In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
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“WHO THE FUCK ARE you?” I hear from outside my bedroom door. I blink the sleep away from my eyes and slowly sit up in bed, feeling every ache in my muscles as I do. I clear my throat and it's so dry it hurts. I'd do horrible, horrible things for a glass of water right now. I crawl to the end of the bed and I have to pause while attempting to stand, vertigo rocking me back and forth. Man, I hate getting sick. When I poke my head outside my bedroom door, it's to find Samara staring at Paris with her arms crossed over her chest, and if looks could kill, Paris would kneel over on the spot. I step into the hallway and both green and blue eyes turn to look at me. “Uh, Sammy this is Paris, my roommate, and Paris this is my best friend, Samara,” I say, my voice sounding like it passed through a meat grinder. Samara turns on her heels to properly look at me, her blue eyes widening.
“Oh Ray-Ray,” she says, her voice dropping with concern, “You look like you've been dragged through the depths of the underworld,” I glance down at myself, and she's not wrong. My curls are literally fighting their way out of my ponytail, Paris's shirt is so big it's sliding off one shoulder, and I'm not wearing pants. I open my mouth to thank her for her very astute but unneeded observation when my heart starts beating uncomfortably fast under my ribs and my stomach churns. Oh, no. I make a mad dash to the bathroom, almost falling at the halfway point, and then I'm throwing up the few precious sips of the ginger ale I had last night.
Paris is there in a second, brushing the stray curls out of my face and rubbing my back. “Just let me die,” I say when I'm done, flushing the toilet and leaning back against the wall. Sammy hands me my toothbrush while sending Paris contemplative looks. “Paris is a friend of my mom's. He needed a place to stay for a while,” I tell her before putting the toothbrush in my mouth and scrubbing.
“Paris Rothschild, nice to meet you,” he says, offering her a tattooed hand to shake.
“Mhm,” Samara answers but doesn't shake his hands, and then they're both just silently staring at me as I brush my teeth on the bathroom floor, looking like I've been dragged through the depths of the underworld apparently. I feel the heat that usually accompanies my embarrassment work its way up my neck and into my face. I get up from the floor and go to the sink, rinsing my mouth before turning to face them and then pressing my back against the sink, so I don't fall because my legs feel like jello. I meet Paris's gaze and see that he's already looking at me, his arms folded across his chest and a concerned dip in his eyebrows. My eyes drop to the violets on his neck, and I bite my lips to contain the blush that always appears when he's around.
