Chapter 19 #2
Barely holding my breath, “What is it?” I ask. “His favourite flower, what did he say it was?”
Kat shifts, watching me with adept confusion, then with sudden awareness. She reads my perfervid face.
A small smile dips into her cheeks when she says, “Anemone.”
“What the fuck is that?” Hina’s laughing. “Sounds like one of those card games.”
“You are thinking of Anomia, Hina.” Shaan lectures, “That is different.”
“Okay, chill.” She raises a palm to shut him out. “It’s not that deep.”
Shaan looks taken aback by that but doesn’t reply.
But I’m experiencing a new symptom of migraines called heart failure. So yes, it is that deep.
“What is it?” He mutters.
“Have you ever heard of an Anemone?” I ask him, already knowing the answer.
“No.”
Deliberately, he reaches out to take the pot from me only for our hands to brush against each other.
Electric tingles carry up my spine.
Clearing my throat, “Anemone’s are wildflowers, symbolizing protection against evil. Most people—like me—believe that they’re created from Aphrodite’s tears, but a lot of people will tell you that’s not true. They’re not high maintenance flowers, but like you and me, they need to be taken care of.”
He grunts as a reply, looking down at the soil that hasn’t grown yet.
“They’re my favourite.” I chuckle nervously, “I’m not sure when it’ll grow or what kind of colour it’ll be, so please take care of it and tell me when they show.”
“Why?” he asks. And I know he’s not responding to me but asking why him .
Softly, “When Anemones feel that it’s about to rain, they close within themselves.
They don’t cower away, but they do it for protection.
I think that we should learn to do the same—to close ourselves up when we’re faced with moments in life we don’t want.
” Meeting his eyes, “Protecting yourself should never be considered a weakness and it seemed like you needed that reminder more than I did.”
“I’m gonna…” I’m already standing, palms sweaty, wiping it on my thigh while my heavy legs whisk me through the room. I don’t know what I say to them, something about water, or medicine .
When I gave Dean Anemones, it was my second week at Vuk Securities. Heaviness weighed into the way he carried himself, it seemed reasonable at the time.
I never thought they’d become his favourite flowers.
I’m already in front of the kitchen, pausing at the door.
Sunlight shines from outside and right onto Dean’s expansive back.
His biceps, forearms, and rhomboids work as he washes dishes.
Being angry at him doesn’t stop me from ogling his ass in those loose pants.
Dean’s bigger than most men.
It’s a shame he doesn’t wear short sleeves, because I know he’s hiding delicious muscles beneath that shirt. His thumb swipes away at a stain on a plate and even that sends a shiver down my throat to between my legs.
This feeling is new to me. Not that I’ve never been attracted to a man before, but it hasn’t been this intense.
My skin feels warm, hotter than the usual burn from a terrible migraine.
There’s a weird buzz in my chest, determining whether it’d be unethical to jump him on television.
He acts mysterious, quiet, and grouchy. But with every random Dean fact I’m getting, he seems less of an enigma and more of a broody ogre.
Not sure if I want to kiss him or slap him.
He spreads his legs wide enough for me to fit through them and turn my deliciously inappropriate thoughts into actions. I stand back, hoping silence can explain why he is the way he is.
Dean turns the tap off.
Suds trickling down his hand, shoulders hunched up, knots in his back.
His head turns enough to notice me, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.
Fine by me.
I take it as my cue to continue watching him. A plate clanks against a glass. A spoon falls into the sink. I smile, not so controlled anymore, are we?
Leaning against the threshold, his muscles bunch together with each swipe against the dirty plates. His orchestrated movements play out of tune with his body.
A dish clatters into the sink, scattering my thoughts into a wakeless abyss and welcoming back the somewhat muted ear pain.
Attraction does not mean affection, Nova. Don’t let it confuse you.
Clearing my throat, I move around the kitchen until I’m standing in front of a cabinet, reaching up for a glass. I get on my tippy toes. Who puts a glass that high?
Calloused fingers brush against mine, warmth spreads against my ribs and chest.
Dean grabs the glass and fills it with water all while I’m staring wide-eyed.
He hands me water.
Dean shuts the tap. His palms tighten around the counter.
As I’m popping the medicine in my mouth, he turns to look at me.
I prop my hip against the marble top, glass raised to my lips. “What?”
“Don’t go out with him.”
The gall . The actual audacity of this man.
Water spills out of the glass when I slam it on the counter. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” he says .
“ No?” I look up to the ceiling, praying for patience. “You don’t get to come in here,” making a circle around us. “And make my decisions for me. Especially when we don’t know each other like that .”
“We don’t know each other like what?”
Oh, for heck’s sake.
“You’re focusing on the wrong thing.”
“Am I?” He straightens his back with an imposing stance. “You give everyone you don’t know a nickname, lovebird?”
I feel that this is not the time to say yes.
Swallowing hard, “And If I do? At least I don’t go around lying to girls.”
There’s a subtle pang of avoidance in my nerves, but I ignore it. “This whole time, I kept thinking you…” came here for me . “But boy,” I knead my neck. “I was wrong .”
“I never lied to you.” It comes out sharper than I’ve ever heard his voice get.
I snort, “Okay, yeah sure you didn’t.” Walking back and forth between the island and the counter, I knock once, twice, a third time on the marble before pointing an accusing finger at him.
“You telling me to pick you and then running off to pick someone else isn’t lying, okay . Nice to know where your morals stand.”
