Chapter 11 #2
There’s a pause. I can almost picture the confusion on his face, the way his brows will furrow, his lips parting in silent disbelief. The thought stirs something in me. Something sharp. Something hungry.
Lucas: What?
Alex: A black Range Rover is waiting
outside the café to bring you here, Lucas.
My doorman will send you up to me when
you arrive.
Lucas: What? What do you mean?
Alex: Time is ticking,
Don’t keep the man waiting.
I send the message and flip the phone face down.
Keeping my focus back on making the sauce.
He’ll come, I know he will. Exactly fifteen minutes later, just as I finish plating the dishes, I hear the elevator ding open and close, and his soft footsteps entering the living room.
I think the scent of the dinner is what gave him the notion that I was in the kitchen.
And just as he sees me sitting on one of the counter stools, he halts.
His lean frame tensed like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s gaze.
His blonde curls are ruffled, as if he’s been running a hand through them all evening, and there’s a faint crease between his brows.
He looks exhausted—dark circles under brown eyes, shoulders slightly hunched—but somehow, even in his weariness, he’s still beautiful.
I don’t say anything at first. But watch him.
Then, slowly, he steps forward, the hesitant sound of his sneakers barely making a noise against the polished marble floor. He lowers himself onto the stool, keeping his posture tight, like he’s preparing for something.
He pulls his book out of his hoodie pocket and starts scribbling.
Okay, well, I guess he’s going back to writing, a little part of me is disappointed because I craved to hear his voice.
He slides the note towards me, and I glance at it
You brought me here for dinner?
“You know why I brought you here,” I reply evenly, my eyes going back to his. “But you also need to eat.”
His eyes flare with something unreadable before he exhales sharply, picking up the pen again.
You can’t just do things like this. You can’t tell me to get in a car with no explanation.
I arch a brow. “You got in, though.”
His lips press into a thin line, fingers tightening around the pen. I push the plate of food closer to him, watching the slight twitch in his jaw. He doesn’t move to eat. Instead, he reaches for the notebook again, but I stop him before he can write anything.
“Eat, Lucas.” My voice drops an octave, leaving no room for argument.
He exhales sharply, hesitates for a second longer, then finally picks up the fork. I watch as he takes a slow bite, chewing carefully. His posture is still stiff, but the longer he eats, the more the tension seems to drain from his shoulders.
I enjoy cooking for him, watching him eat, and seeing how peaceful and full of life he becomes whenever he eats. I had also made sure to put more dishes on his plate than mine.
I pick up my own fork, taking a bite of the steak, and lean back slightly in my chair.
I sit close enough that I can feel his presence beside me, hear the slight hitch in his breath whenever I move.
The air between us is thick with something unspoken.
We eat in silence, the quiet stretches, but I don’t mind. I know he needs it.
After a while, he stops eating, and his eyes meet mine, he opens his mouth to say something, and I give him an encouraging look.
“I can’t quit my job just to have the time to teach you ASL,” he finally says slowly, voice quiet.
Just hearing his voice again almost made me smile.
“Do you love your job?” I ask, folding my arms. The question takes him by surprise, and he blinks twice. I arch my brow, waiting for a reply.
“It’s not like I hate… the job,” he replies nervously, looking away. “It pays my bills… and it was hard to get a job that accepts a deaf and non-verbal person.”
He says this like he’s embarrassed by it, and I hate how it deflects his mood.
“How many times a week do you go to college?” I ask, diverting from the conversation, he looks back at me this time, takes his pen and paper, and starts scribbling. He’s probably gone mute due to the embarrassment he must have felt. I clench my teeth.
I go to college five days a week. I have morning classes from Monday to Friday, except Thursday…I only have evening classes on Thursdays.
“And how many hours do you work?” I ask, “What’s your work schedule?”
His brows draw together, giving me a stubborn look, but I don’t back down. He sighs, then scribbles.
I work from 2 pm to 8 pm, Monday to Wednesday/Friday, and from 8 am to 2 pm on Thursdays. On weekends, I work for 7 hours as a housekeeper in a retirement home.
I read it, then glance at him, he looks away, and continues eating his food. How does he manage all that? When does he have time for himself or to study for college?
I look at him, really look, and the answer to the exhaustion written across his face becomes clearer. I wonder how long he’s been keeping up this pace, how many nights he’s dragged himself home to collapse into bed, only to wake up and do it all over again.
I keep my tone leveled, “How much do you make?”
This time, he stiffens, his jaw tenses, his eye flickering back to me. There is hesitation in his eyes. I know he’s fighting something inside, whether he should tell me or not. But I think something about the way I look at him made him scribble an answer.
Well, if you add both jobs’ pay, the tips, and extra shifts I take most of the time… I make about $5,000 a month after tax, but I pay off a $3,000 monthly debt. So you see why I can’t quit?
My brows knit together. “Monthly debt? For what?”
He shakes his head, a stubborn, final shake, the kind that tells me he won’t open that door no matter how hard I push. Ashley had once mentioned that he sends money to his mother every month. So is it his mother he owes?
I let it go, for now. “Quit both jobs.”
His head snaps toward me.
“You’ll come here instead,” I continue smoothly. “We’ll have ASL lessons. Three hours a day. Monday to Friday. Five to eight pm. Except Thursdays—you’ve got class in the evening. Weekends, you rest.”
He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, his wide eyes searching my face for the punchline.
“Are you even listening to yourself?” he asks finally, incredulous, and this time with his voice. I almost laugh at how shocked he sounds.
“Five thousand will be wired into your account every Friday,” I add evenly, “Your pay. For tutoring me.”
His lips part. His eyes, those big, doe-brown eyes, are blown wide, almost panicked.
I push my chair back, rising. “Since you’re not objecting, I’ll take that as an agreement.”
“Wait.” His voice cracks, trembling with disbelief. “I don’t… I don’t understand. Please, make me understand.”
That plea halts me in place. Slowly, I meet his gaze. He’s staring up at me, his confusion naked, his eyes shimmering with something raw like confusion, hesitation, maybe even fear.
“I am not doing this out of pity, Lucas.” My voice is rough, deliberate.
“I don’t tolerate people around me running themselves into the ground.
If I want you as my ASL tutor, then I want all your attention.
I want you rested. Focused. Not dragging your half-dead body from one miserable job to the next. ”
His lips tremble as he swallows, then he blurts out, louder this time, like it costs him something, “And what if you get sick of me?”
The words hang in the air, sharp and desperate.
“What if you don’t want to learn anymore? What if you… What if you decide I’m not worth it? You think either job will take me back after I just disappear?”
I step closer, my tone dropping, iron steady. “They say it takes months. Years. To learn. That means you’re stuck with me until my ASL is perfect. And, Lucas—” I lean in just enough, my voice dipping into something dark, unyielding, “I don’t get sick of things I want.”
His throat works as he swallows again. Those lips part slightly, and for a moment, I want to groan at how undone he looks. Soft, vulnerable, confused, and still so damn tempting.
“Monday,” I say, finality laced in steel. “We start Monday.”
He must hear it in my voice, the dangerous edge, the hard promise, or maybe he sees it in my eyes, because he nods. It’s stiff, wary, but it’s there.
The tension in him hasn’t eased, but beneath it, I see something else now. Wariness, yes. But also surrender.
I don’t care. He’ll get used to it.
He’ll get used to me.