32. Haven
Chapter 32
Haven
I didn’t realize until I was almost in front of Bastian’s house that I’d be parking beside his Tesla. It felt shitty that first day of college. Especially after driving past a row of high-end Land Rovers, Mercs, and BMWs.
It feels even shittier now.
Danielle had no problem letting me leave early, but she was nosy as hell about what was important enough for me to miss a shift.
I wish I knew.
Took a while to get a layer of mascara on my lashes that didn’t look like spider legs. Clumpy makeup sucks. But an improvised shower in the restroom, a brush through my hair, more foundation over my throat, and I’m ready.
Danielle spots me on my way out. “Haven?”
I cringe before turning to her. “Yeah?”
“Girl, you going on a date?” She has a hand on one hip, cocking an eyebrow like I’ve got some explaining to do.
My laugh is instant, and a near falsetto.
This is definitely not a date.
Haven Lee doesn’t date. Haven Lee doesn’t even have sex. Because Kai shattered Haven Lee’s heart into so many pieces that she’s never been able to glue it back together again.
But I wanted to look nice, because then I feel confident. That’s why I’m wearing my slightly faded black maxi dress, my boots, and my best underwear. Confidence always seems in short supply around Bastian.
I expect him to answer the door. The white dress shirt rolled up to mid-arm and moss green wool pants I also expect. What I don’t expect is the apron. It doesn’t have flowers and lace on it, but it’s still an apron, and it’s a side of Bastian I haven’t seen or thought existed.
Does he have a Tinder profile?
“You made it,” he says, his smile both warm and inviting, and I’m suddenly rooted to the spot.
It didn’t feel like this last night, when he was drunk and demanding to know where the hell my shoes were. That encounter felt like a series of unfortunate events.
This is planned. From my side, and from his.
He steps aside, ushers me in with a sweep of his hand. The symbolism isn’t lost on me when I step over his threshold.
I’m crossing a line tonight.
And, sure, I could argue this handsome man with his impossibly intelligent eyes and fleeting smile lured me here…but am I any less a victim for succumbing?
“Hard day?”
I shake my head, give him an awkward smile, and tread deeper inside his house.
There’s jazz playing on his home speaker system. The fireplace is lit. And I swear that vase of white roses wasn’t here when I left earlier today.
Maybe this is a date.
“You’re frowning.” He closes the door behind me, then gives another wave of his hand. “Please. Enough with the decorum. We’re well past the stage where you should feel uncomfortable walking through my front door.” He makes a point of glancing toward the garden where he found me waiting last night. “Or the back.”
“Okay,” I say through a laugh, holding up my hand. “I need you to pretend that never happened.”
He tilts his head, curling one side of his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s better.” I force a smile, nod. “So, what’s the news? I’ve bitten my nails to shreds.”
“We’ll multitask. I’m starving.” He walks into the kitchen, and I have no choice but to follow.
I suppose if he was going to just blurt out what the hell was so important, he could have done it in a text.
Should I be mad? I want to be mad.
But then the smell of caramelized onions hits my nose, and it’s game over.
I don’t know who’s more surprised when my stomach lets out a ferocious growl—me or Bastian. Probably him. He doesn’t know my last meal was half a stale cheeseburger. I slip onto a kitchen stool, sliding my car keys and phone away from me so I can stretch out my arms on the cool marble surface. I love how stone like this always feels so milky.
“Glad to know you can follow instruction,” my professor says as he angles around the kitchen island and heads for a tall pot of steaming water on the range.
“Thought that was Student 101?” I ask, trying not to drown in my own spit. I mean, the smell in this kitchen is…
Gourmet.
That’s the only way I can explain it, but I desperately wish I had the vocabulary to do better.
When my mom was still alive, the height of Lee family cuisine was TV dinners. But things steadily regressed after mom passed. Still not really sure what happened. Something to do with her heart. After that, it was spam and eggs most meals. The cheapest cereal on the shelf, the one that tasted like wood shavings and sugar.
Eventually, PB & J sandwiches for dinner, if there was any dinner at all.
If my dad had given a fuck, he might have applied for a food subsidy from my school, but, well, he didn’t. And I was too young and na?ve to even know things like that existed.
“Not everyone who’s in college should be in college.”
He wasn’t aiming that jab at me, but apparently the wave of panic that rifles through me doesn’t know it.
“Yeah?” I say, casually knotting my fingers together in front of me. “Like who?”
“Hm. Pour us a drink and maybe I’ll elaborate.”
