Chapter 15
Willow
I watch the dark clouds roll across the sky as one of my customers finally leaves, the gloomy weather mirroring my mood perfectly. I’m not even sure what I feel—some messy cocktail of sadness, confusion, embarrassment, and simmering anger.
“He seriously pulled back from kissing you? Is he an idiot?” Quinn bursts out, eyes wide, hands flailing as if the answer should be obvious.
I sigh, turning to her. Quinn's expression is pure indignation, a mix of confusion and barely contained fury. “I think I’m the idiot, honestly. At least I know he doesn't see me that way.” I shrug, sinking into the chair with a heavy exhale, trying to make my heartache seem smaller.
Quinn scoffs, snatching up her Kindle and waving it like a flag.
“Nuh huh, babe. He so likes you. Who wouldn't? You're banging, for crying out loud, and this just proves that men are idiots—no matter the age.
I've read this a thousand times in books. They try to play the good guy, especially after the girl they like has been through a shit time.”
I frown.
“And you are someone who is going through some shit,” she continues, pacing a little.
“He thinks backing off is the right thing?
Wrong. Totally and completely wrong. It's classic men's moral bullshit. What he should be doing is bending you over the kitchen table and fucking you till you can’t remember your own name.”
Her words die before she can carry on with her rambling as a sharp clearing of a throat cuts through the air. Quinn turns, and I stand in unison to see a customer standing near us, eyebrows raised, lips pursed, tapping her fingers impatiently against the glass.
Not gonna lie, that makes me twitch as I just cleaned them half an hour ago.
The filthy look she's giving us says more than words ever could.
Quinn looks her up and down slowly, clearly irritated at being interrupted.
“Do you mind? I’m in the middle of a very important conversation, and you very obviously want to order one of those over-complicated, half-oat-milk, half-whatever with extra foam and a shot of coffee I have no energy to make. ”
I immediately bury my face in my hands with a groan.
The woman huffs and storms off without a word.
“Anyway,” Quinn says brightly, as if nothing happened. “Where was I?”
I look up at her, deadpan. “You would not have a job if your aunts didn't own this cafe.”
She grins, completely unbothered.
Yesterday, I genuinely thought she owned the place. Turns out it's her aunts—they raised her. I can't wait to meet them, in all honesty, just to see where Quinn gets her sparkling, crazy personality from.
“You wouldn't have a job either, so be thankful. Now shush, I don't like it when you're sad, so we need to make him jealous.”
Before I can protest, she grabs my hands and yanks me upright, spinning me once for dramatic effect.
“I have the perfect dress for you,” she declares. “We go out tonight, have a good time, get you a guy to flirt with—or you could just let me have another go. I didn't exactly get to enjoy these properly last time,” she squeezes my boobs, and I yelp, smacking her hands away.
“Quinn,” I scold, though the smile betrays me.
“I would say I’m sorry,” she grins unapologetically, “but I’m really not.
Come out with me. Make it known you're going out and where. He’ll get all jealous and growly, come find you, and storm over like a caveman, throwing you over his shoulder and dragging you outside to spank you for being a naughty girl. ”
“Absolutely not,” I cut in. “You read way too many romance books. You do realise none of that is real, right?”
She gasps, clutching her chest like I've committed a crime. “Excuse you. You should be thanking those books for the Olympic-level tongue work I performed that night. How else do you think I managed to make you cum three times?”
A loud throat clears beside us, again.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I turn to see an older man this time—bushy eyebrows, curled moustache, pointed nose, and looking deeply offended by existence itself.
Quin seriously needs a no-filter warning label.
“Don't look at me like that, Ratatouille.” Quinn squints at him. “Those caterpillars on your face are making her uncomfortable.”
I clap a hand over her mouth. “Please ignore her; your eyebrows are great, not slug-like at all,” I say quickly. “Can I get you anything?”
The man sneers, spits on the floor, and storms out, aggressively rubbing at his eyebrows.
My eyes widen. He actually spat on the floor. I genuinely thought Quinn had been exaggerating when she told me people did that here. Well, I think I've seen everything now.
She licks my palm, and I squeal, wiping my hand frantically on my jeans.
“I am so sick of customers thinking they can interrupt me.” She leans over the counter to inspect the spit. “I’m not cleaning that. The next person who thinks it's okay to butt in on my conversation can slip on it and learn a valuable lesson.”
I stare at her for a long moment.
This is going to be a very long day.
This is a terrible idea.
The absolute worst.
It won't work. He doesn't feel that way about me. I know he cares, but it's probably out of obligation. I’m Leon's daughter and his son's sister. Nothing more than that.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Still, after hours of Quinn talking nonstop, wearing me down piece by piece, I finally caved.
Her reaction was… dramatic. The little happy dance she did nearly ended up with her ripping her top off in the middle of the cafe, and I had to physically wrestle it back down while she cackled like a witch.
You wouldn't think we've only known each other for two days. It feels like she's always been there—loud, unfiltered, and impossible to ignore. Growing up, I never really had any friends, and I told myself I was fine with that. I believed it too.
Now I realise I missed out.
“Okay, I can do this,” I whisper to myself, smoothing down the deep red dress Quinn let me borrow.
It clings shamelessly to every curve, pushing my boobs up so high I’m mildly concerned it might reach my chin.
Alright, I might be exaggerating, but they are high.
The dress barely covers my ass, equal parts terrifying and empowering.
I steal a quick glance at my reflection in the mirror by the stairs.
My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, the effort with it despite the mild arm ache.
