Chapter 10
S CARLETT
I must say, I’m not used to being taken care of. That has always been my job, and it’s also how I earn a living.
I’m always the one who knows more than anyone else and helps everyone else.
I’ve been like this since I can remember. In fact, I don’t remember being anything other than that.
So this is a nice change, and although it’s a little scary, I fully enjoy it.
He doesn’t let his car roll down the road until I lift my gaze so he can read my eyes.
Something interesting is hidden in his stare.
He’s constantly evaluating me, and I’m familiar with that look. I give it to my pupils all the time, especially to those who need my help the most.
Finally, the car starts moving and my vehicle stays behind on the side of the road looking like a shipwreck.
“They’ll have it ready before tomorrow afternoon,” he says, hinting at the people tasked with fixing my car.
I look at him.
“They don’t have any of my information.”
“I’ll take you home and tell them where to bring it.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
“They’re the people who take care of my cars. They’re good,” he says, not looking at me. “Where are we going?”
His eyes find mine.
I give him the address and directions when he impatiently nods as if he knows the area.
“Do you live here?”
“Occasionally,” he mutters, and I swiftly move away from that topic and stay quiet for a while.
“What happened to Colley’s cousin?” I eventually murmur, staring out the window.
We enter a populated area with traffic and restaurants.
“What makes you think something happened to him?”
“Why couldn’t he come?” I insist.
He looks away and steers his vehicle onto a different street, and the lights of the restaurants fade in the background.
“He got caught up in something and asked me to do his job.”
“It happened so suddenly that he couldn’t get you a different Santa costume? Something that actually fits you?” I say with a smile.
His face darkens as he glances at me, and I realize I might’ve made a gaffe.
“He had an accident,” he says dryly, and my hand flies to my mouth as I’m crushed under a mountain of guilt.
“Oh. I’m so sorry. Is he all right?”
He smiles a little at my reaction, and I apologize frantically for the next few moments until he speaks again.
“Don’t need to feel bad about it,” he says, gesturing faintly at me and looking to his left as we take another turn and enter a poorly lit street.
“Is that you?” he asks, putting an end to our conversation.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
I point to the third house on the right.
“The house with the big lit elves on the front lawn.”
Saying nothing, he drives his truck to a full stop, and I stay still for a second, not knowing what to do.
I’m home.
I should be happy that I’m home, but I’m not.
Despite being moments away from a hot shower, a stack of soft pillows, and some resting sleep, restlessness nips at the edges of my awareness.
I’m absolutely sure he and I will never cross paths again. Despite him having some weird connection to Colley’s cousin, this was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.
Everything in this man’s attitude tells me he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. It’s like he has something against me.
You rarely see men so clear about what they want, and he surely knows that he wants me out of his truck and on my way.
“Well… Thank you for giving me a ride. It was nice of you to do that for me and help me with my car.”
I pick up my bag and grab the bottle of wine before tilting my gaze to him, expecting a reaction.
“Sure. No problem,” he says with the enthusiasm of a bus driver waiting for the last passenger to climb out and get lost. “Anytime,” he adds in a curt voice.
That was gratuitous.
We both know he doesn’t mean it.
“Uh-huh,” I toss at him in return.
We couldn’t like each other less even if we tried.
I push the door open and proceed to slide down.
“Can you do it?” he asks on a second thought.
“Yeah, yeah. I sure can. I’m always fine when I climb out of a huge truck and wear a pencil skirt tight as a condom,” I joke, and no one’s laughing.
“Stay put,” he says, and his clothes rustle as he slides off his seat.
He rounds his car and pulls the door to the side before sliding an arm under my legs and looping the other around my waist.
I fall into his chest and quickly steady myself against his strong arms, as this is probably not the smartest move for two people who want to stay away from each other.
I’m no longer cold, and I no longer complain about this eventful night. He doesn’t seem to want to let me go, and I don’t seem to want to rush toward my place.
