That's How it Happens

17. Terms of Engagement

Ainsley smiled as she stepped onto the sanded path leading to the guest house. It was narrow, winding, and perpetually unfinished – like most things her mother deemed "not worth the aesthetic." It had been paved with intention but never with follow-through. The only time it saw use was when Victoria wanted to exile Aunt Kate, until she discovered Kate was hosting cocktail orgies with "deplorable men" (Victoria's words, not hers). After that, Kate was kept close, like a misbehaving pet with a martini.

Had Ainsley known the guest house was an option, she would've claimed it herself on day one. But now Leo had it, and that was... irritating.

Behind her, a twig snapped. Then came the scuffle of a boot, followed by a muttered curse. The sounds had started five minutes into their walk, like a tragic soundtrack to his suffering. She grinned. Mr. I'm-so-loved-by-all was not loving his moonlit exile, and the Cheshire grin spread across her face like butter on a warm bread.

"You okay back there?" she called sweetly, resisting the urge to do the 'I told you so' dance. That would come later. With choreography.

Another huff. A luggage wheel snagged. A box hit the ground. Another curse. It was a symphony of incompetence, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"Are we there yet?" he grumbled.

Third time. Twenty-minute walk. She was counting.

The path took ten minutes in daylight. At night, with only her phone flashlight and Leo dragging what sounded like a full wardrobe, it felt like a pilgrimage. What had happened to the solar lights? She peeked back and rolled her eyes. He was slower than molasses and twice as dramatic. Honestly, this served him right. She wasn't sure why she was mad at him, but she was definitely salty. The only comfort was knowing he'd thought he was outsmarting Victoria. Joke's on him – he'd been banished.

"Are you sure you're not lost, doll?"

She stopped. Whirled. Stared.

"Would you stop calling me that?" she snapped, stomping her foot.

His brow lifted. "Does that make you feel better?"

It didn't. Not even a little. Her skin flushed hot with embarrassment, but underneath it was something heavier. Anger. Frustration. Maybe something else.

"No," she said. "But it's better than what I'd like to do."

He tilted his head, studying her. "And what would you like to do to me... doll?"

The way he said it – low, slow, with that maddening smirk – sent her brain straight to places it didn't belong. Somewhere that could possibly be defined as inappropriate.

"Punch you," she whispered. But even she didn't believe it.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. He rocked back on his heels, stared at her for a beat too long, then moved past her like nothing had happened.

"You're so violent," he muttered. "Maybe get that head of yours checked."

"This is your fault," she told him.

"Of course, it is. Move, I'm exhausted."

He bumped her shoulder with a bag. Then her back. She gasped.

"Quit acting like such a baby," she hissed.

They would've been there by now if he hadn't packed like he was moving in. Why had he brought so much? He was usually a light packer. Something was off.

"You know," he said breathlessly, "Annabelle suits you just right."

She froze. "What did you say?"

He didn't answer. Of course, he didn't. So she did the only thing she could – she ran ahead and blocked his path.