Chapter 3
“ T hese are beautiful.”
Naimah sits in her cubicle. Her niqab covering her from head to toe, all I could see were her beautiful grey eyes. Which are sparkling from the bouquet I’ve handed to her.
“Thank you, Naimah.” She stares down at the roses and baby’s breath. Red roses are always the perfect choice for a new bride. It reminds them of love, their new life, and the endless possibilities that are to come for them. “Consider it a gift for the wedding I couldn’t make it to.”
She places the flowers down. “Don’t even worry about it. Uncle Salman started shaking his butt on the dance floor and it wasn’t a pleasant sight.”
“Ah, dammit. I would’ve loved seeing him get his boogie on.” I do a quick shake of the hips which makes Naimah chuckle.
After a few more pleasantries and a whole lot of flowers, I head towards the front desk to Gregory. His eyes are squinted and he’s using his whole face to focus on whatever it is he’s doing with his index fingers clicking against the keyboard .
I take out the purple chrysanthemum and place it on Gregory’s desk. He looks up and huffs. “Nova, child. How many times have I told you I don’t want flowers?”
Once, in the beginning. But ever since I secretly saw him eyeing everyone else’s flowers with longing in his eyes, I couldn’t resist.
The old man is grumpy and rude, but deep down he’s a sweetheart. I bet he pulls each petal off and sticks it in a journal somewhere.
“I know you said that, Greg. But giving you flowers makes me happy.”
“Find your happiness elsewhere,” he says while smelling the flowers.
“Is Mr. Vuk in?” I ask even though he’s too busy to give me any attention.
The old man nods. “That one’s in a mood.”
When isn’t he? Hence, why I gave him the name, Ogre.
It’s when I knock against the opaque door that I realize my hands are still sticky from the popsicle.
A rough, gravelly, “Come in” emanates from the other side.
I push the door open and come to a complete halt when I see the imposing man on the other side.
He looks bigger, somehow. Like he dwarfs the whole black desk in front of him.
Swirls of black ink on his right hand swallow the mouse while one corner of his lip is turned upward in some kind of sexy snarl.
A strand of light brown hair falls over his eye while he does whatever it is that he’s doing.
In the right light, you could see hints of blonde.
“Mr. Vuk?”
He shuts his eyes like my presence is bothersome and he’d rather chuck me out the window.
I pull my lips into my mouth, digging my teeth into the bottom one.
It isn’t often I deal with people who hate me.
My smiles don’t work on him and neither do my thrown back, dad jokes.
Well, okay those do suck but at least I’m trying to eradicate some humour out of him.
He opens his eyes and looks up to the right of me. I sidestep to be the core of his viridians and smile. “You asked to see me?”
His jaw clenches and gruffs, “I did.”
My smile quivers but I put my big girl pants on and force it still.
When I move closer to his desk, the man shoots up from his chair, making it fall backwards.
My smile falls and I blink stupidly.
Maybe he’s one of those guys that can’t be around girls.
Pulling my lips back up, I stay where I am.
Dean's hands are stiffly fisted at his sides.
Silence beckons between us. Fixating on our statures of being and pulling apart all logical words.
Ever since I moved to Toronto, I haven’t been quiet.
Mostly because when I lived back in Cornwall, my sisters have always done the talking for me.
I had no choice but to talk for myself here.
But whenever I’m around Dean— Mr. Vuk —the silence reappears.
Except, unlike how it is when I’m with my sisters, this silence has a voice.
It’s like it becomes the words and I can relax myself into this wordless pattern we’re in.
He has a presence to him. An aura if you will.
Dean Vuk is the kind of man your mother tells you to stay away from. He’s a bad boy personified. Not in the Wattpad kind of way, but in the quiet, dangerous, attractive way.
Compared to his brothers, he’s quiet. But that didn’t make him any less dominating. One step into his shadow and you’re swallowed whole.
He’s deliberate, smart, and unacceptably hot. It makes my insides tingle like I used the wrong kind of oil on my scalp.
One day, I’d get him to smile .
No one can resist Nova, not even ogre over here.
His eyes pull away the layers on my skin and scan me in critical ways, as if he’s searching for a reason to kick me out of his office.
If I wasn’t a professional, I’d stick my tongue out.
But since he is my client, I decide to be mature.
“Mr. Vuk?” I ask once again, swallowing hard.
“No,” he says.
“No?” My face pulls back into a weird expression, somewhere between the lines of smiling and grimacing. Not sure, actually.
“I called you,” he gruffs.
“Yes?” I repeat because apparently that’s all I can do right now.
More silence.
Patience, Nova. I hum before speaking. “Was there something important you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Even if there isn’t,” I continued. “I’m totally open to talking about whatever. I like flowers, which you know. We can talk about how they grow. Or we can talk about how Sabrina Carpenter’s fits have been eating on her Short n’ Sweet Tour. I’m not picky about what we talk about.”