His eyes gleam, cold, catching the light of a lamppost, but to me, they still look like the most mesmerizing eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Do you want to come inside?” I say. Smiling, I tilt my chin toward the house, still wrapped in his arms. “Maybe you’ll tell me your name?” I say with humor, but my joke falls flat, garnering no reaction.
He doesn’t outright refuse me, so I insist.
“Perhaps you want a cup of coffee before hitting the road again,” I murmur, searching his eyes as he seems sunk in thought.
“Okay,” he says dryly, and this suddenly feels like the biggest accomplishment of the year.
His arms slide away before he closes the door behind me, turns the ignition off, locks his car, and follows me to the entrance.
“It’s not a big place, and I’m still working on it. I started this project last summer, redecorating and everything.”
I usually talk nonsense when I’m nervous, and it’s no exception now.
He doesn’t participate in my conversation but seems interested in his surroundings when I push the door open, and we enter the small hallway with wooden floors, a wall table, and a tiny area where I usually hang my coat on a hanger and put my bag on a rack.
I’m doing all that now, and he watches me in silence as I run a hand over my skirt and smile tensely.
“What a night, huh?” I say, and it strikes me that I talk like I’m in school, or when I converse with my coworkers.
It’s been so long since I’ve talked to anyone other than my coworkers.
I keep my heels on, only because it makes me feel more confident, especially since he doesn’t take off his winter jacket.
My eyes move smoothly over his clothes.
He wears good quality fabrics and, from the look of them, designer clothes.
“How do you like your coffee?” I ask, spinning around and talking to him on my way to the kitchen.
His boots move closer and he stops at the edge of the round kitchen rug.
I glance over my shoulder.
“You can come in. It cleans easily,” I share, and I’m sure he has no idea what I’m talking about.
I turn the coffee machine on, and soon after, a smell of dark roast coffee infuses the air.
“Your coffee? How do you like it?” I ask again, turning to him.
He peels his eyes away from the few knick knacks I have on the kitchen table, and I swiftly collect them and slide them into a drawer.
“I’m doing all sorts of activities with the little ones, like games and stuff. And sometimes I need to learn how to play those games,” I say, and his eyes come straight to me.
It dawns on me that he has moved his eyes around the house like a detective looking for clues and trying to understand the story of this place.
“Black, please. Not strong,” he says.
“Oh. So, normal coffee.”
“Just put some extra water in it. I will be fine.”
He watches me extract two mugs from the cupboard and fill them with hot coffee. I dilute his with cold water from the fridge and put sugar in mine.
“Here,” I say, and he takes it from my hand.
“Can I have the water, too?”
“Yes. Sure.”
I give him the bottle of water.
He takes a sip of coffee before emptying the water bootle. I take it from him.
“Do you want another one?”
“No. I’m good.”
I’m near the garbage bin, tossing the bottle in when his clothes rustle again, and I flick my eyes in his direction.
He opens his jacket and my eyes dip to his broad chest. He wears a slim fit, black T-shirt under his jacket, and tattoos climb up the side of his neck, highlighting his eyes even more.
I never thought he’d look like that.
My imagination completely failed me when I thought he’d be all right, like nothing out of the ordinary. But he is probably the most handsome man I’ve been in a room with.
It’s quite significant, although we’re still very much two reserved strangers. I wish my ex could see this man.
Oh, boy, wouldn’t that be fun?
Joachim sitting next to him, all flustered, his face twitching from his simmering frustration.
He always criticized men like the stranger in my kitchen, his insecurities getting the best of him.
Initially I thought it was fun and even teased him about it, and then I realized it was a coping mechanism and he could do nothing about it.
Constantly hearing him berate any man I had an interaction with drove me up the wall.
And then he had the gall to suggest that he, himself, was quite a catch.
He may have been for someone new––I didn’t want to buy his shit anymore at that point.
“So, can I have your name?” I murmur, leaning against the counter and bringing my coffee to my lips.
“Ewan,” the man says.
I take a sip and put my drink down.
“Ewan?” I say as if wanting to find out how it sounds on my lips.
“Do you happen to have a last name?” I say with a pang of humor.
“Ewan is enough.”
If he says so.