6. Caleb
Chapter 6
Caleb
“ I t means you’re not most women. Far from it. You’re the most elegant, classy woman I know, and I mingle in the upper class. You carry yourself with a confidence that is so damn attractive I have to tame the fucking animal in me.”
Not sure why I’m referring to our last disastrous encounter. “But as soon as you open your mouth and spit venom at me, the attraction is void. So no, Celeste Delacroix, you’re not most women. You’re my sister’s best friend, and I’ll have to suffer your existence for a bit longer.”
Her cheeks pinken slightly, and her lips part. And now I’m wondering what her just-fucked face looks like.
She glares at me, motionless. It’s admirable how she can be so completely still. It’s also unnerving. The silence stretches, filled with loaded energy.
Why do I lose my manners every time I interact with this woman? Why can’t I just help her out and go about my day?
She licks her lips, and I swear it’s in slow motion. I shove my hands into my pockets and shift my weight from one foot to another.
Is she going to pretend she’s a statue?
“You see, Caleb,” she speaks like I’m five years old, “that right there is the reason we should not spend more time together.”
We shouldn’t spend time together. She’s right, and not only because I keep insulting her. “I’m sure my lawyer can come up with a solution that will handle that concern for you.”
She stares for several more beats, probably considering all the ways she could get rid of my body.
I stare right back, half wondering what the fuck I’m still doing here and half imagining what I can do with her pinned against the wall.
It’s official. I’m completely unhinged around this woman. And the worst part is, I suspect my reasons for taunting her are simple. She doesn’t fall at my feet like all other women.
It’s like when I got my driver’s license and I wanted to drive Finn’s red Ferrari, but he wouldn’t let me. The challenge of getting him to relent was thrilling.
Only now I’m older, and I should be wiser. I should put my ego aside and stop fantasizing about a woman who clearly wants nothing to do with me. And yet the level of maturity I exhibit here is concerning.
She sighs, breaks our gaze, and turns to open a drawer in what I assume is her kitchen. It’s really just a line of drawers below a sink and a stove with two cupboards above it.
She rummages through the drawer that houses all sorts of things besides cutlery. She shuts it and moves on to the next one.
“Merde.”
Shit, that accent. I shift from foot to foot again. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for my passport.” She scowls.
What? Jesus, this woman doesn’t cease to surprise me. And not in a good way. “You don’t know where your passport is?”
She doesn’t answer, but continues with her frantic search. She opens the first cabinet, and my eyes widen. Instead of dishes, the whole cavity is stuffed with books.
Celeste pulls them out in stacks of three or four and shuffles through them before returning them. They’re not novels, as I would assume, but business and finance books.
The second kitchen cupboard is a library as well. This time, the shelves are stuffed with fiction.
I open my mouth to ask about the books, but I stop myself. Better let her focus on her task so I can get out of here.
After she’s done in the kitchenette, she moves to a line of purses under her clothes rack.
As she squats to the ground, the ends of the robe slide back, exposing her legs. Even though the woman is soft in all the right places, the hours of dancing clearly molded her legs.
If those legs didn’t belong to this particular woman, I’d love to dig my fingers into her skin and throw them over my shoulders—
I need to distract myself. “You’re not very organized.”
Again, such a gentleman.
Leaning back on her haunches, she gives me her best murderous look. Fuck, she’s hot.
“I’m sorry I don’t have the map.” She tilts her head, her lips curling up.
“Map?” Is she high? I focus on her eyes, but they’re as green as ever.
“So you could locate your manners. You’re ogling again, Caleb. ”
“Well, it’s not like I can look anywhere else in this shoebox.” I glare, keeping my gaze on her face, but that doesn’t help.
I still glimpse the rope opening slightly, a flash of black bra haunting me.
I need to get laid. Pronto. And get as far from Celeste Delacroix as possible. There must be some other way to help her that doesn’t require our closeness.
Shaking her head slightly, she returns to her task. Like she’s finally figured out there’s no point in responding to my insults.
Which is a win. I think. It doesn’t feel like one though.
I lean against the door and stare anywhere but at her. My gaze lands on a sketch framed on the wall. “You have an original Cassinetti drawing?”
She looks at the wall as if to confirm we’re talking about the same thing. “Yes.”
“Where did you get it?” These were auctioned by surprise at a charity gala. Was she there? I don’t remember seeing her that night.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t steal it.” She scoffs.
Our conversation is as delightful as ever. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just I see you also have a Philip Turner original.” I refer to a painting on the other wall. “They probably cost more than this apartment. ”
“So? Art is a great investment.” She turns around, grabs another purse, and shakes it.
“So is the real estate. Wouldn’t you rather buy a bigger place?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business,” she retorts. “Enfin.” She pulls her passport from the last purse.
She stands up and straightens her robe. Handing me the passport, she hesitates for a moment and pulls it back, clutching it to her chest. “Why are you doing this?”
I scratch the back of my neck. Fuck if I know. “I can’t say no to Saar.”
With wariness etched on her face and her brow furrowed, she tilts her head. “That seems a heavy burden,” she says with sarcasm.
“Have you met my sister?”
“Hey, you can insult me, but not my best friend.”
I chuckle. Celeste isn’t just hot, she’s loyal. The concept disturbs me, because the last thing I need is to notice positive traits about her.
“Look, I hate what my father did to you and many other people, so I guess I’m trying to fix some of it.”
“Yes, but this is not on your conscience. I should have been on top of my visa.”
I clutch my chest and pretend to stumble, finding purchase with my other arm against the door. “A rare moment of self-awareness.”
“Fuck you, Caleb. I don’t have time for this. I’m due for my last performance” —her voices hitches as she looks at the small golden watch on her wrist—“in half an hour. I’m just wondering, what do you have to gain from this?”
Now it’s my turn to stare in silence, because that question is valid. And the answer is nothing .
But that’s what it looked like when I started helping others who my father wronged. At the end of the day, the opposite has been true.
I started fixing his mistakes because I was deeply ashamed of what he did—the lies, the cheating, the abuse of power—but to be honest, it was a selfish mission. I wanted to feel better about where I came from. And I gained way more.
For some reason I redirect the focus, because the pathetic hurt boy in me wants to know why she doesn’t like me. Why she didn’t like me when we first met.
“When was the first time you saw me, Celeste?”
She flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, and she composes herself quickly. I can’t say if she flinched at the sudden change of topic or because she does remember our first brief meeting, and all this time she’s been pretending it never happened.
“I’m not a charity case,” she snaps, ignoring my question again.
Guilty as charged, then. She must remember me.
“And yet… you’re desperate for my help.” Scoring points like a pro here. Christ. But if she can pretend we didn’t meet ten years ago…
She winces. “Not desperate enough.”
Stubborn woman. I want to help, but I won’t force it on anyone. “Okay.” I toss her passport to her bed and leave without looking back.