Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)

“You know, honey. We’re just concerned about you.” Mom sits across the kitchen table, hands folded in her lap, wearing a look that implores me to confess. “ Rick’s concerned about you.”

“Right,” I drawl. “So concerned that he can’t leave the garage long enough to have a conversation about it.’” For someone who takes conspiracy theories as gospel, Rick’s surprisingly adept at manipulating my mother. A planted seed here or there inevitably grows into a weed that I’ll have to deal with later.

She shakes her head. “I’m serious, Poppy. I don’t know whatever those rich kids at your school partake in, but I will not have a daughter that’s strung out on drugs. Just because you’re eighteen –”

“I am not strung out on drugs.” It’s about the fifth time I’ve repeated this, and I can feel my patience wearing thin with every new attempt.

“Rick says you’ve been paranoid and argumentative since you got here. You hole up in your room or spend hours outside the house doing God knows what.”

“Rick has no idea what he’s talking about.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, and I can tell I’ve triggered the defensive Rick reflex. “I know you’re upset, Poppy, but you don’t need to speak about your step-father that way. I trust his opinion –”

“Over mine?”

She pauses. “Now that’s not what I –”

“You either believe Rick or you believe me.” I hate leaning into the Rick-or-me debate, mostly because I’m not always sure I’ll come out on top, but there are certain times when it’s necessary.

Mom sighs and rubs at the bridge of her nose, the shadows under her eyes all the more apparent. “Poppy.”

“I know Rick is concerned –” That sentence tastes foreign on my tongue. “– but I’m not on drugs. I hole up in my room to draw. I go to the public library so I can finish college applications, and I don’t need to be impaired to butt heads with Rick.”

Mom sighs again, and I think I’ve worn her down, but then she says, “It’s not just him who’s concerned.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

She stretches one hand across the table and lays it over mine. “Well, I wasn’t sure if I should say something, but…there’s something different about you, honey. I don’t know what, but when I look at you, I can tell. You’re not the same girl I saw last summer. You look…” Her brown eyes peer into my identical ones. “Haunted.”

For a brief moment, some of my composure slips, and I worry that she’ll tap into some sort of motherly intuition and read it all on my face – the way I lied to get into Lionswood, the secrets I’ve kept about Mickey’s death, my fucked up relationship with Adrian –

And then the screen door slams open.

“Where’s my stash?” Rick stomps into the kitchen, red-faced and frowning, and the moment with Mom slips away.

“Honey?” Mom asks.

Rick stops short of the table. “My smokes. They’re gone. I want to know where they are.” His glare flickers between us, no doubt trying to decide which of us makes a better culprit: the wife who’s vehement he stop smoking or the teenager he’s pissed off.

Some of Mom’s concern sours. “That’s what you’re all up in arms about? Your cigarettes?”

Rick huffs. “They’re all gone. You know I keep them in the garage.”

“Well, I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

Rick ignores her and turns his glower in my direction. “You. Kid. Did you take them?”

“How would I know?” I roll my eyes. “I’m on too many drugs, remember?”

He points a meaty finger at me. “Don’t get smart with –”

“Alright, alright,” Mom interjects. “Rick, that’s enough. You’ve been tryin’ to quit, haven’t you? Now’s as good a time as any. We don’t have room in the budget for them anyway.”

As Rick opens his mouth to argue, there’s a sharp knock on the screen door.

Mom frowns and heaves herself out of the kitchen chair. “That better not be Debbie lookin’ for something else to borrow.”

As Mom’s footsteps shuffle across the fake hardwood, I bask in the fleeting satisfaction that – while I might’ve had to spend the last hour-and-a-half having to explain myself – I’m not the one that has to quit smoking.

So, when I catch Rick’s gaze, I can’t help but wink.

Have fun with those nicotine withdrawals.

His eyes widen to a hilarious degree. “You –”

“Sweetheart.”

Every ounce of my smug attitude vanishes as I turn, the world tilting with me, and find Adrian Ellis following my mother into the kitchen.

“Poppy,” Mom says in a tone that promises retribution in private. “You didn’t tell me your boyfriend was coming to visit.”

***

My head hasn’t stopped spinning for five minutes.

Perched comfortably on our flea market couch, Adrian Ellis admires the secondhand HomeGoods decor like it’s art and not a sign that says This house runs on gratitude and kindness in big, cursive font. “Your home is lovely, Ms. Davis.”

