18. Austin
Chapter 18
Austin
I snap awake, heart drumming a staccato rhythm against my chest. It's that unsettling prickling of skin, the sense that something isn't quite in its place—and it's not just the cold space beside me in the bed where no one now sleeps. Every morning feels like this now, ever since Skylar Deveraux decided to turn my carefully ordered world on its head.
Padding barefoot down the hallway, the faint aroma of coffee beckons me forward, a call I'm reluctant yet desperate to answer. I’d mainline the shit if I could. When I round the corner into the kitchen, there she is, commandeering the space as if she's always belonged here.
Skylar, in all her irritating glory, stands at the counter, her slender fingers wrapped around the handle of my French press. She’s in Theo’s fucking hoodie—the oversized garment swallowing her frame, the sleeves hanging past her hands, the hem brushing against the curve of her thighs.
Beneath it, barely peeking out from beneath the hem are the world's tiniest sleep shorts. My dick twitches in appreciation.
"Morning, Austin," she greets me, her voice a melody of smug satisfaction. "You look like you've been wrestling with your demons all night."
Her words strike, sharp and unerring, and I bristle at the casual observation. My grip tightens on the back of a chair, wood cool beneath my fingers. "Maybe I have," I retort, unable to keep the bite from my voice. "Some of us have real responsibilities to contend with."
Skylar chuckles, a low, throaty sound. She leans back against the counter, those hazel eyes glinting with a challenge I know all too well. "Is that so? Taking care of your child isn’t a responsibility? Huh."
I loathe how she reads me, how she prods at the edges of my composure with the precision of a surgeon. Yet, I can't help but take the bait, the tension between us crackling. "What I can't stand," I say, stepping closer, "is someone who thinks they can waltz in and claim territory that isn't theirs."
"Is that what this is about?" She tilts her head, studying me, her expression unreadable behind the armor of her confidence. "Territory?"
"Maybe it is." The admission scrapes out raw, more honest than I intend.
"Then mark your boundaries, Austin." Skylar pushes off from the counter, closing the gap until we're nearly toe-to-toe. "But remember, I'm not one to obey 'no trespassing' signs. Besides, aren’t you the one that invited me to live here? Or am I remembering that wrong?"
The air shifts, charged with something dangerous and tempting. For a moment, we're suspended in a standoff, the silence pregnant with the promise of a battle neither of us may be ready to wage.
"Your coffee's getting cold," she says finally, the smirk returning as she steps around me, leaving me to grapple with the disarray of my thoughts and the lingering scent of her defiance.
I pour myself a cup, the black liquid mirroring the turmoil inside of me. Skylar Deveraux might think she has the upper hand, but I'm Austin Rhodes—I don't yield, I conquer. Except, I realize with a jolt of unease, when it comes to her, victory feels perilously like defeat.
I stride into the living room, my steps measured, hoping for some solitude to sort through reports. But of course, she’s there too, lounging on the couch next to Theo. Her laughter is a melody that grates against my resolve. She's everywhere, an omnipresent force in this house.
"Mind if I join you?" The question slips from my lips before I can stop it, each word tasting like a concession.
"By all means," Theo says, his grin wide as he pats the cushion beside him. "Skylar was just telling me about her first time teaching pre-K."
She chuckles and leans into Theo, the camaraderie between them a visible thread that tugs at something deep within me. I nod stiffly, taking a seat on the opposite end, the distance doing little to ease the tension that coils inside me.
The day drags on, a seemingly endless loop of accidental encounters with Skylar. In the hallway, her shoulder brushes against mine, a fleeting contact that sets off sparks. At the dining table, our fingers nearly touch as we both reach for the salt, and she retracts her hand with a smirk, as if she's playing a game only she understands.
As much as I try to ignore it, I can't help but notice the way Theo looks at her. He doesn't bother to hide his desire, his eyes tracing her every move with an intensity that stirs an unwelcome heat in my chest. He’s not bothering to hide that they’re together anymore either. It's not just attraction; it's possession, and the thought of it ignites an unfamiliar rage within me.
And then there's Cohen. Observing them together, I catch the subtle shifts in their interactions: an exchanged glance here, a half-whispered conversation there. They suddenly share a flicker of understanding, a silent language that speaks of something more, something hidden beneath the surface. The tension simmers, potent and unspoken, and it gnaws at me, this suspicion of secrets shared between them that I'm not privy to.
