2. Anton
Chapter 2
Anton
My knuckles whiten against the steering wheel as I drive back to my townhouse. Scarlett’s perfume fills the car—a gentle mix of vanilla and something floral I can’t place.
She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. A sideways glance catches her profile. Those full pink lips curved up in a slight smile. The streetlights paint shadows across her face, highlighting her cheekbones before my gaze lowers to her Eiffel Tower print tee-shirt, and then I see the whisper of fabric over her bare legs.
I snap my eyes back to the road.
Focus on driving. Focus on anything else.
I grip tighter. She tests every ounce of self-control.
“Your place is in a lovely area.” Her voice breaks the tension as we pull into my driveway.
“You’ve been before,” I tell her. Clenching my jaw. “And I like the area because it’s a short commute to the office.” My words come out rougher than intended.
She turns toward me, and I feel her gaze on my face. I also feel as her eyes roam down my body, and it’s like the touch is real. I wish it was real. “Must be convenient.”
The garage door rolls up, and I park with mechanical precision, but my heart is beating erratically as I wonder how this week will go.
I agreed without question when her parents asked if she could stay with me. I wanted her in my home. Now I’m not so sure.
Leading her inside my house, I head straight for the wine rack. I need something to calm my nerves.
The familiar ritual of uncorking the bottle steadies my hands. She stares as I pour myself a glass.
“You can’t drink,” I tell her.
“I drink all the time,” she answers. “My parents have never stopped me.”
I sigh. “Do you like red?”
“Love it.”
I grab another glass, pour her a glass of wine, and hand it to her. Her eyes are on mine as she accepts the glass, our fingers brushing. The contact causes a fluttering of goosebumps to pop up over my arm.
She lifts the glass to her mouth, her lips purse over the rim as she takes a sip.
Oh fuck!
“Perfect.”
“I’ll get us something to eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You need something to eat if you’re drinking.”
I keep myself busy in the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the fridge. The knife moves in steady chops against the cutting board while pasta water boils.
Anything to keep my hands occupied, my mind focused.
Anything to stop me from staring at her. At her lips. But every few moments, our eyes meet across the counter, and when her lips touch the glass, I forget what I’m doing.
She sets down her glass. “Do you need any help?”
“I’ve got it.” But she’s already rounded the counter, reaching past me for herbs on the windowsill. Her arm grazes mine, and we both freeze. The kitchen feels too small, too warm.
Her breath catches, and I can’t look away from her face.
“I’m making this awkward, aren’t I?” she says. “Look, I apologize for trying to kiss you at the wedding. I just thought…you know…with the Christmas theme and everything, that kissing you under the mistletoe was normal.”
“It was,” I grunt.
She shakes her head. “Jade told me how inappropriate it was and—”
“Scarlett. It’s fine.” I want to tell her how much I wanted to kiss her properly. To open my mouth, plunge against hers and kiss her like she was mine. But with everyone’s eyes on us, I could only kiss her on her cheek.
“I promise I won’t make it awkward while I’m here. I can sleep at my friend’s home.”
My jaw clenches. “What do you mean, sleep at a friend’s home?”
“Mom said I should try not to be a burden.” Scarlett’s eyes drop to the floor. “That I should give you space and maybe stay with Hetty sometimes, so you don’t have to deal with—”
“Deal with what?” The knife clatters against the cutting board. “You’re not some stray cat they’re pawning off.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing.” Blood pounds in my ears. The thought of her mother making her feel unwanted, making her think she needs to tiptoe around my home... “This is ridiculous.”
“Mom just wants me to be proper. She said young ladies shouldn’t impose and—”
I can’t listen to it any more. My hands find her arms, gripping just firm enough to stop her nervous fidgeting. The contact shoots fire through my veins, and she gasps, those blue eyes wide as they meet mine.
Kiss her. The thought pounds through my head. She’s so close, and with those lips parted, she looks like she is waiting.
One move and I’ll show her exactly how welcome she is here.
But I can’t. Not like this.
I swallow hard. “You are welcome in my home. You deserve to have someone look after you, and that is what I’m going to do.”
Her breath catches, a small sound that nearly breaks my resolve. I force myself to release her arms, step back, putting space between us before I do something we’ll both regret.
But the way she looks at me—like I’ve given her the world with those simple words—makes me wonder if either of us would regret it at all.