I’m not sure why that particular pleasantry feels like a stiff kick to the ribs. Maybe it’s because I know, despite his practiced smile, there’s nothing lovely about this place.

No matter how clean, the trailer’s too small to be anything but eternally cluttered, and there’s so much smoke residue clinging to the walls, it’s a wonder Mom and I don’t also suffer nicotine withdrawals whenever our lungs come in contact with fresh air.

Currently, the only lovely thing in here are the fresh sunflowers on the kitchen table, the ones Adrian brought with him.

And from the way her mouth tightens around the corners, I think Mom realizes this too. “It’s not much, I know.”

“Well, your couch is about a hundred times more comfortable than the floating leather sectional my mother insisted on importing from Tajikistan,” he tells her, leaning back into the stained cushions. “And much better back support too, it seems.”

The comment has the intended effect, Mom’s shoulders immediately loosening and her smile turning a touch more genuine. “Well, aren’t you a charmer?” She teases. “And handsome too. Not that I’d expect anything less – my daughter takes after her mama.” She laughs, but I don’t miss the way her gaze lingers on his sharp jawline or the broad shoulders currently straining against his white linen shirt.

My jaw clenches, and I fight the sudden urge to snap: Don’t look at him. He’s mine.

But I don’t – not even as Mom teases him about how much she loves sunflowers.

“…as I said, you’ll have to excuse the mess.” Mom chides Rick about the stray beer cans littered on a side table. “I had no idea we’d be entertainin’ guests…” She shoots a withering glare in my direction.

“Oh, please, don’t blame Poppy,” Adrian interjects. “She truly had no idea I was intending to visit.” His eyes meet mine, and it suddenly feels like all the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room, and I can no longer remember why I should be angry with him. “And I completely understand how innapropriate this all must seem, Ms. Davis. If you’d like me to leave –”

“Oh, no, no, no,” she laughs. “Not at all. We’re just a ‘lil surprised, that’s all. Right, Rick?”

Five-and-a-half minutes.

That’s how long it’s taken Adrian to charm my mother into overlooking the fact that a stranger has shown up on her porch with no notice and asked to be invited inside.

Rick looks like the last thing in the world he wants to do is agree with Mom, but he crosses both burly arms over his barrel chest and mutter a very unconvincing, “Right.”

“Well, thank you for having me.” Adrian’s smile shines almost as bright as his brown Hermès loafers.

Mom’s eyes are drawn straight to them. “What did you say your last name was again?”

“Ellis, ma’am.”

“Ellis?” She turns to Rick. “Why does that sound familiar to me? It’s like…” Her eyes widen, her back straightens, her mouth gapes open. “Jesus! I’ve seen your mother’s interviews in People magazine.” Her face lights up like I’ve brought home a shiny new toy. “…and you’re dating my Poppy.”

“I am, ma’am.”

She throws her head back and laughs, then steps close enough to squeeze his shoulder. “Oh, there’s no need for any of that! You can call me Mae.”

I cringe, unable to tell what’s worse: that Adrian has now met my mother or that my mother’s now met Adrian.

***

By the time I manage to pry Adrian from my mother and drag him into my bedroom, the stupor has lifted and my anger returns full-force.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

For someone who’s likely just flown across the country, he looks obnoxiously well-styled and uncreased by the scratchy fabric of an airplane seat.

Adrian pays no mind to the fact that I’m about to blow my top, choosing instead to peruse the knick-knacks stacked on top of my dresser. “I didn’t realize you were such a cute kid,” he says. “Or a fan of Elizabeth Taylor.”

“I’m not.” My cheeks bloom with color as I pluck a photo of me, aged seven and wearing a dark wig too big for my head, from his fingers. “I just thought she was cool.”

And effortlessly elegant in the way that I always wanted to be.

Mom used to have a bunch of her old movies on DVD, so I spent more than enough of my childhood wondering what it’d be like to a live a life that could be told through diamonds just as well it could through stories.

“And your obsession with the color green?” He points to a handful of old sketches taped to the walls, all done in varying shades of green.

I shrug. “There was this specific brand of colored pencils I really wanted as a kid. The green pack was all I could afford.”

Having toured my dresser, he turns his attention to my bed next. “Well, I can see why you never complain about that rickety little bed in your dorm room.” He presses his palm into the mattress, and when the springs loudly protest even a fraction of his weight, he turns to look at me, one eyebrow cocked. “Please tell me you don’t actually sleep on this thing every night.”

It’s this comment in particular that reminds me I’m not the one who should be answering questions right now.