My gaze lingers on Skylar, her hazel eyes alight with mischief as she responds to Cohen's veiled innuendo. There's a dance of words and glances between them, one that suggests a connection that needles at my composure. Something between them has changed, too. And I want to know what.
I retreat to my office, the sanctuary of leather-bound books and polished mahogany offering no relief from the disquiet that has taken root in my mind.
"Damn it," I mutter to myself, staring out the window at the sprawling grounds below. She's under my skin, infiltrating my thoughts, challenging the boundaries I've meticulously erected.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I can still hear her giggling with the kids. This isn’t far enough; it’s not enough distance. So, I head downstairs to the gym I had put in after we moved here.
Each lift, each curl, each controlled breath is an attempt to drown out the chaos Skylar has brought into my life. Sweat trails down my back, a testament to my exertion, the desperate need to expel the frustration that coils inside me like a spring wound too tight.
I'm mid-rep when the door swings open with a soft creak, and she steps in. Skylar, in all her infuriating glory, stands framed by the doorway, her eyes scanning the room before they settle on me. There's a moment—a flicker of something unspoken—that passes between us before she schools her expression into one of indifferent curiosity.
"Looking for this?" She holds up a jump rope, one eyebrow arching as if she's just stumbled upon some great secret. “The kids said it wasn’t theirs, so I assumed it belonged down here.”
I grunt in acknowledgement, but offer nothing more. I can’t. I’m literally frozen. That is what this woman does to me and it’s infuriating. It’s unfair how beautiful she is, how tempting.
I want to storm across this room and drag her body into mine, force her to acknowledge what she does to me. Demand she take care of the problem. My jaw nearly cracks with how tightly I set it, forcing the images of Skylar on her knees out of my mind.
"Don’t stop on my account," she teases, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, her tone light but not without intent.
I set the weights down with more force than necessary, the clatter reverberating off the walls. I stand, facing her fully now, feeling the pull of muscles stretched and worked, the heat emanating from my skin. I'm acutely aware of the space between us—charged, alive with an electricity I want to deny. Want to, but can’t.
"Wasn't planning on it," I retort, keeping my voice even, though I can feel the edge in it mirroring hers.
Her gaze drifts—a slow, deliberate sweep—over the sweat-dampened fabric clinging to my chest, down the lines of my arms, pausing at the flex of my hands. Her lips quirk, and it's clear she's enjoying this little game, the push and pull of tension we've danced around since the day I discovered her in my pool.
But, is that all it is? A game? I fucking hate games.
"Good," she replies, stepping further into the room, her movements calculated and sure. "Wouldn't want to disrupt your...routine."
With every word, every look, she's challenging me, daring me to break, to show any sign of weakness. But I hold steady, because that's what I do—I maintain control, keep my emotions in check. Even when everything in me screams to react, to call her out, to close the distance that separates us.
Instead, I turn away, picking up another set of weights, the cool metal grounding me as I refocus on the task at hand. I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing just how deep under my skin she's gotten. Not now, not ever.
"Make yourself at home, Skylar," I say over my shoulder, my tone deceptively casual. "You seem to be good at that."
There's a beat of silence where I imagine she's weighing her next move, deciding how far to push before she crosses a line we both know is there, drawn in the sand but never acknowledged aloud.
"Always do," she responds, and I don't need to see her to know she's smiling that smug, self-assured smile that tells me she's won this round.
But this isn't over—not by a long shot.
I expect her to leave now that she’s returned the jump rope, but she doesn’t. Instead, I watch Skylar root through the cabinets. She's a deliberate thorn in my side, and the way she carries herself, all nonchalant confidence, only sharpens the sting.
"Looking for something in particular, or just enjoying the view?" The words slip out before I can rein them in, barbed and loaded with a challenge I'm not entirely sure I want her to accept.
She straightens up, turning slowly, and there's that smirk again—weaponized casualness that could cut glass. "Maybe both," she retorts, and in two strides, I'm in her space, our bodies inches apart. I can see every fleck of gold in her hazel eyes, the rise and fall of her chest quickening.
"Careful, trouble," I ground out, my voice low, my control fraying at the edges. "Don't start a game you're not prepared to finish."
Her breath catches, and there it is—the flicker of something raw and unscripted. We're teetering on the edge of a cliff, the drop both terrifying and tempting. Our gazes lock, and the air around us crackles with the tension of a storm about to break.
Time slows, our breathing melds, and I swear she's leaning in, those regal features softening with an emotion I can't quite name. Don’t want to. For a heartbeat, I think this is it—she's going to bridge that last bit of distance between us, she’s going to be the one to give in.