The way he glances at me from the corner of his eyes, like he’s wondering how I’ll react, makes me think this is a test.
“Sure. But give me a hint, or I’ll get lost in your pantry.”
I’m rewarded with another smile, dragonfly quick as it touches his lips before disappearing. “Depends what you want? Open a faucet and you’ll get filtered rain water. Open the fridge and there’s some wine and sparkling water. Top shelf, to your left, scores you the bourbon you so loathe in your cocoa.”
He throws me another undecipherable look. “Glasses are in the cabinet next to the fridge.”
Water, Haven. He’s got sparkling and everything.
“No soda?”
“Do yourself a favor and Google how much sugar is in one soda. Then Google how much sugar your body is designed to process in a day. The math doesn’t add up.”
“You don’t have to be so condescending about it,” I mutter as I head for the fridge.
I mean to take out the sparkling water. That’s all I want, after all. Fuck knows why I grab the bottle of wine instead.
Maybe because it feels more mature to be sipping wine than gulping down sparkling water.
Maybe because talking to Bastian feels like playing blackjack. Blindfolded.
Or because he’s right—it’s been a hard day, a hard week…fuck that, a hard goddamn life, and I’ve deserved some R&R. Maybe I’m just curious about what all the fuss is about. I mean, everyone else in the world seems to love alcohol. I should give it a second chance, right?
I take out the wine and set it down on the counter, going to tiptoes to reach for a glass from the cabinet.
“Need a hand?”
“God!” I barely catch the wine glass that slips out of my fingers. “It would have been your fault if that broke.”
He’d been right behind me. Like, inches away.
“So we’re both just going to pretend I carded you,” Bastian says.
“I won’t have the whole bottle,” I mumble.
“I’ll allow it. But I reserve the right to cut you off when I see fit.”
“Whatever you say, Professor.” I keep my back turned as I twist off the screw-top and pour a glass.
“Hm.”
I really wish he’d stop doing that. That sound he makes is too ambiguous for me to decide if he disapproves or not. And it’s way too sexy to be any kind of proper.
Air moves behind my back, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of my neck.
Is it his breath?
But then he appears in the corner of my eye, going to stir the saucepan where his delicious concoction is brewing.
“Do you want wine? Or should I pour you bourbon?”
“It’s a little early for that.”
I nod, but fuck knows why, because if you’re going to drink, does it really matter what the hell kind of alcohol it is?
Moments like this, I feel so fucking sheltered. And not in a ‘my folks were overprotective’ kind of way, but in a ‘you don’t know what you don’t know’ kind of way.
I pour us each a glass of wine and take one to him, setting it down near him on the marble counter. As I turn to leave, he grasps my wrist.
“Two blocks of ice.”
His fingers are warm, and so much stronger than Kai’s.
“Sure thing, Professor.”
His fingers tighten ever so slightly. “Bastian.”
He releases me, and I go back to the fridge, opening the freezer compartment for some ice. I swear I can feel him looking at me, but when I turn, his attention is entirely on the pasta sauce.
I plop two cubes of ice into his glass, holding my hand over the top to minimize the splash.
“None for you?” he says as I’m about to put the ice back in the freezer.
Another test. Are you supposed to drink wine with ice? Dad stuck with cheap vodka and only had ice in his drink on special occasions…like the day after he got his disability check.
“Silly me.” I toss two cubes in my glass, hesitate, then add a third. I suppose it will water it down.
I wander into the living area and give Bastian’s house another slow scan. Despite how many times I’ve been here, I can always find something new to appreciate.
Like that painting above the fireplace? I saw it before, but I never really looked.
“You like fucked up art, don’t you?”
Bastian chuckles. “You’re admiring my Bosch?”
“Um…admiring it isn’t quite the right word. More like examining it. Is this supposed to be hell?”
“Limbo, actually.”
“Looks pretty hellish to me,” I mutter as I take a sip of wine.
It’s dark, the only specks of light, those of tormented figures being harassed by demons. There’s a freaky creature near the top that’s all arms and legs, holding open its mouth.
It looks like one demon is pushing damned souls into that gaping maw.
“Hungry?”
“This guy certainly is.” I shake off my creeps and go sit at the kitchen counter. Bastian is busy serving up a big bowl of pasta, and I wish he’d hurry the hell up, because I’m dying to know what it tastes like. He sets a bowl down in front of me and takes a seat opposite me at the island.
I’m stabbing my fork into the pasta like a heathen when he holds up his glass. “A toast.”
This pasta better be good.