Light brown eyeshadow, a clean line of eyeliner—my flick is perfect, even if it took five attempts and a near eye-poking incident to get here.
Deep red lipstick stands out boldly against my pale skin, making me look far braver than I feel.
Peering down, I check that the delicate straps of my black heels are still secure, take a steadying breath, and straighten my shoulders.
Right.
I've got this.
I just need to pull up my big-girl knickers—well, in this case, my big-girl thongs—and actually do this. Make him jealous. Or at least get him to admit how he feels… or why he pulled away from me last night.
I head downstairs, palms slightly damp—God, gross. Pull yourself together, Willow.
I can hear him talking, probably on the phone. River is out at a team meal, and Rose is busy with her usual gaggle of gossip-hungry friends.
He laughs loudly.
It's deep and rough around the edges, the kind of sound that settles low and makes my thighs clench before I can stop it. I could listen to that laugh all day. Every day.
I step into the room and spot him sprawled in the chair, legs parted, one hand loosely cradling a beer, the other holding his phone to his ear. His cap is still on, shadowing his face, hiding that dark, slightly too-long hair I ache to run my fingers through.
He looks up mid-laugh and freezes.
The sound cuts off instantly as his eyes widen, tracking me slowly, from head to toe. My skin tingles. I can't tell if he likes what he sees or if I've just made a terrible mistake, and not knowing is killing me.
Say something. Anything.
I’m usually confident. I don't crumble like this.
But apparently, I do with him.
I really wish he would break the silence before I melt into a nervous puddle right in front of him.
“Um, Ethan, I need to call you back,” he says slowly, then hangs up and lets the phone fall onto the cushion beside him.
My stomach twists and flips. I chew the inside of my cheek, suddenly hyperaware of everything. “Sorry,” I mumble, instantly regretting disturbing him. “I didn't mean to interrupt your call. I just wanted to ask if I looked okay.”
God, I never sound like this. I’m not this girl. I shouldn't have agreed to Quinn's stupid plan.
He clears his throat, gaze still fixed on me. “Where are you going?” he asks, voice measured, “dressed like that?”
Elijah leans forward slightly, eyes dragging over me with intent, and I can't decide if that's a good sign or a very bad one. He didn't answer my question. That feels… telling.
“I’m going out with Quinn,” I say, lifting my chin a fraction, trying to reclaim some of my confidence.
His jaw tightens. “You can't go out dressed like that.”
Oh my goodness, he really doesn't like it.
“Why not?” I ask. “I think the dress is pretty.”
It really is. Maybe a little on the slutty side, but it makes me feel good—confident even.
“I’m not saying it isn't, but one wrong move and you'll be flashing your ass to half the room. Someone's going to get the wrong idea—that you're looking for more than just a dance tonight.”
He stands, all quiet authority and broad shoulders; the air between us tightens. “Go and change.”
Oh. No.
That wasn't part of the plan. He was supposed to like it—not tell me what to do.
I straighten, planting my feet. “I’m not changing, Elijah. I like the dress, and I’m keeping it on.” I hold his gaze, unflinching.
No way am I backing down—no matter how much he looks like he's seconds away from ripping the dress off himself, and part of me really wants him to, even if it is wrong.
“You're not leaving this house until you change.”
I cross my arms, irritation flaring hot and fast. “And who do you think you are?” I snap. “I’m twenty years old, Elijah. I’m not a child for you to order around. I’m not your child.”
“No, you aren’t, but I’m the only adult here who actually gives a shit about you. Dressing like that is going to attract the wrong kind of attention. So go and change. I won't repeat myself.”
Any lingering shyness evaporates instantly.
Oh, absolutely not.
“How dare you?” I say, heat rushing through me. “You don't get to dictate what I wear or tell me I’m a child. So, no, I fucking won't.”
He clearly doesn't have any feelings for me if he thinks I’m a child.
His eyes darken as he closes the distance between us. “Don't be a brat, Willow.”
“I’ll do whatever the hell I want,” I fire back. “You don't get to order me around. If I want to dress like this, I will. If I want to slap you across the face, I will. And if I want to go out and have an orgy, then I will.” I prod his chest. “You are not my dad.”
The words hang heavy the second they leave my mouth.
I press my lips together, realising I've gone too far. His expression shifts, jaw locking, the skin between his brows creasing as anger flashes across his face.
“Never accuse me of trying to act like your dad. But I’m not letting you out of this house dressed like that. Do you think Leon would be okay with this?”
I raise a hand instantly. “Don't,” I warn. “You don't get to use my dad in an argument.”
Regret flickers across his face—brief, unmistakable—but he still doesn't back down.
The sight of it only makes everything worse.
This whole thing has turned into a complete mess.
The plan didn't make him jealous. Didn't make him confess anything.
All it did was turn him into someone who thinks he gets to control me.
I hate that more than anything.
“Is this because of last night?” He asks. A short, disbelieving laugh slips out as he carries on. “Is that why you're acting like this?”
I bristle. “Acting up?”
Unbelievable.
I want to stamp on his foot with my heels.
“I’m not a child. I’m angry because you think you get to tell me what to do. Newsflash, you don't.”
I take a breath, feeling sick. “You can sit here and wait for your precious family to get home,” I add coldly. “But I’m going out with Quinn.”
I turn away before he can respond, snatching my phone and purse from the side table. He calls my name, but I block it out, my pulse roaring in my ears.
I don't look back.
I’m too hurt.
Too angry.
And far too determined not to let him see just how much this has killed me.