Chapter 20 #2
Interesting.
Luca is twenty-three, and he won’t turn twenty-four for a few months yet. Although I guess three years isn’t much of an age gap.
I can’t help but do the math in my head, noting that at forty-four, I’m only eighteen years older than Evangeline.
Only?
My god.
I bite back a scoff. Who am I right now?
There’s no rational reason I should be calculating the age difference between myself and my son’s ex-girlfriend.
Get it together, Ric.
“Give me thirty minutes,” I repeat, cutting off my opportunity to ask more inappropriate questions.
We work in companionable silence. I typically listen to a podcast or catch up on sports highlights while I cook, but Evangeline didn’t put on her headphones after all. She seems to be content to sit quietly, tapping away on her laptop, and I refuse to disturb her peace.
Every now and then, she’ll run a hand through her short blond hair, tousling it and shifting the way her part falls and the strands frame her face.
Try as I might to ignore her, I’m hyperaware of every move she makes, greedy for each little sigh that presses out of her.
Despite working with my back to her, I’ve found myself stealing at least a dozen glances over the last twenty minutes.
She’s caught me a few times, which should be more embarrassing than it is.
Checking in with her feels as natural as breathing.
Though I may have come off as overbearing, I don’t feel the least bit bad about it. I care about her. And right now, while she’s exhausted and suffering because of what my son did to her, I’m going to keep tabs and ensure she’s okay.
It’s my responsibility to lighten her load, even if it’s only a little. At least that’s what I tell myself as I plate her food and add extra butter to the mound of rice.
“Here we are,” I announce, presenting her with the simple meal I’ve put together.
I proffer a small bowl of miso soup sans green onions and seaweed, along with a plate of white rice with a thick pat of butter melting into all the crevices. On the side are fresh baby cucumbers, sliced and salted with a small ramekin of a cream cheese-based dipping sauce.
She stares at the plate for several seconds before looking up and holding my gaze. “Thank you,” she finally says with a mix of gratitude and maybe exasperation.
“Eat up,” I tell her, patting the counter. “I need to check in with my assistant, so I figured I’d do that in the living room.”
With a nod, she reaches for the saltshaker I placed beside her fork and napkin.
I excuse myself and head for the couch.
My phone screen is blank. No messages from Quinn. That’s to be expected. This is my emergency phone; it’s rare he contacts me on it unless it’s truly urgent. My work cell stays at the paddock each night. Stepping away from it helps me maintain some semblance of work-life balance.
I don’t have any actual work to do, but I want to give Evangeline a chance to eat without an audience.
Mindlessly, I scroll through social media.
The scrolling quickly morphs into another action, though, and without conscious thought, I find myself typing atizketatasket into the search bar of Instagram.
Evangeline’s face pops up immediately. I click through to the profile, whistling quietly at the number of followers. Damn. More than seventeen thousand. At the top of the feed is a replay of the live stream I witnessed in real time.
I turn the volume all the way down so I don’t give away what I’m really doing on the other side of the partition that separates the kitchenette from the living space of her suite. Even without sound, I find myself transfixed by the woman on my screen.
After I watch her for a few minutes, I click back to her profile and scroll down to see previous posts. There are hundreds of videos of Evangeline smiling, wearing different bold, fun, animal-print ensembles, always with a bright red or hot pink lipstick.
I can’t help but home in on the curve of the cupid’s bow of her upper lip. The bright color makes it impossible not to notice.
The brand of her business is bold and eclectic. Like an extension of who she is. It’s brilliant marketing.
But when I mentally compare these smiling pictures to the exhausted woman slumped over the counter now, an ache forms behind my sternum. Knowing how much these live streams take out of her makes the entire Luca situation even more unjust.
Frustrated, I scroll farther. Clearly being too careless, I accidentally tap a photo twice, and a little red heart illuminates.
Shit, shit, shit.
I quickly find the post I accidentally liked and double click, removing the evidence that I was here.
Annoyed with myself, I stash my phone away. Then I stand and make my way back to the kitchen area, stepping heavily so she knows I’m coming.
As I round the corner, Evangeline is pushing her plate aside.
A glance reveals that she ate most of the meal.
Relief swamps me, followed by a swell of pride.
“How was it?” I can’t help but ask. I’m not after praise—the dish was simple and low effort anyway—but I don’t want to leave yet, so apparently, I’m grasping at straws and blurting out words I hope will keep her talking.
“Everything was really good.” Her smile is soft and genuine. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Thank you.”
“How’s your headache?”
She grimaces, shaking her head. “I’ll probably have it all night.”
That will not do. Vexed, I stride to the fridge and pull out one of the water bottles provided by the hospitality team. Then I crack the cap and hand it to her. “Drink that.”
She takes a few big gulps, the simple action pleasing me to no end.
“Do you have any ibuprofen?” I ask.
“I do,” she hedges. “I’ll take some before bed.”
If the hesitation in her tone is any indication, I’m pushing the limits again.
“What else might help?”
Evangeline yawns widely, stretching her arms overhead. “Honestly, once I start winding down and stop staring at this screen, I’ll be fine.”
“Does your bathroom have a tub?” The instant the words are out, I regret them.
Because despite a warm bath being a great option for unwinding, who am I to suggest my employee, who also happens to be my son’s ex-girlfriend, strip down and enjoy a nice long soak?
“Actually, it does,” she says, a hint of hopefulness behind words.
Pushing my self-admonishment to the side, I nod and pick up her plate. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Why don’t you take a load off and enjoy the water? I’ll clean this all up.”
“Alaric,” she warns, her brows pulling low.
“I insist,” I say over my shoulder, the two words clipped.
This may be too far. I’m being presumptuous and bold, pushing her to let me do even more for her. But if acting like a domineering asshole helps her in even a small way, I have to forge on.
She hasn’t moved, but I don’t turn around. I wait her out, rinsing the plate, then turn back to fetch the bowl from the table.
She watches me. Her eyes are glassy, a hopeful hesitation dancing behind them.
“You’re sure?” she murmurs.
“I insist,” I repeat, keeping my expression even, offering no room for argument. I turn back to the task at hand.
Only when I hear her close her laptop and slide off the barstool do I allow myself to exhale.