A silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’re both trying not to say. Finally, I nod and shove my hands into my pockets like that will stop them from reaching for her again. ‘Glad we’re on the same page, then.’
Imani turns away and starts fussing with the mugs on the counter again, her voice low as she mutters under her breath about putting the kettle on. I nod, but I barely hear her. Because one thought has rooted itself in my head and I can’t shake it.
If I’d known that kiss was going to be our first and last, I would’ve tried to make it last just a little longer.
CHAPTER FIFTEENImani
I haven’t seen my father this happy in months.
He’s humming what sounds suspiciously like the tune to Bob Marley’s ‘Three Little Birds’ as he opens the door to his office and gestures for me to follow him in. He’s even got a little spring to his step. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was about to break out into a dance number.
For a short while, it feels like things are normal between us again. Like maybe all this Vouvalis madness has just been one long fever dream, and my father hasn’t hurt and betrayed me in the worst way possible with this scheme of his.
‘Sit, sit,’ he says, beaming like he’s just discovered our biggest airline rival has filed for bankruptcy. His good mood is unsettling to say the least.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask cautiously as I settle into the chair across from his desk. His smile only widens.
‘More than okay.’ He lowers himself into his large leatherchair and then leans forward with his elbows braced on the desk. ‘Imani, my darling.’
I wince internally at the term of endearment. Given everything that’s happened between us these last few months, it doesn’t feel right. It hits me then that my relationship with my father might never recover from this. Because how do you go back tonormalonce you realise how little you truly mean to your parents? The urge to take off and disappear to some new destination has never felt so strong. I desperately need my flight privileges back.
‘I know this has been a difficult few months for you.’
A moderately hysterical chuckle slips past my lips. It’s only years and years of social conditioning that stops me from full-blown cackling in my father’s face.
Instead, I do my best to compose myself and say steadily, ‘That would be an understatement.’
He gives me an apologetic wince. ‘And I need you to understand that I’m grateful for your sacrifice and all your hard work here.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Let me tell you,’ he says, cutting across me like I hadn’t tried to say something. ‘I was this close,’ he pinches his thumb and forefinger together until they’re nearly touching, ‘thisclose to calling everything off. I could see how badly it was affecting you and the Davies name.’ He bristles slightly, like he’s remembering every single bit of bad press I’ve brought our family and business over the last few months. ‘Truth be told, I thought you’d never come around to the Vouvalis boy.’
I blink, dumbfounded. Have I misheard? ‘You’re calling it off?’
My heart soars—
‘Iwas,’ he says.
—And then crashes back down into the very depths of my stomach.
‘As a matter of fact, I was just drafting an email to Georgios this morning, but then…’ He reaches for a folder on desk, flips it open, and then slides a sheet of paper towards me.
I feel truly sorry for whichever fresh graduate, with bright dreams of entering the aviation world and learning the tricks of the trade, whose job it is to give my father what I assume is a daily debrief on the social media chatter surrounding me and Asher. Because there’s absolutely no way that my father searched for @TrustFundTea this morning to print this out himself. At least, I have to hope he didn’t. The idea of my father scrolling through the gossip page and reading those comments about me is enough to make me want to dig a hole, bury myself, and never resurface.
The page he slides across is a screenshot from @TrustFundTea’s latest post. I’d already seen it this morning but seeing it again in the bright light of my father’s office sends a whole new wave of emotions crashing through me. It’s a photo of me and Asher at the film premiere last night. Or, more accurately, it’s a photo of usleavingthe premiere. Asher’s hand is resting protectively at the small of my back. His brows are knit together in obvious worry and his facea mask of concern. My own expression is pale and drawn. I look like a deer in the headlights.
Just the sight of his hand on me is enough to send my stomach into free fall. I tell myself to stay focused, to keep the memories at bay, but they slip through anyway.
Suddenly, I’m not in my father’s office anymore. I’m back in my kitchen, the counter pressing into my spine, Asher’s hands firm on my waist, his mouth moving over mine with devastating certainty. His tongue brushes against mine, slow and deliberate, and the memory alone is enough to make my toes curl.
I blink hard and try to drag myself back into the present before my father notices the flush creeping up my neck. He’s still talking, words rolling past me in a wave I can’t quite catch because my senses are currently going haywire. All I can hear and feel right now is the phantom echo of my own gasp, the rough scrape of Asher’s stubble against my skin, and the muscle memory of the way his body fitted against mine like it was made for it.
I cross my legs, uncross them, then cross them again, my fingers tightening around the armrest of my chair. It feels borderline criminal to be having thoughts like this with my father sitting across from me completely oblivious.
And yet I can’t stop.
The memory slams back into the forefront of my mind in fragments. Asher’s hand sliding higher up my body. The low growl that built up in his chest and vibrated against mine as my lips parted. The molten hot pull between us that made me forgetthat I’m supposed to be pretending to actively loathe Asher Vouvalis and not be seriously considering jumping his bones.