I force a smile and hold up my glance, trying to stare down into my bowl. There’s this weird smell filling my nose that’s rich and musty and so fucking sexy I’m considering asking Bastian to leave the room so I can have some alone time with my food.
“Here’s to hoping hell doesn’t exist.”
Well, fuck, I’ll drink to that.
I clink his glass, my mouth pursed, but he keeps staring at me like he’s expecting a reply. It’s only when I take a sip of wine that he breaks his focus.
“Oh my God,” I murmur, as soon as I’ve slurped down the first bite of food. “What is this?”
“Wild mushroom ragout pasta with truffle oil.”
I stop eating. “Like…mushrooms you’ve picked yourself?”
Bastian laughs. Takes a sip of wine. There’s a twinkle of firelight in his eyes when he looks over at me. “Like oyster and shiitake mushrooms I bought at the grocer. But I’ll take the compliment.”
Why can’t I shut my damn mouth?
Thankfully, dinner is so good that I barely stop to breathe, never mind speak. Bastian is silent too. The only sound is the soft jazz playing through his invisible sound system.
Then I hear another sound, so quiet it barely registers. But when it does, oh boy.
click
My fork clangs down into my almost empty bowl.
“Everything okay?”
I swipe at my mouth with the linen napkin he’d rolled around my cutlery. Then a big sip of wine to chase down the pasta stuck in my throat.
“Yeah, um, sorry. Thought I heard something.” I try a laugh, cutting off when I hear how forced it sounds. “If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m kinda jumpy.”
“Hm.”
Dude, stahp.
“Did you move around a lot as a kid, Haven?”
I was going to shovel another bite into my mouth, but instead I lay down my fork so I can stare at him with all my energy.
“Are you psychoanalyzing me?”
“That’s a bit of a leap.” He wipes his mouth too, and then takes a sip of wine, leaning back from his bowl like he’s done eating.
“So is a random question about my childhood after I admit I’m jumpy.”
He gives me a slow nod. “Touché.”
Then he sits forward in a rush, cradling the base of his wineglass on his palm. “Sometimes, a heightened stress response could be caused by childhood trauma.” He holds up a hand like I’m going to interrupt him.
I’m not.
Professor Rooke is fascinating, especially when he goes into full-on teach mode. He punctuates each point by tapping a finger against his glass.
“This could be anything from abuse to simply existing in a dysfunctional family unit. For instance, parents fighting all the time. Their children become more vigilant about their surroundings. Walking on eggshells to predict when the next trigger lands so they’ll be prepared for the fallout.”
He takes a sip of wine.
“Real question.” I lay my palm on the table between us. “You ever think about becoming a therapist?”
He stares at me, blinks, then laughs. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “I forget how jaded you kids are.”
“I’ll take that as an insult, Boomer.”
Waving his hand, Bastian sits back again and takes another sip of his wine. “Slip of the tongue. Did you get through today’s material?”
I shrug. “I’m sad I missed the group discussion. How did it go?”
He shrugs too. Shakes his head. “Would probably have gone a lot better if you were there. I so rarely hear a new perspective these days.”
“And I’d have given this new perspective?” I’m frowning as I take another sip.
The wine is a lot more tart than I’d expected, but it’s not awful. There’s a hint of something woody left behind on my tongue after every sip, which I quite like. I’m not sure if it’s intentional, but it seems to complement the earthiness of the mushroom pasta.
“Of course.” He holds out his hand again. “No offense, but most of the kids I teach are impatiently waiting for their trust funds to mature so they can jet off to Europe for a year.”
“I’m both offended and appalled.”
“By their generational wealth?”
“By your assumptions.” I sniff, leaning back as I take a sip of wine. This pasta is filling, but I’m not done with my bowl yet. “I could go to Europe if I wanted.”
He cocks a dark, silver-streaked eyebrow. “I’m not following.”
“It’s easy. I just need to find me a sugar daddy, open an OnlyFeet account—“ I snap my fingers “—I’ll be rolling in it.”
Bastian frowns. “OnlyFeet,” he repeats woodenly.
“Yeah.” I nod, taking another sip.
I’m really enjoying this wine now. And despite the not-so-subtle reminders Bastian keeps tossing my way, I feel mature and worldly holding this big glass, the sound the ice cubes make as they clink gently against the sides.
My professor is still frowning.
“What? You don’t think my feet are pretty enough?”
“Are they? Last time I saw them, they were covered in mud.”
My mouth falls open. I stab a finger at him. “You promised.”