“My bed’s fine,” I snap. “Now, do you need a tour of the rest of my childhood, or can we have a conversation?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind the tour.” Adrian straightens to his full height, and the top of his head nearly brushes the popcorn ceiling.

“I think you’ve had enough of a tour. Why are you here?” Thanks to the trailer’s paper-thin walls, it comes out as more of a whisper than a shout.

It only takes Adrian a millisecond to close the space between us, to slide his hands around my waist, to slot his head into the crook of my neck. “Am I not allowed to miss you?”

It’s almost embarrassing to admit that, after a week without it, his touch scorches more than the Alabama sun ever has.

I sigh. “Adrian –”

His mouth meets my skin. “I think I like it when you say my name like that.”

Unbidden, an image flashes through my head – Adrian’s body pressed into mine, my wrists pinned to the mattress, and me screaming his name.

No, no, not now.

Don’t think about this now.

You’re supposed to be having a conversation.

Still, I allow myself approximately three seconds to soak in the pleasure of the open-mouthed kisses he trails down my neck before pushing him away.

And it takes just about every ounce of my self-control to do so.

“I know what you’re doing,” I tell him, though my voice’s certainly shakier than it was when we started. “And I don’t appreciate it.”

Hands still planted around my waist, he asks, “And what is it I’m doing?”

“You’re trying to distract me,” I say. “And it’s not working.”

Liar, a little voice in the back of my head whispers.

I take another step back, grateful when he doesn’t follow, and suck in a breath. “Why are you here, Adrian?”

He blinks down at me through those long, dark lashes of his. “I told you. I missed you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You missed me so much you didn’t bother even calling or texting once.”

“Well, neither did you.”

“Because I wanted space,” I retort.

“I gave you an entire week of space.”

“It should’ve been three.”

“But I –”

“Wanted to fuck with me,” I cut in. “Why actually give me space when you can just pretend to, then show up at the last second, and invade my home?”

“‘Invade’ is a bit of a strong word, don’t you think?” Amusement curls the corners of his mouth, which tells me exactly how serious he’s taking this conversation.

I shake my head.

That’s how this is going to go?

Fine.

I plaster a smile on my face. “You know what? We don’t need to argue about this.”

“Well, we’re in agreement about that, sweetheart.”

“Good.” My voice turns sickly sweet. “Because if you don’t leave right now, I’m going to walk out of this room, start sobbing, and explain to my mother that you cheated on me. She’ll throw you out herself.”

It’s probably more gratifying than it should be to watch the amusement drain from his face. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” I nod. “And trust me – there won’t be enough sunflowers in the world to charm your way back into her good graces. She despises cheating.” There’s an entire arsenal of shitty ex-boyfriends to thank for that.

Adrian pauses like he’s mulling the proposition over and then says, “Well, I’ll just blame it on the pregnancy hormones.”

I go still. “What?”

He cocks his head to the side, obsidian eyes sparkling. “How disappointed do you think she’d be to learn you’re about to be a teenage mom?”

I know the panic that sparks in my chest is exactly the reaction he’s hoping for, but I can’t help it. “You wouldn’t.”

“I can make just as much of a scene as you can, sweetheart,” he replies. “It only matters which one of us Mae believes first.”

I’d like to say me.

I should, as her daughter, be able to say she’d believe me over the charming boy who waltzed into her home twenty minutes ago.

And I can’t.

Because if there’s one thing I understand about Mae Anne Davis – besides her absolute detest for cheaters – it’s that she absolutely would take the word of a charming stranger over her own daughter’s any day of the week.

Hell, Rick planted the idea in her head that I might be strung out on drugs, and it took nearly an hour-and-a-half to convince her otherwise.

And the reality of that drains every last bit of fight out of me.

“You know,” I finally say. “When you confessed your feelings for me, I joked that we’d have a relationship built on secrets and blackmail, but I’m not sure I actually grasped what that meant at the time.”

“Well, it’s not all blackmail,” he shoots back. “Maybe only fifty-percent.”

“And if I want zero percent? If I don’t want to sit around waiting to see what you’ll do to throw me off-kilter next?” I shake my head, the frustration suddenly pouring out of me like water through a broken dam. “It’s always a power struggle with you. It’s like…I’m never sure if I’m standing on solid ground. And any ground I do get, I have to fight tooth and nail for it because you’re not willing to relinquish an inch.

