“I don’t know, son. For once, I really just don’t know,” my dad says, sighing and I can tell he’s just as defeated as I am. “I’ll keep pressuring Damon and you do what you can on your end. How are things with the girl?”
“Scarlett,” I correct. “Her name is Scarlett. Can you remember that for future conversations or do I have to remind you every time, old man?” He holds his hands up apologetically, signifying that he’s standing down. “Things are fine. She’s just hard to talk to sometimes.”
He nods understandingly, taking a sip of his red wine before placing it back down. “Don’t get in your head about it, Evan. You worry too much. I know it’s a hard task, but you’ll figure out a way to get through to her.”
When my dad puts it like that, it actually seems possible. He’s always understood what it’s like to be in my head sometimes, realising that it’s not all sunshine and rainbows up in here. After starting therapy, even though I don’t go as much now, it’s helped me come to terms with it too. I used to blame my emotions and my sensitivity for the reason why I couldn’t handle Cat’s breakup, which ultimately led to my banishment from the company. But now I realise that it wasn't a weakness, it’s a strength.
Being vulnerable, listening and caring for people has always been something I’m good at. I just wish people could see that side of me more, but when they get too close, I end up messing things up and pushing them away, the same way Cat and I did to each other.
Working on this whole thing with Scarlett is giving me the chance to be in control and prevent the worst situation instead of trying to cure it. Prevention is way better than cure.
“I know, dad,” I say back. “I’m trying to-” My phone starts to ring loudly in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh and I pick it out, smiling as I see Scarlett’s name on the screen. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter, getting up from my seat and silently excusing myself to go into the corridor as my dad continues with his food.
Once I’ve walked as far as I can down the corridor, passing large modernist art pieces on the walls, I answer the phone.
“Hello?” I ask.
“Branson,” she greets, followed by a huge yawn. Weird. “I need you to come over.”
“A ‘please’ would be much appreciated,” I tease, resting the phone on my shoulder so I can’t adjust my sleeves. She doesn’t say anything else. “What do you want?”
“We’re working together. I can call you whenever I want,” is her response. It sort of sounds like she’s either slurring or really tired. I can't decide.
“That’s not exactly how it works, Angel,” I mock. She groans through the phone followed by another huge yawn. Yep, she’s tired. Tired-Scarlett is like trying to poke a bear. Terrifying, but weirdly endearing. Which is why I’m edging her.
“I think I’m having a breakthrough with the project,” she replies, her voice dropping to a whisper. The sound of her sleepy voice turns my mind absolutely feral, imagining her in bed or fresh out the shower. It’s sickening, really, how quickly my thoughts turn something so innocent into something filthy. And for Scarlett Voss, for god's sake. That itself is a crime.
“Yeah?”
“Mm hm,” she murmurs.
Fuck me. The sound goes straight to my dick, and I barely mutter a frustrated, “I’m on my way,” before ending the call. I say a quick goodbye to my dad, ensuring him that I’m going to get information, but I know I’m not.
It’s really fucking difficult to say no to things when she talks to me in that voice. It would drive me insane if any woman spoke to me like that, but actually knowing Scarlett, and knowing the way she would get pissed at me if I ever made fun of her for sleepily calling me, it spurs me on.
After nearly passing the speed limit to get to her apartment, I finally made it up the steps and to her door. The elevator is out of service like always, so by the time I’ve got to the top I’m heaving, trying to make sure my white shirt isn’t sticking to my back and chest. I get to number 407 and knock on the door three times. She doesn’t answer it. In fact, nobody answers it until I knock again, a little harder this time, and the door swings open.
Holy mother of God.
It looks like a printer threw up in here. Her precious whiteboard is covered in printed sheets with green string tying points together with pins. The whole kitchen counter is decorated in sheets of paper, her laptop somehow nestled in there as I hear music playing faintly in the background.
?Fade Into You - Mazzy Star
Jesus, this girl, and her sad music is going to be the death of me. I can’t even step into the place without scrunching up sheets beneath my shoes.
“It looks like a crime scene in here,” I mutter, making my way safely to the kitchen, looking into the living room.
“I had a breakthrough.”
Her voice sounds muffled at first and I don’t exactly know where it’s coming from and then I turn around and…holy shit.
Scarlett’s in front of me now, clear as day, in nothing but a white tank top with a tiny bow and purple panties. Her hair is braided into two French plaits, her waves curling at the bottom, falling down her front and the brown strands are long enough to cover her breasts.
It takes me a few seconds to really put together what I’m seeing. This feels like I’m crossing some sort of invisible line for sure. The underwear isn’t purposefully provocative, they’re a simple cotton design with tiny white dots on them, but I’m a man and I’ve never seen this woman in such little clothing. She doesn’t even seem to care, feeling so at home. I mean, itisher home, so I shouldn’t be so surprised. She doesn’t try to cover herself up. Instead, she looks at me likeI’mthe one with a problem.
“You…You’ve not got any clothes on,” is the stupid thing that comes out of my mouth as she just stares at me, her brown eyes narrowed.
“You ever seen a woman naked before?” she asks cooly. I nod. I’m not a virgin. I just act like it sometimes because I’m, well, me and she’s Scarlett Voss. “See, this isjustlike that except Iactuallyhave some of my clothes on.”
