Heart Bones - Colleen Hoover Page 0,42

opinion on his house, but it’s hard not to notice how unlived-in it feels.

Samson shrugs like my opinion of his house doesn’t bother him. “It’s a rent house. They’re all like this. Very generic.”

“It’s so clean.”

“People sometimes rent at the last minute. It’s easier for me if I keep the houses rent-ready.” Samson walks to his refrigerator and opens it, waving a hand inside. The refrigerator is mostly empty, aside from a few condiments in the door. “Nothing in the fridge. Nothing in the pantry.” He closes the refrigerator door.

“Where do you keep your food?”

He motions toward a closet near the stairs that lead to the top floor. “We keep the stuff we don’t want renters to have access to in that closet. There’s a small fridge in it.” He points to a backpack next to the door. “Everything else I own I keep in that backpack. The less I have, the easier it is for me to move between our properties.”

I’ve seen him with the backpack a couple of times but thought nothing of it. It’s kind of ironic that we both carry our lives around in a backpack, despite the vast difference of wealth between us.

I glance up near the door, at a picture on the wall. It’s the only thing in the house that has any character. I walk over to it. It’s a photo of a young boy, about three years old, walking on the beach. A woman is behind him, wearing a flowy white dress. She’s smiling at whoever is taking the photo. “Is this your mother?” It reminds me of those perfect sample photos they place in frames before they’re purchased.

Samson nods.

“So that’s you? As a toddler?”

He nods again.

His hair is so blond in the picture, it’s almost white. It’s darkened since he was a child, but I’d still consider his hair blond. I don’t know if it’s this blond in the winter, though. It seems to be the kind of hair that changes color with the seasons.

I wonder what Samson’s father looks like, but there aren’t any photos of him. This is the only photo in this section of the house.

I have so many more questions as I stare at the picture. His mother seems happy. He seems happy. I wonder what happened to him to make him so private and withdrawn? Did his mother die? I doubt he’d elaborate on anything if I were to ask him.

Samson flips on more lights and leans against his kitchen counter. I don’t know how he can appear so casual when all of my muscles are tight with tension. “Your leg feel better?” he asks.

I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about the picture or his mother or anything else that would be another layer deep. I walk into the kitchen and stand across from him, leaning against the large center island. It’s the kitchen island Cadence was sitting on a few nights ago when I watched him kiss her.

I push that thought out of my head. “It feels a little better. I doubt I’ll get in the water again, though.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Rarely happens.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said earlier, and then it happened.”

He smiles.

It makes me want our moment back. I want to feel how I felt when he pulled me to him and kissed my shoulder. I don’t know how to get there, though. It’s so bright in here. The atmosphere is different than it was when we were in the water.

I think maybe I don’t like his house.

“How’s your face?” I ask him.

He runs a hand across his jaw. “My jaw hurts worse than my nose.” He lowers his hand and grips the counter at his sides. “That was nice of your dad.”

“You think him attacking you was nice?”

“No. I thought the way he protected you was nice.”

I hadn’t really thought about that. My father didn’t even think twice when he heard me asking someone to stop. But I’m not sure it’s specifically because it was me. He would have protected anyone in that situation, I’m sure.

“Where do you go when this house gets rented out?” I ask, steering the conversation away from my father.

“We only keep four rented out at a time, so I always have somewhere to stay. This one is the most expensive, so it gets rented the least. I’m here seventy-five percent of the time.”

I glance around me, trying to find something else like the picture that would give me a hint into his past. There’s