Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ella
Tristan Ashford, the CEO of a multimillion, if not billion-dollar company, bought me tea and cheesecake and is now walking beside me in Eastern Park.
Somebody pinch me. How on earth is this okay?
Even the way he walks is elegant and expensive, whereas I do not know what to do with my hands, clutching my bag and wondering when this dream will end.
Since he bumped into me at the coffee shop, he has been looking at me with the eyes of a man seeking a fireplace after a long day of hunting.
I know how lust can light a man’s eyes when they look at me, and this is not it.
There are flames, yes, but there is something else too.
An undeniable electricity following us, and a strange kind of safety, as if we knew each other in another life.
Speaking the same language. Sharing silence and being okay with it.
“You’re…” he starts, then stops, retreating, as if the words escaped him without his consent.
I let silence fall over us like a blanket.
A world of questions stands between us, but why would I spoil this moment with words when we can simply be?
It will be over soon enough, and I will have to go back to my life.
Cleaning, cooking, scrubbing, worrying, rinse, repeat.
Right now, I want to soak it all in—the crumbs of joy.
The gift fate is giving me for whatever reason he felt like staying with me a little while today.
We walk, and sometimes I feel his eyes on me like the sun burning my skin, but we do not talk.
At some point, a little girl cuts across our path to run after a pigeon, and I chuckle, watching an innocent soul in this world, untouched by cruelty.
Tristan looks at me, and we share a smile as if sharing the same thought.
An hour passes, and we find ourselves outside the gates, my bus stop on the opposite side of Ashford Building.
“I guess…I guess this is it,” Tristan says without any joy. “Thank you for letting me join you, Ella. I hope I did not disturb your peace too much.”
Tristan
“You didn’t,” she signs. “Thank you for the tea, and…it was nice.” Her smile falters, and she swallows, a shadow passing over her beautiful, delicate features.
I photograph her face in my mind. The fine line of her jaw.
Her almond eyes, trapping me. The softness of her pillowy lips.
Her black hair falls in cascades over her shoulders.
I capture this moment, knowing I will revisit it often when that cage feeling inevitably returns.
“Goodbye, sir. I mean…” She bites her lip, the motion lighting fires beneath my skin.
“Goodbye, Tristan.” She hesitates, her eyes dropping to my mouth.
Then, in one quick motion, she turns and starts walking away.
My instinct kicks in, and without a single thought, I catch her arm, feeling her warmth beneath her jean jacket.
“Ella, wait.” She turns to me, eyes wide and full of all the questions I have no answers for. “When-” I stumble, my voice rougher than I intended, “when can I see you again?” She frowns, the soft crease between her brows begging to be kissed.
“Why?” I read on her lips.
“Why not?” I ask, so low I wonder if she hears me. My grasp loosens, releasing her. Did I scare her? What is happening to me?
“Monday,” she signs. I nod twice, relief expanding in my lungs, giving me my oxygen back.
Then I watch her leave, her silhouette an hourglass moving away from me, almost rushing.
Hair catching the wind. Never looking back, as if I have burned her with fresh iron and made her mine in a single afternoon.
I watch her until I can no longer see her.
I then return to the Ashford Building. Six missed calls from Nate.
Fourteen emails. And yet the world has not stopped spinning.
My empire has not crumbled to dust. For once in my lifetime, I stole a piece of joy and ate it slowly, taking my time, savoring every bite until there was nothing left.
Monday is two days away. I used to be hyperfocused.
Eyes on the prize. Eating and breathing Ashford.
Still, in one afternoon, Ella Brooks has wrapped herself around my fingers like thread around a blade.
And I need to see her again. There is nothing in this life I have ever wanted as much as being in the same room as her, even for just one more time.
I enter my office and pace the length of it, back and forth, flexing my hands, dragging my palms through my hair a hundred times.
Monday will not come fast enough. I need my fix now.
What am I supposed to do with this? I have never felt this way.
Typing hard on my phone, I register my name for a fight tonight at the underground club I go to when I need to release steam.
Pummeling my fist into a man’s skull should help.
It will channel all this pent-up energy into something useful, contained, and legal.
Opening my palm, I stare like a dumb teenager who got to hold his crush’s hand for the first time.
Only it was not her hand. And I kind of caught her arm by surprise.
Still. How am I supposed to focus again after the magnitude of the earthquake she inflicted on me?
Ella Brooks.
What have you done to me?