Resonance of Stars (Greenstone Security #5) - Anne Malcom Page 0,30

of the world. Things he didn’t want to be good at, but he was nonetheless. Then he was contracted to a part of the military that technically didn’t exist, doing things that never happened.

It fucked him up, you could say. Fucked him up so bad that he knew he’d never be able to live simply. Never be able to wake up and marvel at those Montana sunrises. Never be able to look his mother in the eye and pretend to be the son she used to have.

Good thing he met the right people and Keltan gave him the job, one that satisfied him. Or at least distracted him from how fucked up he really was. How much he missed home.

He went for holidays, Christmas, birthdays, but never for long. There was always a time limit on his stays, when whispers would sneak into his dreams, reminding himself of what he’d done, who he was now. Work was a good excuse. He knew it hurt his mother, worried his father, amused his grandmother, and pissed off his brother. But it was what it was.

Fuck, he’d never even told them he’d almost died in a hospital after getting shot by Lexie’s stalker. No way would he put that on their shoulders. He’d chosen this life and he wasn’t going to subject his family to it.

He hadn’t wanted to come here, to pretend once more, especially with a woman he didn’t like, but it was for the greater good. He could control shit here. Even after all these years, he knew the land like the back of his hand.

He’d been dreading bringing Anastasia to his family, only to watch them pretend to like her and silently judge him thinking this was the woman he’d picked to bring home to his family.

But then she’d surprised him.

To say the fucking least.

Upon setting her thousand-dollar shoes in the dirt of his home, she’d turned from ice-queen bitch to...a total goof.

The change jarred him, amused him, and hit him right in his fucking dick. And he continued watching her with his grandmother, get drunk off two margaritas—but two of his grandmother’s margaritas equaled about five anywhere else—and spout a story about how they met.

All of it was true, but seen through a different lens. A different woman. One that he would be fucking happy to bring home to his family, into his bed.

Then she’d changed, put on that mask again. She was playing the bitch. It was the best role of her life, but she was a goof underneath.

He liked that.

He liked that she snored quietly in her sleep, and had rolled over and clung to him like a barnacle after she drifted off.

Duke was not a cuddler. When girls stayed the night—when he’d had a girlfriend that stayed over—he’d wait for them to sleep before he gently extricated them. He couldn’t sleep while being touched, barely handled a woman in the bed. Which was why his relationships never lasted long.

But for whatever reason—exhaustion surely—before he could think about getting Anastasia off him, he’d passed the fuck out.

And woke up in an empty bed.

Late.

He knew this because his internal clock told him so, as did the late morning light peeking through a crack in the curtains.

It amused and surprised him that Anastasia’s side of the bed was neatly made up. It still smelled like her. Not that expensive perfume she wore. No, just her.

She was neat. That was a surprise. He’d clocked her as a spoiled bitch who was so used to having someone clean up after her she’d forgotten how.

But the bed was made.

Her suitcase was propped away, closed, no clothes strewn about.

Once he’d gotten up and gone to the bathroom, he saw her products neatly lined up. A fuck of a lot of expensive bottles. She’d lined his up too. Not that there were a lot of them. But they were expensive. LA had rubbed off on him.

Duke felt that in his dick too. Their things on the same counter, toothbrushes beside each other.

It was fucking insane.

He’d never felt the urge for domestic shit. Not once. And especially not with her.

Something to do with being home. Seeing his parents. Playing the part of a couple.

That must’ve been it.

He tried to convince himself of that.

“You’re up,” his grandmother exclaimed. “I was worried that you’d never come out.”

She was already handing him coffee, steaming from the fresh pot she’d no doubt brewed because she somehow knew he was awake. The walls were thick here, the house was