working fourteen hours a day for that asshole,” he says. “And I’m not the only one. And in comes good old Carolson, talking like he’s been pouring his own blood and tears into this damn place, expecting us to drop everything just so he can feel important. Those people are all the same.”
I stop three feet in front of him. “Those people?”
“Rich fucks. They’re all the same.” He tosses his hammer aside, and it crashes into his toolbox with a clatter that makes me flinch. “Yelling at us if we poor working chumps aren’t doing our menial labor at inhuman speeds, then turning around and forcing us to dress up and go to stupid luncheons designed to make them feel important. Oh, they all act like events like this are their way of showing their appreciation for all of our hard work, but in reality it’s just an excuse for them to show off and look down at all of their loyal little workers.”
Them. Not just Carolson, then. He means all “rich fucks.” No doubt he thinks the same thing about my family. He already believes we ruined this house. Why shouldn’t we be self-serving assholes, too?
Anger flares inside of me at his self-righteousness. From what I’ve seen of him, Ward’s not exactly the master of good behavior. But on the heels of my annoyance comes the shame: haven’t I been a self-serving asshole all my life? When have I really put anyone else before myself?
Ward still looks like he wants to punch something. His eyes have darkened to the color of a raging sea.
“Trust me,” he says. “Spend a few years around people like Carolson and you’ll see.”
Oh, I see. I see all too well. How am I any different than Carolson? When I was in Thailand, supposedly helping other people, I was posing for pictures, playing a part. I helped renovate orphanages for the photo op. So people would look at me and think, “Ah, that Louisa Cunningham actually cares! She’s not spoiled like the rest of them.” I was cultivating the image of Lou, the selfless, kindhearted heiress.
I feel like all the fight has been sucked out of me. Let Ward or anyone else say what they want about me and my family. It’s true. It’s all true. The empty void is yawning in my belly again, and I close my eyes.
“Addison?”
Addison. That’s right. I’m Addison. I need to smile. Laugh. Not get worked up over someone’s passing comments about rich people.
But when I look up at him, the smile freezes before it ever reaches my lips. He’s closer than I thought he was, close enough for me to be able to watch the anger seep out of his eyes. In its place is something else—something that reignites that little pulse of heat deep inside of me.
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s half naked. My eyes drop to his chest. He was working hard enough before I showed up that there’s already a thin layer of sweat on his skin. There’s a dusting of hair on his chest, lighter and redder than the thicker strands growing on his head. The wicked, rebellious part of me wants to reach out and touch it.
“You’re not here to listen to me vent, are you?” he says, and when I lift my face again I find that devilish glint is back in his eyes. “You’re here for something else.”
Am I? Is that really why I came to investigate the hammering?
I want to. It
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