5. Theá
Chapter five
Theá
I toss in my bed for the millionth time since I put my phone down and decided to sleep. Thoughts about my impending future circle my head on repeat. What if he’s an asshole? What if we barely speak? I mean, if we didn’t speak, it would make it easier to play along. Especially since I could just carry on with my life like it currently is, just with a stupid ring on my finger. I can’t help but wonder if my mom found herself facing a similar fate. Did she feel this confused, or was it worse since she was already married to my father and had four kids? She was probably so scared, so alone.
My confusion and self-pity turn to rage in an instant, and all of it is directed towards the man who’s putting me in the same fate he watched kill her.
Sighing, I reach over to my bedside table and check the time on my phone.
A little after midnight—perfect.
I slip out of bed, grab my phone, my copy of Whiskey Kisses by Sienna Cross, and a random blanket that I use for colder nights.
Sneaking around my house is usually not needed since this is the one place I have free reign, but there’s one room in the house I’m not allowed into: my father’s study—aka, the library. It’s the most beautiful room in the entire house; the way the moonlight streams in through that giant window behind his desk sets the perfect tone for a late-night reading stint.
I sneak down the hall towards the stairs. I’d be stupid to think my father is asleep, but I am smart enough to know that Friday nights are usually when he likes to sneak in women. So I know he’s occupied. I’m not even entirely sure he’d be upset if he caught me, because I’m sure he keeps whatever sketchy shit he does under lock and key, but I’d rather not find out.
It’s not like I’m particularly interested in seeing whatever he does, anyway.
The stairs are usually the worst because they creak, showing the manor’s true age. I hop up onto the banister and slide down, avoiding the entire ordeal.
Once I’m in the kitchen, I resist the urge to flick the light on and head straight for the fridge, using the flashlight on my phone as my source of light.
I chuckle as I wonder just how strange I might look to anyone who could happen to stumble in on me right now.
Fuck, no leftovers. I scan the fridge. Usually, Jacques makes enough for midnight snacks, but I assume our new house guest had it for dinner.
I grab a soda and the jar of pickles, then I head to the pantry and scan for the peanut butter.
“Damn, only crunchy,” I mumble as I grab the jar. It’ll have to work.
The last thing I need for my perfect late-night snack is a spoon, and with that, I’m tip toeing my way over to the study.
The heavy door groans as I push it open, and I silently curse. Why can’t we live in one of those ultra-modern penthouses? Why did it have to be this crusty, old manor that I’m sure dates back to the second French empire? That’s probably why my father likes it—it must make him feel like he’s royalty, too.
I pull the door shut since it’ll be the only way of alerting me if someone happens to come in here.
Heading straight for the desk in the centre of the room, I drop off all my items and chuckle at how virtually spotless the desk is. It’s so evident that it’s only clean because something is purposely being hidden.
I head behind the large chair and tug on one of heavy, velvet curtains, letting the moonlight pour into the study. I gasp as I see just how bright it is.
Slumping into the chair, the smell of stagnant smoke fills my lungs, and I’m left with an odd sense of nostalgia and disgust. Disgusted because I’ve always hated the smell, and nostalgic when I remember why: my mother hated it.
It’s been a habit my father has sported for years, long before any of my siblings and I even arrived. It was something my mom always chewed him out for, and I remember many nights in Mauritius, finding him sitting on the front porch after dinner with a cigarette lit since she stopped letting him smoke in the house. It was often warm nights like this where Pierre, Kylian, Noelle, and I would sit with them both and listen to stories of their youth, stories of everything he had planned for us. The big house and lots of money.
In hindsight, he achieved every single goal he listed, but the one thing he never accounted for was how he would get it all. Or that he lost the most important piece as a result of it.
Everything in life has a price, I suppose.
I stare at the pristine desk, now only cluttered by my snacks and book. I pause for a brief second, contemplating if I should bother looking for information on my soon-to-be husband.
A part of me would love to know more, but another part of me knows it’s for the best if I don’t know anything. It’ll leave his current pristine image intact, and it’ll also mean I’ll be less invested.
I toss my blanket on my lap and shift my snacks closer along with my book. I prep a pickle with a spoonful of peanut butter on top before snuggling into the chair and opening my book. It’s the perfect scene: good snack, cosy blanket, and the grumpy cowboy who is about to confess his feelings for the sunshine city girl.
Life is good.
The thought is snatched straight from my head not even a minute later when the door groans open.
A million contingency plans flow through my head, everything from ducking under the desk to spinning the chair around and facing the window, but in the end, I choose to freeze in my exact spot like a deer caught in headlights.
The figure stops in the doorway briefly before stepping in and closing the door behind them, making sure to check if the coast is clear in the hallway before doing so. That’s when it dawns on me: it’s not my father or any of my siblings for that fact. Oh no, this intruder is nearly 6’5 and built like something straight out of a museum.
Antonio freezes as his eyes meet mine.
“I was just looking for the bathroom…” he says slowly.
“Yeah, sure. Your room has an ensuite,” I respond, taking a bite of my pickle.
His face contorts as he takes in the scene in front of him. “Does that taste good?”
His question catches me completely off guard. So off guard that my favourite snack decides that right now is the perfect time to try and kill me. I break out into a fit of coughs, and within seconds, Antonio is rushing over to me.
“Shit, shit, shit. Are you okay?” he asks hurriedly as he tries to pat my back, all while I try to wheel the chair further away from him.
“Don’t—touch—me,” I say between coughs, and he eventually gets the message because he stops attempting to help and simply stills next to me.
