Chapter 3 #2
Convinced there is no one in the house, I walk into the large space, reveling in the cool air moving around my legs.
I stop and dwell in the doorway as a man sits at the kitchen island, the sleeves of his pressed shirt rolled up, his unmistakable signet ring glinting on his finger, his elbows set on the smooth surface.
A cup of coffee sits in front of him. Next to it lies his phone, face down.
“Oh, there you are,” a feminine voice greets me.
My eyes peel away from him before he has the chance to look at me and land on the woman to my left.
Henrietta’s eyes urgently dive into mine as if my entire history with her new husband has just become public.
The woman is a looker.
She’s always been that sort of woman who sucks the air out of a room. Long silky hair, natural plump lips, big eyes, a canopy of eyelashes. She looks great even now in the morning light, with all that makeup.
She’s an expert at applying it, too.
I watched her many times while she was doing it in my father’s home in New York.
And I never quite understood her dedication, since he wasn’t the type of man who truly appreciated her efforts.
He clearly fell for her looks, but he was a normal guy who didn’t believe in a fantasy.
Regardless, she never changed for him. It was like she was playing her favorite character, and part of her performance was to look a certain way.
With a man like the one who is silently witnessing the exchange between us from the kitchen island, I can see why looking that way is a must.
Her hair falls down her back in big waves of ink.
She wears a boyfriend shirt tied at the waist and high-waisted red shorts, her legs tanned, shaved, waxed, the skin moisturized––whatever it takes. Perfect pedicure peeks through her high-heeled sandals.
She’s a goddess of seduction, and she’s always been like that. To her, it's second nature.
I’d almost suspect her crisp shirt to belong to him, if it weren’t for the well-placed seams under her bust, making it fit like a glove.
The lacy edge of a red bra peeks through her cleavage.
She moves her eyes down.
“Ready to go out so early?” she murmurs, taking inventory of my outfit before studying my face.
I only wear mascara.
“Did you meet my husband?” she drones on, making a girlish gesture at her husband.
She looks amused and spoiled.
I shift my eyes to him.
His stare travels inside me at light speed as if he’s able to pick on everything that has happened to me since I last saw him.
Every thought I’ve had.
Every fear I have experienced.
Every disconcerting issue I have had with my being here.
Every question that has popped into my head.
Every dream I have held onto.
He seems to know everything with the precision of a watchmaker, affecting me in ways no other man has affected me before.
While my interaction with her barely scratches the surface of my awareness, I feel his curiosity and possessive thoughts deep inside me.
I almost choke on my breath as I make an effort to respond.
“We met last night. Not formally, of course,” I add. “We were in the house at the same time. Never got the chance to talk, though,” I lie with the kind of expertise that straight out scares me.
“Sure,” she says in the same casual tone.
It may be that she’s dismissive. It may be that she doesn’t believe an iota of what I’m saying.
Either way, I can’t tell.
Next, she makes the introductions.
“Mr. West. I’m glad to finally meet you,” I say, closing the gap between us.
He doesn’t rise from his seat, nor does he say a word.
Our hands connect, and he gives me what I deem to be a secret squeeze that seals our new agreement––to never look like we know a lot about each other in the presence of other people, but especially her.
His eyes stay locked with mine while he still holds my hand, a moment too long, perhaps, enough to ignite a little fire under my skin, while Henrietta opens the refrigerator and scoops out a bottle of water.
“I’d like one too, if you don’t mind,” I say, using this opportunity to break away from him, turn my back to him, and find my bearings while walking to his wife.
I can barely breathe.
She studies me with an intrigued look on her face.
“You should’ve had something to eat. You look pale this morning.”
Who can tell whether she’s facetious or not? I can’t. All I know is that I feel how she says I look.
I feel like I’m about to faint.
Her eyes travel down again.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m checking a couple of places for a summer job. And then I’m having lunch with Keira, waiting for her to finish work, and going shopping with her later.”
“Good for you. Would you like me to give you a ride?”
I’m about to uncap my bottle and take a sip of water.
“No, no.”
That was a rushed answer, but I couldn’t help it. Being stuck with her in a car even for a short drive is the last thing I want to do.
“I need to go,” I say quickly. “I scheduled a car to pick me up.”
No, I did not.
I flick my eyes to the man in the room who can’t peel his eyes away from me.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. West. Damon, you said?”
He tilts his chin slightly and looks at me as if he’s about to rip my clothes off with his teeth and punish me in questionable immoral ways.
“Okay,” I say, moving my eyes back to her, smiling and feigning a trickle of enthusiasm for being with the two of them, when I’m about to puke the breakfast I have never had. “I’ll see you tonight,” I say to her.
“Not tonight, honey. I’ll be away for the rest of the week.”
“Oh. Okay.” Honey. “I’ll see you when you return.”
With not much brain power left to mull over the consequences of her absence, I slip past her, open the door to the refrigerator, grab a second bottle of water, spin around, and whisk myself away as if propelled by hurricane-force winds.
It’s not even seven in the morning, and I’m ready to go to bed.
I’m spent.