This time, I have to force myself to look away from his stare because holy. Intense .
It might have been the trick of the light, but the corner of Dean’s eyes slightly squinted.
My heart is hammering. Fluttering. Catapulting to another universe.
While that man over there is calm and collected, completely aloof to my insides melting against the simmering sensation of whatever hotness I’m feeling.
“Right,” he clears his throat. The sound of his voice sounds exotic.
As if he was a singer or some kind of rockstar in his past life.
It has an edge to it. An edge and a rasp and a thousand different sounds that somehow translate to my ears as my new favourite ( possibly ).
“I wanted to give you this,” he speaks slowly like he’s getting a taste of the syllables.
He pulls out a card from his drawer—something shiny and gold—before walking towards me.
My feet move on their accord and as he rounds the table, I’m at eyeline with his Adam’s apple. Up close, he’s tall. Annoyingly tall. Too tall to be considered human.
Ogre, indeed.
I’d need a stool, maybe two, if I wanted to kiss him without heels.
Not that I wanted to.
He’s a client.
This is just a comparison, you know?
To help get a clear picture of how tall this man is.
He extends the card out to me.
And then I feel it.
My hand.
Seriously, Nova? You couldn’t have washed your damn hands?
I hide it behind my back before taking the card with my non-sticky hand. “Sorry about that,” I wave the card. “I ate a popsicle earlier and forgot to wash my hands because I got scared of being late. If you’re offended, I totally get it. I would be too.”
Growing up, I’ve been taught not to take or give things with your left hand. It’s considered ill-mannered and disrespectful.
Consider me all of the above.
“It’s fine.” Dean says curtly while looking at me with those unnerving malachite eyes of his.
He takes out something from the inside of his suit jacket.
The sudden action forces me to focus on the chest hair peeking out and the way his pecs struggle to stay within the grounds of his shirt.
If he took a deep breath, the buttons would pop open. I’m sure of it.
I jump when his hand gently grabs my wrist over the material of my shirt. He rips open the white wrapper with his teeth before taking out the wet wipe. Warmth relishes through me when he lifts my hand to be at eye level with his.
He looks at me, a question in his eyes. My mouth falls open because why is this so hot? I nod with permission.
With careful precision, he wipes at the sticky hand.
Electrifying shocks plummet across our skin when his other hand cups mine from the bottom.
Calluses , a whole ton of them.
Through the molds of our existence in each other’s space, his touch sinks into me like a drug itching for its own addiction.
I’m staring at him with wide eyes, I’m sure.
His tattooed hand works slowly with intense focus, like he’s doing the most important task in the world instead of wiping popsicle residue off.
Colourless vines start from his index finger and float over his knuckles and cover the upside of his hand.
They continue onwards, under his sleeve.
Does he have the same tattoos he has on his hand?
“Thank you.” It comes out breathless and weird, but he doesn’t notice.
He moves back, colliding with the edge of his table. “You’re welcome.”
Letting air in my lung with a deep, inaudible breath, I wave the card up again with a blinding smile. “So, what is this for?”
“Fifth anniversary,” he grumbles while discarding the wipe in a bin. He moves to grab something else from the pocket. It’s like Mary Poppin’s bag up in there. Next thing you know, he’ll take out a ring, get down on one knee, and surprise me with a proposal .
Dean takes out a handkerchief from the inside of his jacket. “Wipe it off.”
Okay, so not a ring.
Embarrassment blooms over my cheeks, “Thanks.” I take the cloth from him and roughly wipe at my palms. “Fifth anniversary for what?”
He goes back to his intense frowns. “Vuk Securities.”
I stop wiping. “I don’t work for the company, Mr. Vuk.”
He stares, again . Does he have a staring problem? “It’s your choice.”
Is he closer? I think he’s closer. Or am I closer?
He has a faint scar below his left eye.
His bottom lip is also fuller than his top one, I wonder if someone’s told him that before.
“Will you come?”
My eyes snap up to meet his, confusion filtering my whole body before I realize. “Well, there’ll be free food and music and good vibes, so you can count me in!” I cringe back at my excessive cheeriness and mentally scold myself for it.
Dean—Mr. Vuk, dammit —clenches his jaw. Oh god, he’s mad. He’s pissed. He hates me.
“I appreciate it,” he gruffs out thickly.
Neither of us move or say goodbye.
Physical chemistry sizzles, hyphenates the exhaustion of our individual selves and turns it into something tangible.
It’s only when we hear a knock that we stamper apart.
I’m silently gasping for air because what the hell is wrong with me?
I mutter a quick goodbye, dragging my body out the door and when Gregory says something about the computer hating him, I don’t listen because I’m too busy pressing a hand over my chest and waiting for the uneven breaths to pass.