But we stay frozen, toe-to-toe, the moment stretched taut, a silent battle of wills. And then, as if nothing happened, she blinks, shattering the illusion.
She scoffs, a sound sharp as a knife's edge in the silence between us. Her eyes, those deep-set hazel pools that had just been locked with mine, now glint with something like victory—or is it defense? She whirls around, chestnut hair cascading over Theo's hoodie, and my gaze follows the sway of her hips as she departs. Every muscle in my body tenses, my fists clenching at my sides.
"Skylar," I start to say, but she doesn't turn back. The door shuts behind her with a quiet click, and I'm left alone.
The frustration coils tighter within me, a serpent squeezing around my chest. I throw myself back into my workout, each lift, each press, an attempt to push her image out of my mind. But it's useless.
Evening descends and dinner calls. Laughter and conversation mingle with the rich aromas of a delicious meal, but the atmosphere is heavy, laden with undercurrents of tension. I feel like I’m living on the edge, just barely hanging onto the last thread of my control. She’s unraveling me bit by bit.
Skylar and Theo are in their own little world. He's relaxed, his whole demeanor easygoing as he slings an arm around her shoulders, casual as if he's done it a thousand times before. His lips find her temple in a tender kiss that should be innocent enough, but it's like a match to the powder keg inside me.
I'm glaring. The realization hits when her eyes, those deep pools of hazel, lock with mine. A flicker of something—recognition? Amusement?—crosses her features, and she holds my gaze. It's insolent, challenging, the air between us crackling.
Then Theo turns his head, his green eyes landing on mine, and I see it—the slow, knowing smirk that curls his lips. He sees right through me—damn him.
"You good, man?" His voice is light, tinged with laughter. It's a simple question, but from him, it feels like an accusation, a call out on the stage we're all playing our parts.
"Fine," I grind out, each syllable sharp as shards of glass. The lie tastes like ash, but admitting the truth isn't an option. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Skylar's gaze hasn't wavered, though her expression has shifted ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth pulling down in what might be concern, or maybe curiosity. There's a storm brewing in those eyes of hers, but I can't read its path.
"Good." Theo's response is nonchalant, but his eyes are alight with something akin to victory. He knows he's gotten under my skin, and he's relishing it. The bastard.
I force my attention back to my plate, the food suddenly unappealing. But I can feel Skylar's eyes still on me, studying, probing, as if she's trying to peel back my layers and peer into the chaos within me. And I hate how much I want her to keep looking.
The night stretches on. I prowl through the halls of the house like a shadow, each step echoing the discord inside me. It's the kind of night that feels alive with possibilities and regrets, and it draws me toward Skylar's door.
I pause, hovering at the threshold of a line I know better than to cross. The murmur of voices seeps through the wood, Theo's low baritone mingling with the soft timbre of Skylar's laughter. Each chuckle is a velvet caress against my skin, stirring something primal within me. The bed creaks—a mundane sound transformed into an intimate whisper—and my imagination flares.
My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms, a feeble defense against the surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I shouldn't be here, lingering in the shadows like some lovelorn fool. I shouldn't care about the intimacy shared behind that door—yet here I am, bound by invisible chains of longing and frustration.
With a sharp turn, I retreat from the precipice of madness, only to come face-to-face with Cohen. He stands there, a mere few feet away, his eyes locked onto mine. His presence is a mirror, reflecting back the turmoil I've tried so desperately to hide. And in his silence, he speaks volumes.
"Man," he breathes out, his voice laced with an edge of humor and resignation. "Yeah. You're screwed."
The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. They settle on my shoulders, an added weight to the burden I already carry.
I don't bother with a response; what's there to say? The truth doesn't need affirmation—it just is. I turn away and walk down the hall.
He’s right. I am screwed.
I'm screwed because Skylar isn't just living under this roof. She's infiltrating my senses, my peace of mind, unraveling the control I've clung to for so long.
But acknowledging that only gives it power—power I'm not willing to concede. Not yet.
With a shake of my head, I banish the thought. My footsteps are more determined now, carrying me toward my own room where order reigns and emotions are neatly boxed away.
As I close the door behind me, I lean back against the solid wood, allowing myself a moment of weakness. My heart throbs against my ribcage, a reminder that no matter how much I try to suppress it, there's fire beneath the ice. And Skylar...she dances too close to the flames.