“At least try to die quietly if you don’t want my help. Your coughing is going to get us both caught.”
I grab my soda and try to calm myself down as I shoot him a glare. “What makes you think I’m not supposed to be here? It’s my house.”
“You wouldn’t have been using a torch to retrieve your snacks if you were supposed to be up at this hour,” he counters, and I stifle the small gasp that tries to leave my lips.
“I just didn’t want to wake anyone. Besides, why were you stalking me?” I place my book down on the desk and cross my arms across my chest.
“I saw you leaving the kitchen when I went down to get a glass of water.” He shrugs as he leans back and sits on the edge of the desk.
“I thought that you were looking for the bathroom,” I quip.
His eyes dance with mischief before he observes the room briefly, and it’s the perfect moment for me to take in his appearance. His muscles strain against the skin-tight, black t-shirt he’s wearing. His grey sweatpants are a stark contrast to anything I’ve ever seen him wearing in the media.
I bite into my pickle again, and his gaze finds mine as the sound fills the room. “So, what were you actually looking for?” I ask.
He observes me, and I want the chair to swallow me whole because it’s the first time I notice just how piercing his gaze is. In the moonlight, I’d be inclined to believe his eyes were grey instead of green with just how light they are. His entire demeanour gives off the perfect boy next door vibe, especially with his long, fluffy curls and thick, black-framed glasses, but those eyes scream danger.
“You never answered me. Does that really taste good?” he repeats his earlier question, still clearly fascinated by my snack. His accent is a lot clearer now that I’m paying attention to his actual words, and if his voice is this deep in English, I wonder what he sounds like speaking Italian.
No, I shouldn’t be wondering about that.
“Yes, it actually does. Want to try it?” I extend my hand with the pickle covered in peanut butter.
“Maybe next time,” he says, his face contorting in disgust as he looks down at the other items on the desk.
“So…what did you do?” I turn the question back to him, since he seems to be avoiding all my other advances to find out why he is in the study right now.
“You don’t know?” He folds his arms across his broad chest, putting his biceps on display. I bring my can of soda to my mouth in the hopes of covering my staring.
“Not a clue, just got thrown in the deep end.” I shrug.
He stays silent for a while, and for a second, I think he’ll tell me, but instead, he asks, “Can you swim?”
“I should be asking you that. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
“With you or your father?”
“Both.” I shrug.
“Well, you’re eating pickles and peanut butter, so I’m somehow more worried about you.” The slightest trace of a smirk plays on his lips.
“Good, you should be,” I say.
“So you like cowboy romances?” He picks up my book.
“No, what makes you say that?” I ask, feeling slightly flustered. I reach to grab the book from him, but he’s faster and holds it above his head.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the shirtless man on the cover wearing a cowboy hat or the title being Whiskey Kisses ,” he says, not even hiding his chuckle as I practically try to climb the man in front of me in the hopes of retrieving my shamelessly spicy book.
This is why I prefer discreet covers.
“Does your father know you sneak down to his office in the middle of the night to read your dirty little romance books?” His eyes meet mine, and a grin pulls on his lips. It only fuels my attempts to retrieve the book. “Oh, it must be really naughty if you’re this desperate to get it back.” He laughs.
The sound is so strange, so deep, so alluring that I completely freeze mid-attempt. Then, it suddenly dawns on me just how close we are. I’m pressed firmly against his chest, my arm holding onto his shoulder for support as I reach up to grab the book.
He must realise it as well, because his laugh stops, the smile on his lip drops completely. He’s so close I can feel his breath fan my face, his scent invading my nose. It’s clean and crisp, like someone who just took a shower. Fresh and almost minty with a hint of jasmine and lavender, meaning his earlier lie of looking for the bathroom was even stupider since it’s very evident he just took a shower.
I move away from him quickly, flopping back into the seat and pulling my blanket over me again. He observes the book again and briefly opens it to where my bookmark is. I fight every instinct in me to not reach for it again.
“Hmm…” He smirks before putting it down in front of me. “So if you don’t like cowboy romances—as you claim—what do you like?” He raises a brow, his eyes pouring into mine again.
I’m not used to men holding eye contact with me. I learnt at a very early age that boys, even men, feared my father to such an extent that they would rather look at the floor than even dare meet my eyes, but here he stands. Fearless, as if looking into my eyes is the easiest thing in the world for him.
“Uhm…” My words stall as I try to think about what exactly my favourite sub-genre of romance would be. The words never form because suddenly, I realize the common denominator of my five star romances.
Billionaires.
Can’t tell one of the youngest billionaires in Europe that. Especially not when this one is supposed to be my husband in less than a few days.
“Probably mafia, it feels the most realistic,” I say instead, and the smirk returns to his lips. Then he simply turns and starts walking towards the door.
“Where are you going?” I all but jump to ask, but quickly settle back into the chair, hoping I didn’t seem too eager with my question.
“To take a cold shower. I told you I was looking for the bathroom.”
“You’re a psychopath. Who takes cold showers?”
“Someone who’s hot.” The dual meaning of his words settles over me, and my mouth falls agape slightly. “Besides, you shouldn’t be worried about my shower temperature unless you plan to join me.”
“In your dreams.” I pick up and open my book again. “But don’t worry, your horrible sense of direction is safe with me.”
He stops and looks over his shoulder. “So is your secret reading spot.”
And with that, he’s gone, along with any desire I have to finish this cowboy romance because the only man consuming my thoughts is Antonio Vitale.