He fists his hand Mr. Darcy style. “You never let me explain what happened.”
“Because I’m not sure there’s anything for you to explain?—”
“I chose you .” He’s in front of me. He was there and now he’s here, simply a brush away, we’re a breath away from our chests touching. “Every night, I’ve been choosing you.”
A knot untangles in my chest or maybe I’m confusing this relief with the hardened twitch in my jowl. “Except for that night?”
“No,” He alternates looking at my left and right eye, then my mouth, then my nose, my cheek, everything. He’s figuring me out—trying to understand how to fix this. “I picked you even then.”
“Then…” I take a step back, hugging myself.
“It was scripted.” He quickly takes up that space. It’s as if he found the courage to speak and is afraid to lose it. “I didn’t know until they announced it in front of everyone.”
“You couldn’t tell me this then?”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I tried to tell you.”
“You didn’t try enough, Dean.” If he had stopped me, really tried to speak to me despite me acting like a spoiled brat and walking away, we wouldn’t be in this position.
We’ve been walking on eggshells with each other, and it’s been what?
Four weeks, almost? I’ve lost track of time, but the point is…
We could have been… And maybe before Katarina, I’d have known Dean’s favourite flowers.
Why don’t people try when it comes to me? The second I’m in any situation that involves communicating or putting effort in, people walk away like speaking to me takes away all their energy.
“Any girl would have been angry at that moment, but you haven’t once tried to explain again, and it’s been four days.” I say it quietly, losing every sense of myself. Feeling the sharp pain in my body resurface and become apparent again.
“Does it matter?” Dean turns his body away from me.
His posture goes lank. A silent sign of giving up.
Quietly, “Being honest will always matter to me.” I see him and I don’t know what overcomes me.
The way he looks like he needs to be comforted or the way my skin tingles to touch him.
I grab his arm, turning him to face me. “You have to understand, Dean, that even when it’s hard to tell someone the truth about how you’re feeling, you have to. Otherwise, they’ll misunderstand you.”
He eyes the touch. “I’m used to it. ”
“Well, you shouldn’t be.” I drop my hand. The spot on my palm shivers, quakes, electrifies—whatever other adjectives there are—from the physical contact.
“Are we okay now?” It’s gentle, questioning, and commanding all at once.
Rubbing a finger over my brow. “Yes, we’re good.”
“Then you won’t pick Rhys.” Hope creases his tongue.
“Dean, I…” Looking away, “Maybe it’s best if we keep this professional. You’re my client—might as well be considered my boss—and it’s unethical on so many levels.”
He looks at me through his long lashes, eyes darkened. Raspy and rough, “Professional?”
It’s slow, yet I don’t see it coming.
He takes a small step closer and closer, until my back hits the counter. Both hands come down on either side of me.
A shiver runs down my spine. I tell myself it’s because I’m cold. “That’s what I said, yes.”
He leans down. A featherlight touch of his finger slowly runs up my arm. “Does anything about this feel professional to you?”
My breath hitches. “Dean?—”
“There’s nothing professional about how I feel towards you.” His touch finds my hip. “When you smile at everyone but me, there’s this part right here,” he lightly bangs on his chest. “That stings .”
“Use me, Nova.” His palm brands my pelvis. Head dropped on my shoulder. “Love, fun, experience, whatever it is. Can’t it be me ?”
I’m squeezing his biceps, all of me tearing apart because he sounds like he needs me.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt.” We spring apart, or well I try to push Dean away, but he doesn’t seem particularly concerned about the intrusion. He takes his time lifting his head and turning it, all while never loosening his grip on me.
Irene stands at the kitchen door, a knowing tilt to her lips. “I kind of need to talk to both of you about something.”
“Oh,” I try to push Dean away, but he doesn’t budge. “Did we do something wrong?”
“No, no!” She fully enters the kitchen, eyeing both of us. “Just wanted to let you know that the show started airing two weeks ago and people are rooting for you,” she emphasizes by directing her attention at me. “and Rhys and ,” she looks at Dean. “You and Katarina.”
His touch flexes.
I don’t know why, but I cover his hand with my own. “But I haven’t spent much time with Rhys.”
“It’s how the episodes have been edited,” she says with a sigh. “This means we have to play with it, find a way to get you guys?—”
“No,” Dean’s scowling. “I pass.”
“Dean,” I warn. “We signed a contract.”
“Fuck the contract,” he mutters under his breath before rolling his eyes. But then Irene looks at him long and hard—the business, more strict side of her surfacing. Dean isn’t someone to get easily frightened, but they have a silent, knowing conversation that I’m not a part of.
Irene thinks on her feet. “I don’t want to ruin this experience for you, Dean. Let’s see how this works for the ratings and if it doesn’t do well, I won’t mention it again.”
“Fine, as long as I get to make my final decision.”
When she leaves, I turn my eyes back on Dean.
For someone who told his brother I mess everything up and he didn’t want me around, he’s behaving differently.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him about that night.
Then again, that night wasn’t a misunderstanding, and all of this can very well be an illusion.
After all, Dean Vuk is here to win too .
It's irrational and idiotic, but I can blame it on the shallow migraine episode when I roughly pull away and say, “Enjoy your time with Kat, Dean.”
And when I’m back in my room, staring at my limited options of clothing for today, I’m starting to regret my words but it’s too late to take them back and Nadine always tells me to give people space.
So instead, I get ready for my date with Rhys.