I turn back to the stove, stirring the pasta. “How’s your studying going?”
“Good, I’m on track. Though I want what Jade has too.”
“Oh?” The wooden spoon circles the pot.
“I want a baby.”
The spoon slips from my grip, clattering against the pot. Heat floods my body at her words, at the image they conjure. “What about law school?”
“That’s Dad’s dream, but I can have both.” Her wine glass clicks against the counter. “And I’m scared I’ll find it hard to conceive.”
“You’re only nineteen. You’ve got plenty of time to worry about that.”
“I overheard Mom talking to Jade a couple of years ago. Telling her she needed to get moving with a baby because of her struggles...”
I nod, trying to keep my hands steady as I fish out the spoon.
“Mom... she struggled to have us. Multiple miscarriages before Jade until they were successful conceiving her via IVF. Then I was their surprise baby, four years later, after giving up on more children when IVF treatment never worked again. She pushed Jade to start early, worried the same issues might run in the family.”
My throat tightens. “And you’re worried?”
“Terrified.” Her voice cracks. “What if I wait too long? What if I can’t... And why hasn’t my mother had the same conversation with me? Don’t I matter?”
I abandon the stove, turning to face her. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and my chest aches.
“Do you want them?”
She nods. “Do you?”
“Of course I do.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
“Then why did you never have any?” she asks.
I smile. “I’m still young enough.”
As the pasta bubbles behind me, forgotten, her question stirs up the dreams I’d pushed aside, waiting for the right person.
Her eyes lock with mine. “You’d have gorgeous kids.” There’s no mistaking the heat in her gaze. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I swallow, and turn away as my pulse thunders in my ears. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.” I busy myself with plating, but my hands shake.
As we sit at the kitchen island, her fork twirls pasta with deliberate slowness. But it’s when a small sound of pleasure eludes her throat as she takes her first bite that I think her mother is right—I need her to stay with her friends as much as possible.
This is torture. Sweet, exquisite torture.
“This is amazing.” She leans closer, and her scent overwhelms me. “You’re full of surprises. I never thought you’d cook from scratch.”
“Thanks,” I grunt in response, forcing myself to focus on my plate as she makes more murmurs and I wonder what other noises she’ll make.
God, I’m screwed.
I take a mouthful of food as I steal a glance at her. Seeing the way her hair falls forward when she bends over her food, how her lips curve into a smile when she catches me looking.
When the meal ends, I can’t decide if I’m delighted or disappointed, but I think it’s the latter.
She stands, gathering our plates. “Let me help you clean up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
Her hip bumps mine as she rinses off the plates and loads the dishwasher. We work in silence, but the air between us crackles with tension.
I can’t do this. Can’t act on these feelings. Her father trusts me. She’s nineteen, for God’s sake. But watching her reach up to put away a wine glass, the stretch of her body...
“I should get some sleep.” She touches my arm lightly. “Thank you for dinner. And...everything else.”
I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to speak.
She pauses at the kitchen doorway. “Goodnight, Anton.”
“Goodnight, Scarlett.” The words come out rougher than intended.
I climb the stairs, my footsteps heavy on the wooden treads as the day catches up with me. But I know it’s not working. It’s the tension, the wine, the constant awareness of her presence.
A shower and sleep sound perfect right now.
The bathroom door opens. Scarlett steps out in tiny silk shorts and a matching camisole that leaves little to imagination. The fabric clings to curves I shouldn’t notice, shouldn’t appreciate, but I do, and my body betrays me with an immediate response.
I avert my eyes, but not before glimpsing long legs and the hint of cleavage. She’s your best friend’s daughter, I remind myself. The thought doesn’t help as much as it should.
“The water pressure is amazing,” she says, running fingers through damp hair that curls against her neck.
I grunt a response, not trusting my voice. The hallway feels too narrow, the air too thick.
She pads toward her room, bare feet silent on the lush carpet. At her door, she pauses, turns back to face me. The dim light catches the sheen of her lips as she bites the lower one.
“I’ll be quiet as a mouse while I’m here.” She lifts her hand to her mouth and pretends to lock it with a zipper.
My hands clench at my sides. “I’ve already told you that my home is your home, Scarlett.”
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning that I shouldn’t acknowledge. She lingers for a moment longer, those blue eyes searching my face before she slips into her room.
I wait until I hear her bedroom door click before letting out a shaky breath.
This week is going to be hell.