“Three weeks. That’s all I wanted. Just a few weeks to clear my head, to get a little bit of space, and you couldn’t even give me that.”

“Right,” he drawls, his voice sharpening to a knife point. “And are you sure three weeks would’ve been enough to make yourself believe that what we have isn’t real?”

“That’s not –”

He raises one challenging eyebrow. “That’s what you mean by space, isn’t it, sweetheart? Take some time away. Clear your head. Convince yourself that your feelings for me aren’t genuine.”

My mouth goes dry.

Of course I’d known – or suspected – that Adrian might discern the major reason I wanted to spend break separately, but it feels surprisingly raw to have it laid out so plainly.

“I wasn’t convincing myself of anything,” I argue back. “I just wanted to think, and I wanted to do it in a place that you haven’t already sucked the oxygen out of.”

His mouth thins.

I square my shoulders.

He exhales loudly through his nose.

I cross my arms.

Neither one of us wants to cow under the weight of the other’s displeasure, but after a beat of silence, Adrian breaks the staring match, sighs, and admits, “I don’t know how to do this part.”

“What part?”

Now he’s the one glancing away, his mouth twisted up like I’ve made him swallow piece of sour candy. “The part where I’m not in control.”

It’s a surprisingly truthful answer.

“People are easy, you know. You figure out what they’re looking for – praise, admiration, money, social prestige – and you feed it to them so slowly they never realize they’re eating out of your hand to begin with. But you…”

When he turns and looks at me again, there’s so much intensity swirling in his eyes that I feel rooted to the spot. “I can’t feed you a line. I can’t curate a version of myself that you’ll respond to because you already know exactly who I am. It’s why I’m so drawn to you.

“And now I don’t know what to do with all these…” He shakes his head. “Feelings. You say that I’m standing on solid ground, but you’ve stolen every bit of it right out from underneath me. You have a hold on me that nobody ever has. These three weeks…I couldn’t stand it. All I can think about is you. I can’t stop worrying that if I let you slip through my fingers – even for a moment – you’ll decide you’re done with me, and there will be nothing I can do to convince you otherwise. And it’s terrifying. For the first time in a long time, I am terrified.”

And right here, in his eyes, I swear I catch a glimpse of a much younger, more vulnerable Adrian – one that hasn’t been broken by his family or molded into a manipulator yet.

It zaps me to life with the force of a defibrillator, and before I’ve made the conscious decision to, I’m closing the distance between us and drawing him into my arms.

Well, I try to. He’s so tall that I’m still the one to end up in his embrace, my chin tucked beneath his collarbone and the soft linen of his shirt against my cheek. He responds without hesitation, winding his arms around me and resting his chin on top of my head.

“I’m terrified too,” I murmur, unsure which version of Adrian I intend to comfort.

He huffs into my hair. “After all that, you’re still afraid I’m going to kill you?”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m terrified of. Not anymore. I’m just…”

Terrified that you’re going to consume me till I know nothing else.

Terrified that you may do the same thing you’re so worried I’m going to do: wake up and decide you’re done with me.

“…terrified,” is all I say. “I’m just terrified. That’s all.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t push for specifics.

Maybe it’s just enough to know we’re equally as terrified of each other.

He clears his throat. “But, perhaps, going against your wishes and invading your break wasn’t the best way to go about expressing my fears. I understand if you’d still like me to leave.”

He can’t see my expression – or the way my brows immediately shoot toward my hairline. I’d expected a ceasefire, but this was a full-on retreat.

I open my mouth.

Then close it.

And open it again.

He’s right. I have every right to make him leave, but…

I’m not entirely sure I want to.

Now that we’ve both said our pieces and hugged it out – literally – my anger seems to have mellowed into mild irritation. More than that, I think some tiny, miniscule part of me is secretly thrilled that he’s here.

There’s definitely something wrong with me.

I sigh. “Well, I appreciate the apology and all…” I peel my face from his chest, and, as if anticipating my rejection, his grip tightens – but I only tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “I suppose I can’t kick you out after you came all this way to sleep on our hundred-year-old air mattress. I think it’s still buried in the closet.”

There’s a flicker of relief before he chuckles, any remaining tension melting away. “An air mattress,” he repeats. “You expect me to sleep on an air mattress.”

It’s not a serious offer, but I find plenty of amusement in watching his lip curl upwards in disgust at the idea of it.

“Or the couch,” I tease.

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, as generous as that offer is, I’ve already arranged sleeping arrangements.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. “For the both of us.”