He flashes me a smile, lifting one hand in surrender. “My apologies.” Then he sets down his glass and spreads his hands wide. “Shall I compare thee feet to a summer’s day? Thou feet art more lovely, and more separate.”
“Wow,” I whisper, setting my glass down a little harder than I’d wanted to. “Okay, I’m totally hiring you to run my OnlyFeet account.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a long sip of wine.
Fuck me. The mischievous twinkle in his eyes makes me squeeze my thighs together. I’m trying to stifle the sudden tingle between them, but it only makes it worse.
And he’s still looking at me, his gaze sly like he’s thinking all sorts of things he shouldn’t be.
“So I think you’ve dragged this out long enough,” I say, clearing my throat halfway through because, for some reason, it’s all clogged up with embarrassment. “Go on. Tell me why I’m here.”
The look in his warm brown eyes changes, then.
This. This is the reason I let him lure me here. It’s the way he looks at me, like he knows I can handle whatever he’s about to say. He can call me a kid as much as he wants, even though he doesn’t think of me like that.
“You have to go back to class, Haven.”
I drop my head, my hand rising absently to stroke the side of my neck. When I realize what I’m doing, I pluck it away and sit on it. “I told you I’d?—“
“Not soon. Tomorrow .”
There’s no way I’m looking up at him.
And here I was just thinking about how he never treats me like a kid. But his tone of voice, those short brook-no-nonsense sentences?
This is what I imagine being disciplined feels like.
“That’s not your choice to make,” I murmur.
“When someone under my tutelage is about to fuck up their life, it becomes my decision.”
“Would you do it?” I snap, my chin still down, but my eyes flashing up to glare at him through my lashes. “Would you go back there all bruised and battered? What do you think they’ll say about me? It’s already out that I live in my fucking car. You have no idea what it’s like being on the receiving end of that kind of attention.”
He blinks, like my barrage of angry words surprises him. Then he leans back his head and laughs.
I’m close to shouting now. “How is this funny?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, studying me for a moment before looking away. “I know exactly what you’re going through, Haven.” He pushes away his bowl, considers his wineglass for a moment, and then tosses back what’s left in one gulp.
“But we’re not here to talk about me.” He glances at my wine glass. “Are you done?”
There’s still an inch of wine in the bottom. I drain it like he had, and he takes it without a word and sets it down on the counter beside the fridge.
I know exactly what you’re going through
Was Bastian bullied too? I guess if he was half as smart in elementary school as he is now, he’d probably have drawn the wrong attention more than once.
Shit. Never judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes, I guess. Even if you’re muddy and barefoot and he’s wearing…
“Why are you looking at my feet?” Bastian asks as he takes a bottle of amber liquid from the top shelf of one of his kitchen cabinets.
Does he have eyes in the back of his head or something?
I quickly straighten. “Wondering what shoes you wear.”
“What shoes, or what size?”
Thank God he has his back turned, because my face just caught alight. I quickly press my hands to my cheeks, trying to soak up the heat before he comes back with two glasses.
Another wine for me.
A bourbon for him.
No ice in either.
He heads around the kitchen counter, coming right to my side, so close I can feel the heat of his body. I flinch at the soft clink my glass makes as he sets it down beside me.
“You’ll go back to class,” he says. “And when they make fun of you living in your car, you’ll laugh at them, because it won’t be true.”
My hand wraps around the glass as I try to summon that coolness to my face.
He’s too close.
His voice too intense.
My entire body is coming alive just from being in his aura. My skin flushing. My nipples tightening. My clit tingling. If he stays here much longer, there’s going to be a wet spot on this fucking kitchen stool when I get up.
“But it is,” I whisper, wanting this conversation to be over, but refusing to give him any ground.
“Not for much longer.”
My breath hitches when he scrapes a finger over the slope of my neck, moving my hair away.
To better see the bruises on my skin?
Or so that he can kiss me there?
“I made some calls. Tomorrow, I’m taking you to the Gamma Alpha Zeta house. They’ve agreed to give you full room and board.”
My hair falls back into place.
I keep my eyes straight ahead, watching Bastian as he leans on his elbows beside me, face turned to me. Scanning my face. Watching my reaction.
“Now if anyone wants to make fun of you, you get to laugh in their face.”
My chest puffs out as I take a full breath. I turn, trying not to lean away, but Bastian is so close it’s like I’m leaning in for a kiss.
His gaze is so steady on mine it feels like he’s delving into the depths of my rotting soul.
“I’d rather spit in their eye,” I whisper.
“I’ll allow.” He smiles. “But only if I can watch.”